Field of Dreams

I grew up deep in the heart of Kenner, Louisiana in an area called University City where the streets where divided by state names. The neighborhoods had tons of kids who rode bikes everywhere and played in the streets. As the fall of 1986 began my parents and I went to the nearby playground to sign up for Pee-Wee Football. It would be my first ever experience in the realm of tackle football playing for the Wentwood Indians. A profound memory exists today of my time playing Pee-Wee, and it occurred during the first week of practice when our coaches gave us our game jerseys. I sat there in anticipation waiting and wanting only one number.

The coach bustled around in those football coach shorts furiously tossing jerseys as if he had somewhere else he had to be. Since my last name is close to the end of the alphabet I sweated as the names and numbers went by before me. I kept my fingers crossed in the hopes that when my name was called that the number 44 would be accompanied with it. To my dismay 44 was called a McAdams and Norris just in front of my name. You see 44 was the number of my favorite Saint at that time, Dave Waymer. He hailed from Notre Dame which I was also a huge fan of because of my father's affilation/infatuation with the school. Plus he was a hard hitting cornerback that shut down some of the mightiest wide recievers in the league at that time. The number that was now affiliated with me as a Wentwood Indian would be-49. 49? Come on. I didn't want that number. Give me 21 for Dalton, 84 for Eric Martin, 57 for Rickey, or the best would be 3 for the Cajun Cannon.

So I pleaded with others on my team to trade numbers with me and even offered rookie cards of Brett Maxie or my Mel Gray rookie. Nothing doing. Everyone was locked into their numbers. Just then our parents were coming to pick us up. Most of us were excited about the jerseys while others just issued in a low voice, "Got number 19."

That's when my father came walking up with a smile on his face. He was so happy to see me with a jersey. I looked at him with the saddest of eyes pleading with him as if he could magically change the numbers.
"Pop, I got 49." He looked surprised at me and asked what's wrong with 49. He then explained that it happens to be the number of one of the greatest Saints players. I asked who.
"Frank Wattelet!" he affirmed. I suddenly started to take some interest.
"Who's Frank Wattelet?"
"Only one of the best safeties in the league. He pops guys coming over the middle and helps protect Dave Waymer when he gets beat." I started to smile. Then I started repeating the name to myself as if to reassure that this was the right choice. It didn't matter anymore, my pops liked Frank Wattelet and he liked me wearing that number. So from that point on Frank Wattelet became one of my favorite Saints player of all time. He may not have gone to a Pro-Bowl, been named defensive player of the week, or been named on any list other than the Saints starting roster, still everytime the game came on I looked for 49 and followed him with all my attention. Guys like Frank Wattelet fade from our memories from time to time, but for some they hold a special place in their heart because a father found a moment to make his son feel happy again.