The future is uncertain.
One by one, Notre Dame football players said those words as I slipped in and out of different conversations on Media Day, preparing for the now-postponed Allstate Sugar Bowl, the College Football Playoff Quarterfinal between the Fighting Irish and the Georgia Bulldogs.
They shared a belief the team, led by coach Marcus Freeman, often uses to talk about opponents, and playing time, and winning and losing. You show up to do your job, never really knowing what challenge you may soon face. While Freeman very much applies the thought to the business of his football program, he’s reflective enough as a mentor that you know he’s also talking about life.
The future is uncertain.
I went for a walk on Bourbon Street Monday night.
I had been invited to a party, and after dinner folks began congregating on a second-floor balcony. We were told it was the largest in town, wrapping around a corner of the building that faced Canal Street in the distance. We looked down at happy people enjoying the night out; some wearing Georgia and Notre Dame garb. On folding tables nearby there were shiny piles of beaded necklaces, or throws, for which this town is known, and we were invited to toss some down to those who wanted to share in the fun. When in Rome.
When the party was over I took the short walk through the crowds toward the corner of Bourbon and Canal. I passed small groups of police officers, some standing silently on corners, others mounted on horses that walked slowly, single-file, through the parting crowds. I turned left at Canal, crossed the street and walked two blocks to the hotel.
Last night, New Year’s Eve, I planned to stay in to keep my eye on the first quarterfinal game of this new 12-team playoff, Penn State and Boise State in the Fiesta Bowl. I wanted to make it to midnight, though, so I took a walk to Caesars, the casino a few blocks down Canal. I found a poker table and tried not to lose all my chips.
As the clock ticked its way toward 2025, a small parade of costumed dancers and a small brass band paraded around the room, finally stopping with the crowd gathering around and counting down: “10, 9, 8…Happy New Year!”
I called it a night by 1 a.m. I stood up, cashed in my chips, and started the crowded walk back to the hotel. I marveled at people dancing as they emerged from a convenience store.
What is this place? I’ve been fortunate enough to spend time here over the years, and my impression has always been similar: New Orleans is so spectacularly alive. The cultural and racial mixing, the jazz music, the Creole food, the sports, the “end” of the Mississippi River, the Gulf of Mexico, and yes, the memory of Katrina and the remarkable years of recovery to follow.
At home, I almost always sleep with my phone in a different room, but in the hotel, on the first night of the new year, it was charging a few feet from my head. It was buzzing by 6:30.
A friend of mine, a Notre Dame Law grad, was calling. I figured my friend had had a late night and was looking for an early-morning accomplice in his shenanigans. I ignored the call and tried to go back to sleep.
But when he called back, just a few minutes later, I figured I should take it.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I had no idea what he was talking about.
So he told me.
At about 3:15 a.m. central time, a pickup truck had driven into the crowd on Bourbon Street, turning right a few feet from where I had turned left the night before, killing at least 10 people and injuring at least 30-plus more. The driver had been armed, had shot at police. There’d been an ISIS flag; there were reports that improvised explosive devices had been found.
The whole thing happened two-tenths of a mile from our hotel, a five-minute walk. I never heard a siren.
This is not the first time I’ve managed to avoid the direct line of a perpetrator intent on violence. I was a student at the University of South Carolina a decade ago when there was a murder-suicide on campus. I lived for almost a year in Belfast, where you could practically breathe leftover tension from “The Troubles.” I’ve been to Israel just after the U.S. killed Qasem Soleimani, was in Tel Aviv just after Iran threatened to bomb it. On my way out, I was stopped and grilled by airport officials who were clearly suspicious of me—maybe because of my passport’s indications of that time in Northern Ireland or perhaps because I had toured a bit in Palestinian territories. The future is uncertain.
The problem with trying to say something after an event like this one is the risk of trivializing something so consequential, of resorting to triteness in the absence of answers.
The 91st Sugar Bowl — no matter what happens in the game — will become tied to this horror forever. While political leaders and law enforcement officials continue the investigation and work to define security concerns and precautions, it feels appropriate for the rest of us to pause, look beyond the casualty figures, and acknowledge the existential grief. The families who lost someone will never be the same.
Bourbon Street is an active crime scene. The blank looks of the faces on Canal, fans in their blue and gold or black and red gear, offer reminders that we all now face the challenge of approaching a football game in the absence of any celebration.
When people around us carry out their violent plans, we’re still at the beginning of understanding the psychology of how and why these things can possibly happen.
“If it happens in New Orleans, it can happen anywhere,” U.S. Rep. Troy Carter said at a news conference.
He’s right about that.
By Chris Schumerth | @ChrisSchumerth
