As I stood in a puddle of ice-cold water with snow falling onto my Saints jacket watching my team being sent home, I wondered if the trip to Chicago was worth it. Last Friday, I boarded a plane full to the brim with Saints fans bound for Chicago. I landed in Chicago, with high hopes, a nervous stomach and something some people thought would never exist: Saints NFC championship tickets.

After meeting a friend of mine at the airport we made our way to our hotel where we were greeted by so many Mardi Gras beads we could have been in the French Quarter. “Who Dats” had come to cheer on their team from California to North Carolina.

The following morning we went into downtown Chicago and everywhere we went, from the trendy Grand Luxe Caf to the three-story Nike store, there were Saints fans determined to turn the Magnificent Mile into Bourbon Street.

Later that night, we went out to experience some Chicago nightlife at the Hard Rock Caf where we expected to be outnumbered by Bears fans supporting their team. Instead, we found New Orleanians sitting on the bar, dancing in the aisles and causing a general good time ruckus. I wondered where the Bears’ fans were.

Back at the hotel, our fellow Saints devotees had gathered in the bar and lobby waiting for their heroes. That is when we found out the Saints were actually staying at our hotel, the Hyatt Regency McCormick Place.

According to the hotel staff, the team rented out the entire fifth floor. As we waited some players came down and were happy to take pictures and sign autographs. The Saints fans had marched into heaven.

I found out the next morning where the Bears’ fans were. After a long snowy walk, we arrived at Soldier Field. My first snow experience was ruined with the taunts and mostly good-natured jeers of Bears’ fanatics. The sheer amount of blue and orange sent chills up my back.

As we lined up at one o’clock to enter the stadium, the Saints fans looked for one another, gave out high fives, and basked in the magic that had begun last September.

Entering the stadium I felt awe and gratitude to be at an actual NFL playoff game. I was living my mother’s dream. My mother can quote more stats than a football commentator, so for me to be at a playoff game was a once in a lifetime experience.

As the game began, I shouted and screamed as if by the sound of my voice alone, I could carry the Saints to victory. Surrounded by Bears’ fans it was a little intimidating to yell “defense” and cheer on Reggie Bush’s taunting touchdown. However, I screamed so loud I gave myself a headache.

Then came the dark time. After an impressive and hopeful start, the Saints had four turnovers and never scored again. Although myself and the other fans continued to hold on to our hopes, toward the end of the fourth quarter we had to admit that the magic season was over.

On the long, wet walk back to the hotel, the Bears fans were taunting and triumphant. However, so were we. As usual New Orleanians had turned tragedy into triumph. We had not won the game, but we’d come closer than ever before to the ultimate glory. We were victorious, even if only we knew it.