The young man, 6 feet tall, 235 pounds and black, ambled down Bourbon Street, which was packed to the saloonfronts with postmidnight revelers dressed in assorted shades of red or blue, most of them drinking jet fuel from plastic cups and arguing the results of a football game that wouldn't be played for three days.
The din was frightful. From one side of the street, a blue-clad mob alternated calling and responding: "We are..."
From the other side, a roiling red tide put the question: "How 'bout them Dawgs!"
And made its own obvious response: "How 'bout them Dawgs!"
The young man watched and walked in quiet awe, until a celebrant recognized him as being one of the football players responsible for all the commotion.
"Hey! What's your name?" the somewhat unsteady man asked the athlete.
"Walker," was the reply.
The man checked him out. "Your name's Walker?"