NEW ORLEANS — It was October 2007, and the round tumbleweeds dribbled through this basketball ghost town.
Here in New Orleans, the Hornets had made their post-Katrina return, and in the City That Care Forgot, they forgot to care.
At the time, I was the Hornets’ writer for the Times-Picayune, and often when I met people and starting talking shop, they would ask with a straight face: “The Hornets are back?”
I left New Orleans the next month to cover the NBA in Denver, but I slipped back into town last week. I barely recognize it.
This is a basketball town.
The Hornets are the buzz. They are up 2-1 in the Western Conference semifinals against the defending champion Spurs. The Hornets’ bandwagon — here, it’s a streetcar — is clanging down St. Charles Avenue, picking up passengers daily.
More important, in the past few months, the Hornets have saved this basketball town. Last fall, it seemed inevitable that the Hornets, who left this small market for two years, wouldn’t get the fan support to survive in a post-hurricane city. Even Hornets employees rented instead of bought.
But now, it seems as if owner George Shinn had sat down for a Po’ Boy with the Devil:
Lucifer: “OK, George, let’s do business. I want your soul. What can I offer you?”
Shinn: “How about a resurgence of the New Orleans fan base, a statement-making All-Star Weekend, one of the top teams in the Western Conference, an MVP candidate and a thrilling playoff run.”
Lucifer: “Deal. Can you pass the Tabasco?”
The 2008 sellouts and season-ticket renewals mean the Hornets will likely reach their state-mandated benchmarks and won’t be allowed to leave (not that they would want to anymore).
The youthful roster featuring MVP runner-up Chris Paul (age 23), Tyson Chandler (25) and David West (27) means this hive should thrive for the next few years, too.
And this proud city, which was wary of any pro team not in black-and-gold, is now draped in teal.
Spotted around town were men in spanking new Paul jerseys (while their Drew Brees jerseys rested impatiently in drawers), sorority girls in teal sun dresses and an adorable senior citizen couple sporting matching Hornets hats.
Over at Fat Harry’s Bar, right on the streetcar line in Uptown New Orleans, a bartender wore teal and gold Hornets sneakers, serving a beer to Dexter, the bar’s Norm Peterson, who wore a golden Hornets T-shirt that proclaimed the team’s slogan: “Fan Up.” Dexter has season tickets. “Each game this season,” he said, “it’s just gotten louder and louder.” On the wall behind the bar was a blown-up cutout of Peja Stojakovic’s head.
I decided to watch the Hornets’ Game 3 (played in San Antonio) at Cooter Brown’s Bar. My buddy suggested we go early to get seats. For a Hornets game? What, were the Saints playing, too? Sure enough, the Hornets fans were swarming. Another buddy came late. He couldn’t get a seat.
After tipoff, fans who didn’t know the team returned last autumn cheered wildly for each Stojakovic jumper, each Chandler dunk. When Paul would score — he finished with 35 points in the loss — the fans made the same high- pitched “Woooo!” sound they do when he scores at New Orleans Arena.
They did so in harmony, a community of Hornets fans in New Orleans.
It was so real that it was surreal.
