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Beyond The Breach A summer in search of saints, sinners and lost souls in the New Orleans that Katrina left behind.
Chapter I The 10-Year Flood Editor's note: This story contains mature language.
As part of the stories of the year collection, this piece is being resurfaced along with others in the coming days as ESPN Digital and Print Media closes out the year.
Check out the full list W ith the air conditioner off for filming, the only noise in Steve Gleason's home is the breathing machine that keeps him alive.
That's as good a place as any to start a Katrina story, with the wires and plugs and tubes strapped to the back of his wheelchair, a life-support apparatus doing the heavy lifting for one of the most fervently alive people the city has ever known.
The city has known its share.
New Orleans treasures hyperlocal folk heroes: Soulja Slim, the king of the street rappers before the storm, shot at least three times in the face and once in the chest, dead in his black Reeboks; Trombone Shorty, who closed out this year's Jazz Fest instead of Elton John here Lenny Kravitz; Chris Rose, the Pulitzer Prize-winning newspaper columnist who wrote the best stories about the storm until his life unraveled and he found himself waiting tables.
Gleason is that kind of hero.
In the team's first night back in the Superdome after the storm, he stretched out his arms and blocked a punt in the opening series of a Monday Night Football game.
There is a 9-foot statue of him outside the Dome now, but the actual Steve Gleason is paralyzed, four years into an ALS diagnosis.
Most people don't make it past five.
Gleason uses his eyes and an interactive tablet to highlight the first sentence of the text, one of a series of love letters to the city that a local nonprofit asked influential citizens to write on the 10th anniversary of the storm.
Since he can no longer use the muscles in his mouth, he speaks through a computerized voice, his humanity blunted by a droning, syllable-centric machine.
Nothing works but his eyes.
Lauren stays strong in front of Steve but when she gets around the corner into the kitchen, she falls apart, slipping into a bedroom to be alone.
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REBIRTH HAS BEEN the standing field order of the past 10 years in New Orleans, a powerful force shaping the city in ways big and small.
Everything is governed by this spirit of renewal, and everything is viewed through its lens, from the fervent love of brass bands to the New Orleans Saints, the standard-bearers of a city struggling back to its feet.
But within this hopeful word an idea hides in plain sight: For something to be reborn, it must have first died.
One afternoon in August, the mayor of New Orleans, Mitch Landrieu, meets me at an old seafood market reimagined after the storm as a high-end culinary destination.
He tries to explain how 10 years passes like a day.
But we were in a near-death environment, so we didn't really have time to process it.
We literally had to get out of harm's way so that we could stay alive.
Then we immediately had to start rebuilding.
And I'm not sure that a lot of us have had a chance to process it.
You know, I find myself really getting choked up.
Everyone's experience is both communal and personal, obvious and hidden.
The memory of the death is everywhere, buried in shallow and temporary graves.
Shack Brown, youth football coach, fled New Orleans in the wake of Katrina -- then returned a year later to form a league in the projects.
William Widmer for ESPN EACH SUMMER IN New Orleans has a soundtrack.
In the blistering, rainy summer of 2015, that soundtrack is provided by Boosie Badazz, formerly Lil Boosie, formerly prisoner No.
New Orleans has the highest incarceration rate in Louisiana, which has the highest incarceration rate per capita in America, which has the highest incarceration rate in the developed world.
Eighty-five percent of the inmates at Angola never get out.
They take a one-way bus ride to an eastward bend in the river near the Louisiana-Mississippi line.
Boosie is one of the lucky ones -- he made the trip back south -- and now this summer his anthems of Louisiana street life throb out the windows of speeding cars, the floating hint of a hook giving away the track, drowning in cardboard subwoofer fuzz, trunks and rearview mirrors.
You hear the songs over and over again, like now in Shack Brown's pickup truck, headed out of town on Interstate 10.
Brown is a youth football coach, driving to Jackson, Mississippi, to do a stand-up comedy gig, one of the many jobs that allow him to spend most of his time working with kids.
He talks quietly with music in the background, until a remix of Boosie's "Show da World" comes on.
Brown turns up the stereo and sings.
God keep blessing me 'cause I'm a good father.
Brown got his nickname because he grew before the other boys, then quit growing just after his friends started calling him Shack.
He's about 6-foot-1 -- and was as a seventh-grader.
He's got a barrel chest and the gut of a man who never let his changing metabolism alter his love for fried food.
His New Orleans East neighborhood smells like bread and coffee, from nearby factories.
Over and over, he listens to "Show da World," cuing it up when he needs a dose of self-confidence: "Lemme hit that Boosie," he'll say, and one line always makes him rise out of his seat and rap hard with the track, hitting an imaginary drum on each word.
Shack, who gets his name, if not its spelling, from the LSU basketball star, grew up in the Iberville projects.
It is his armor and his weapon.
Everything in the city rises on the ashes of something else, whether Shack Brown himself or the neighborhood where he was born.
Before it was the Iberville, the streets between the French Quarter and what's now I-10 were the most famous red-light district in the country, Storyville, which the Navy insisted be closed in 1917.
At some point, big iron wrecking balls are cheaper than years of penicillin.
Only one or two of the buildings that were whorehouses and saloons still stand; an old jazz club is now Iberville's corner store, the New Image Supermarket.
The older men drink click the following article on the sidewalk a block away at Basin Super Market Seafood and Grill.
Sometimes Shack visits old friends, but mostly he stays far away from the Iberville, or what's left of it.
More Katrina Coverage SC Featured: His And Hers: People in the projects respect Shack Brown because he survived the early '90s, when Iberville was at its worst.
The cops in the nearby French Quarter ride horses, and Shack can still hear the pounding of hooves on concrete, like something from a dystopian Wild West movie.
They followed purse snatchers back into the projects -- cops in shiny helmets brandishing sticks and guns, flying through the Iberville courtyards, the horses breathing heavy in the thick, wet air.
The kids trust Brown because he was them.
Mostly, he couldn't deal with the damage he saw himself causing, making a bad place worse instead of trying to make it better.
He was a lousy drug dealer, letting people slide on credit, not cracking down on the addicts who couldn't pay.
When he searched his past for men who'd done something positive, the only ones he remembered were coaches.
They were respected, the lone alternative to the dealers.
In New Orleans, especially, they are the front line in a fight to save just a few of the brightest young men in every generation.
Shack started coaching, wanting to help kids but also hoping to feel good about his life, to wash clean the hurt he'd caused.
Now 38, Brown works as many jobs as he can find, all while funding his youth teams.
He lives on the margins; until the price of oysters went up, he set up his cooker rig and more info them at parades all over town.
During big events, like the Super Bowl, he drives a limo.
He volunteers time and money for kids, spending his own cash on ice and water and mouthpieces.
On game day, he cooks a meal for his players, who often arrive hungry.
A po'boy here, a plate lunch there, feeding 9-year-olds, it adds up.
For a passport to vegas station casinos after Katrina he sat in Houston, going please click for source the motions of a new life, his thoughts never far from the kids in the projects he used to coach.
They got so close, the boys latching on to any male influence they could find, and now that he was displaced, he found that he needed them too.
He came back to New Orleans in August 2006, shortly before the Superdome reopened, coaching in Mid-City, working on setting up at a place closer to the Iberville.
Three years later, on July 18, 2009, he opened a football program in Lemann Playground, the only public green space between the Iberville and the Lafitte projects, both occupying the gray blocks northwest of the French Quarter.
On the day the league officially began, a drill team of neighborhood kids he'd trained led a procession through the gates into Lemann.
The adults released balloons.
Across four age groups, 125 boys played football, Brown says.
That was six years ago.
Now the Lafitte projects have been torn down, replaced by mixed-income housing.
The Iberville is almost gone, the last of the city's projects.
He remembers the hope of opening Lemann Playground.
On that sunny day in 2009, with a newspaper reporter taking notes and pictures, he didn't suspect that his football league would be killed by the very spirit of rebirth that rose from Katrina's receding waters.
THE NEXT MORNING, Shack drives back toward New Orleans.
His comedy gig went well.
Halfway home, he passes the exit to Gillsburg, Mississippi, right on the state line, where the plane chartered by Lynyrd Skynyrd crashed in 1977.
I start to tell the story, but after getting a blank look, I ask Shack if he's ever heard of the band.
He asks about their famous songs, and I tell him "Freebird" and "Sweet Home Alabama.
We laugh, because there are only 4 miles between the mostly wealthy, mostly white Uptown neighborhood where I rented a house, where everyone has heard of Skynyrd, and the mostly poor, mostly black neighborhood where he grew up.
Those 4 miles might as well be an ocean.
He's flipping through the radio stations.
A fellow comedian named Blowfish is crashed out in the back, wheezing and snoring.
The highway is a drone, and 103 miles from the city, Shack gets quiet.
Shack rode out the hurricane with 17 family members in the Iberville.
The old projects stood strong.
The storm didn't knock out the water or the gas, so his mom cooked Monday night as Katrina hit Louisiana.
She made turkey necks and gravy, rice and peas.
That's what they ate through Tuesday, watching the water rise, first above the parked cars, then above the street signs.
On Wednesday, the project's running water went off and Shack's mom told everyone it was time to leave.
The streets were flooded, and all 17 of them linked arms and tried to walk to high ground.
The sun hammered down, over 100 degrees, dead bodies floating in the muck.
Shack found the mules of Mid-City Carriages still tied to a fence.
That's how they tried to get people through the water at first, riding on top of the stolen mules.
The mules hated the water and mules don't do anything they don't want to do, so Shack tied them back up.
His family walked to the Orleans Avenue exit, rising steeply up to I-10.
They walked a mile and a half the wrong way down the interstate, his grandmother stopping often to catch her breath.
The inside of the Superdome smelled like feces, and he held his 4-year-old daughter in his arms so she could go to the bathroom.
The free water and blankets got stolen by local gangsters, who then sold them.
Tweaking drug addicts wandered the stadium.
Brown kept his family in a small corner on the plaza level.
They took turns sleeping, someone always standing watch.
Two days later, he loaded his family onto a bus, getting the women on first, then making sure the boys made it, then working to help spooky dooky kid casino police keep loading those still inside the Dome.
Because people respect coaches so much in New Orleans, most everyone in the projects had at least heard of Shack Brown.
As the sun set, a cop came to him.
His memories aren't a cancer, slowly eating away, but a bomb that goes off from time to time without warning.
Sometimes he'll be driving alone in his car and look into the mirror and see himself silently weeping.
He doesn't tell anyone about it.
One year after Hurricane Katrina, the Superdome reopened to the delight of New Orleans.
Soon, however, the city was in for an even greater surprise -- a winning team.
ALL NEW ORLEANIANS can describe three moments from the past 10 years in cinematic detail: their escape from the storm, where they were when Gleason blocked that punt and where they were when the Saints won the Super Bowl.
These are the tentpoles of biography since Katrina, and in telling them, people reveal their most unguarded selves.
Like a love of the Saints, this is one of the arizona casino rentals things in the city to bridge all the deep race and class divides: Everyone suffered through the storm; everyone cried when Gleason blocked the punt; and everyone still struggles to express the emotions they skagit casino buffet when the Saints won in Miami.
Shack Brown went to the Monday night game against the Falcons and saw Steve Gleason block the punt in person, and he doesn't talk much about that either, except to say that during the game he found the spot in the plaza where he'd huddled with his family.
Three years later, in February 2010, he sat with his grandmother in her nursing home as the Saints took the field in Miami.
He'd promised her they'd watch the Super Bowl together if the Saints ever made it, the team's historic awfulness becoming a running joke about her mortality.
On that Sunday, they sat side by side in front of the television.
The game ended and the Saints won, and his grandmother exhaled: a deep, resonant sigh.
He made a joke about sleeping and she just looked at him, and then he understood.
Her health started failing not long after, and she never really got well again.
Near the end, Shack had a fourth son, Lorenzo, and he took his boy to meet his grandmom.
The baby rested in her arms, and she rested in white sheets, her head on a white pillow.
Two days later, she died.
That night, Brown slept with Lorenzo on continue reading chest, and around 3 a.
The next morning Shack got the news about his grandmother, who'd passed away between 3 and 4 in the morning.
He's gone from rocking Boosie to silence, the truck somewhere between Jackson and New Orleans, nothing but trees and swamp on either side of the road.
His friend is asleep in the back, or at least pretending to sleep out of respect.
A plastic butterfly pin hangs on a lanyard looped around his rearview mirror; they wore these pins at his grandmother's funeral.
The wings are made from small pink and black feathers, and when he's stressed, he'll pluck a feather and say a prayer: "Grandmama, I need you to use your wings over me.
His oldest son is now repeating the life Shack worked so hard to leave behind, the young man who carries his name, Leander Brown Jr.
Shack doesn't have any money or connections to find a decent lawyer.
He's spent the past two decades trying to save kids, and he can't do a thing for his own.
A few years ago, it all got to be too much, fighting the battle for his park, still dealing with the trauma of the storm.
He told his wife he wanted to die, let this pain wash away.
The last five years have changed him as profoundly as any other click here of the city.
William Widmer for ESPN THE NIGHT Steve Gleason blocked the punt, Chris Rose was in the stands at the Superdome.
It was his job to take the madness around him and somehow put it into words for The Times-Picayune.
Nobody did it better.
He was part of a team that won a Pulitzer Prize for its Katrina coverage, and he was nominated individually for a second, the poet laureate of New Orleans.
Two days later, Rose's column about the game appeared, which was subsequently included in his best-seller "1 Dead in Attic," a collection of his work in the aftermath of Katrina.
Two years ago, when the Super Bowl came to New Orleans for the first time since the storm, a local link got Gleason to read that column on video.
The link is still on the Internet.
In it, Gleason's voice is slurred, the camera tight, the weight go here his body already stealing his ability to talk.
It is superficial and meaningless and a sign of total loss of perspective but I stand before you and I declare: It is good to feel like a winner.
Gleason's eyes are red and watery, as if he just finished crying or is about to start.
A three-day stubble covers his face.
This is not the future he'd imagined when he retired in 2008 from football and started pursuing an MBA from Tulane, hoping to read books and debate their ideas, working in his free time to rebuild neighborhoods destroyed by Katrina.
Those dreams died with his ALS diagnosis.
With whatever time he had left, whether years or decades, he decided he'd fight to not let his disease define him and to help others who didn't have the resources afforded to someone who once blocked a punt in prime time.
He started a foundation, which did the usual things like raise money but also something uniquely Steve Gleason.
It encouraged people to get out and live.
A group of people, including his former Saints teammate Scott Fujita, carried Steve and another ALS patient to the top of Machu Picchu.
On the video, he continues to read Rose's barangaroo casino />And out my window today as I write this -- my open window, oh, glorious day -- I hear the same sounds I hear every day: chain saws and hammers and drills, and it would be foolish to suggest that the workers have more pep in their step today and that everything is going to be easier now because, well.
Gleason's T-shirt says "No White Flags.
His voice is loose and childlike, sharp vowel sounds the first to go, his tongue heavy in his mouth.
The book is held firm in his hands, the spine bent over.
The man who lives forever in bronze at the Superdome -- the statue is named Rebirth -- remains inside him.
Gleason's voice grows in strength for Rose's last line.
Only a game, you say?
Like hell it was.
Steve Gleason stares into the camera until the shot fades to black.
Chris Rose chronicled the impact of Katrina for the Times-Picayune and in his best-selling collection "1 Dead in Attic.
I mean, he's the -- literally he's the moral epicenter of this city.
His hair is curly, gray and wild, and his T-shirt has a quote from one of his old stories.
It's a few minutes before 4.
We check the door to St.
Joe's Bar on the corner of Magazine and Joseph, but it's still dead-bolted.
We can see people moving inside.
The Roman candy man, a dollar a stick, click-clacks in his donkey-drawn cart.
Wooden wheels on uneven streets.
There's music coming from somewhere.
One of those summer New Orleans storms hit a few minutes ago.
Wide casino jimmy nielsen of water rush through the gutters, the streets already starting to flood.
Rose huddles beneath a vestibule awning, trying to stay dry.
At a little past 4, they let us inside.
You know, your letters from your uncle who served in Vietnam, or the awards you won when you were a child.
There are people in this town who don't have photographs of their grandparents.
It wasn't about couches and TVs and automobiles and Sheetrock.
It was about your history being taken away from you.
You don't have photographs, the images, the words, the awards, report cards, letters, mostly letters.
Imagine how much unpublished music was destroyed in that storm.
When people see him, they instinctively remember Katrina.
Many feel compelled to share their own personal horrors.
Afterward, they feel better and he feels worse.
He doesn't go out much.
“It feels like it happened a million years ago.
On the other hand it feels like it happened yesterday.
Its manifestations in my life are complete and total.
” - Chris Rose The hours slip away, sitting among the red Chinese lanterns on the bar's covered outdoor patio.
He took three trips to rehab and the third one stuck, but not before he lost everything.
He lost his wife, then got arrested after stalking his new girlfriend.
He lost his house; his ex-wife lives there with a new man.
He lost his career.
He left The Times-Picayune, taking a buyout from the place where he'd done his best work, then wrote for the alt weekly until that fell apart.
He did television essays for Fox 8, until it sent him packing.
He wrote the seminal work on Katrina, a New York Times best-seller, then spent all that money on opiates.
That's why he started waiting tables a year and a half ago at a French Quarter fish restaurant.
Many diners recognized him.
He shook his head.
He's quit his job at the restaurant and is looking for writing work again, hoping to find himself in the shadow of the anniversary.
His biggest client is a magazine run by a local grocery store.
He's still trying to get a local media company to take a chance.
Three days before Christmas, tired of living in the French Quarter, he rented a house in Bayou St.
John, a quiet neighborhood north of his old one.
The next day, he got a nice check from the grocery store.
The day after that, Christmas Eve, he went and bought four bicycles, one for each of his three kids, ages 16, 14 and 12, along with one for himself.
He put them under the tree, a father's promise that the future would be better.
I don't know, but I know I'm giving them hard shells.
It is sunny and pouring at the same time.
His laugh is a treble machine gun.
He's quiet, just listening, watching, sun and water and noise and light.
It's the only place I know that rains big drops like that when the sun is shining.
Because he used to be a newspaper reporter, a very, very good one, he's totally aware of what's happening, what I'm writing down about him and why.
The beam of yellow light shining through the lattice to his left hits him on the arms, moving up to his chest, glittering off the gold letters on the T-shirt, bright on his face.
Ten years come and gone.
On the other hand it feels like it happened yesterday.
Its manifestations in the city are very few.
Its manifestations in my life are complete and total.
Wright Thompson examines the undocumented deaths from the storm.
Photo: William Widmer DURING THE SUMMER of the anniversary, Rose works on his latest writing assignment: a follow-up of perhaps his most famous piece, an odd experience given the way his life has changed in between.
Ten years ago, just eight days after the storm hit, he wrote an open letter introducing the fleeing citizens of New Orleans to the communities around the nation taking them in.
The same local nonprofit that got Gleason to write and record his letter reached out to Rose for a new version of his column.
The group is called Evacuteer, and it created a website to collect the love letters and offer readers a way to donate.
Rose plans to read his piece at an event near the end of May.
On the appointed night, an hour or so before his reading, a crowd starts to gather at a community center on O.
Haley Boulevard, once a Central City no-go zone between the Magnolia projects, birthplace of the Cash Money record label, and the Calliope projects, where No Limit rapper and founder Master P grew up.
The city tore down both, and now the neighborhood is a few months, maybe a year, from being acceptable to suburban white people.
There is still violence.
This summer, a hit man walked up to the St.
John the Baptist Church and shot someone once in the chest; meanwhile, half a mile away, chef Adolfo Garcia, a culinary star in a city that treats a chef's coat like a low-slung guitar, just opened his latest place.
It's across the street from Rose's reading, which folks are talking about at the bar.
Chris is one of Katrina's many ghosts.
People sit quietly in the uncomfortable chairs.
This is one of the first Katrina 10 events of the summer.
Many more will follow, academic conferences and TED Talks and a Hot Boys reunion outside the Superdome.
Economists and education specialists will gather all summer, quoting facts and figures, looking to the future.
The letter project also serves as a memorial to those who died in the storm, so their deaths will not have been in vain.
Even 10 years later, nobody knows how many were lost.
The best guess is 1,833, but that's just a guess.
At the end of Canal Street, in a pauper's cemetery, there is a memorial to the dead.
Six sleek marble mausoleums hold the remains nobody ever identified or claimed.
That's what the anniversary is doing, one last time: forcing people to go to a place they've tried to avoid.
Behind the stage hangs an enormous photograph of Louis Armstrong Park, named for the patron saint of the city, who made New Orleans music so popular that it remains so.
Everyone who comes to town arrives at the airport bearing his name, but Armstrong didn't live in that New Orleans.
He grew up in a violently segregated city -- his first cornet was given to him at a detention facility named the Colored Waifs' Home -- and while his deepest feelings about his childhood died with him, this fact is true: When Armstrong became famous, he https://yournaughtystory.com/casino/jamaica-casino-development.html to New York City and almost never returned.
His body is buried in Queens.
He sang "What a Wonderful World" as a prayer, a song about a place that didn't really exist.
The only New Orleans he wanted to visit was the one he imagined with his trumpet, a vision of what the city still tries to be.
There's a strange feeling in the air, people avoiding eye contact, quiet and alone with their memories.
Rose has been mingling, slouched at a James Dean slant, joints cocked, sleeves rolled up on his T-shirt.
He looks every bit "the avenging angel of the 504," as a writer once described him.
Ten years ago he wrote about New Orleans for the world, and now he's writing for 50 people in a room.
David Morris, from the nonprofit hosting tonight's benefit, welcomes the crowd and explains that five years ago people didn't have time for extravagances like public remembrance, focused as they were on rotting Chinese drywall and getting all their family members back in New Orleans.
Ten years from now, the seniors in high school won't have even been alive during Katrina, and it will all fade away, like Hurricane Betsy in 1965, the flood of 1927, something studied by coming generations but not felt.
I think in a lot of ways this is going to be the first and quite possibly the last collective and cathartic experience that New Orleans experiences together.
Her voice is supercharged with the thrumming energy of the young.
She's a can of Red Bull with dimples.
Standing near the back of the room, Rose looks haunted.
He jams his hands down in his pockets and rocks.
His body language repels people, and every now and then, as he listens to this dispatch from his former life, he blinks.
When you meet us now and you look into our eyes, you will see the saddest story ever told.
Our hearts are broken into a thousand pieces.
But don't pity us.
We're gonna make it.
After all, we've been rooting for the Saints for 35 years.
That's got to count for something.
He laughs when Fresh mentions the Saints, and then, as she finishes reading his old words, Rose inches farther and farther from the stage, until he's alone and against the wall.
There isn't anyone behind him.
He closes his eyes.
When the next speaker starts reliving her memories and pain, Chris quietly slips out and stands by the curb.
He holds the script of his new letter in his hand, reading it again: "It's hard to believe it's been 10 years," he's written.
A little tremor runs through his body, and his shoulders rise and fall.
From behind, it looks like he's either coughing or crying.
Inside, a deaf and blind woman talks about how she's found her own kind of vision and music in New Orleans, and outside, he's got neither.
He smokes and waits.
Then his time arrives, and the crowd stands and cheers.
He whispers to the musician onstage that he'd like her to keep playing while he reads.
What he's got on the page isn't a letter so much as a ballad, a prayer like the ones written by Louis Armstrong.
Rose, a native of Maryland, came here to work, and like many transplants, he cannot imagine a life anywhere else.
The place has swallowed him, and on the stage, he finds his pace and rhythm.
Home, where the senses are filled with the comforting.
Where the streets, the accents and the church bells are familiar.
Where the air smells like coffee, sweet olive, fish fry, mule piss and sex.
He smiles, hoping this is the start of a future, not a nostalgia trip to a past forever gone.
His letter is poignant, funny and sweet, and a common idea flows through every line.
The hurricane isn't something that happened a decade ago.
It's something that is still happening, good and bad.
The anniversary isn't a commemoration of the past but a civic prayer that the city's longest day might finally come to an end.
IN THE COURTYARD behind groupe casino application mobile St.
Louis Cathedral, which rises above Jackson Square, there's a statue of Jesus missing its thumb and forefinger.
Katrina broke them off, and people here joke about Jesus using those missing digits to flick the storm away.
At night, if you're walking down Royal Street, past the antique shops that sell Liberace's sterling serving pieces, a spotlight throws a silhouette of Jesus against the back wall of the cathedral.
It towers above everything else, heaven and hell so close together.
After Katrina, the church said it would leave the statue broken, out of solidarity, until the city had recovered.
This year, on the anniversary, the archdiocese is reattaching Jesus' fingers.
With the recovery coming to an end, at least in the public dialogue, people are remembering how much the city invested in its football team, which is itself so closely aligned with the Catholic Church, from the name of the club to the Masses the Benson family holds in the Superdome before games.
This summer, on the last day of a run of practices, Drew Brees takes off his helmet and signs autographs along a rope line of fans.
One of the items waving at him from an outstretched hand is a copy of the Monday, Feb.
The headline reads "AMEN!
The paper sold 687,000 copies, more than double its typical circulation, people of all ages and races buying them by the bundle.
The presses printed into the next night.
People wanted to save these papers, pass them down to their children.
That front page is now hanging in every imaginable establishment, from the inside of a food truck that sets up at Second Line parades on Sunday afternoons to the corner of the stand-up bar at Tujague's, whose interior always seems filled with a beautiful, strange yellow light.
The framed cover is an anthropological document of sorts, capturing a specific madness that swallowed New Orleans in the years after the hurricane.
The city in that time suffered through Ray Nagin's two terms as mayor -- like many Louisiana politicians before him, he is now in federal prison for a litany of crimes, including bribery, conspiracy and money laundering.
The police department was being investigated by the Department of Justice, and the FBI had set up an office inside the Orleans Parish School Board, so deep was the corruption 2,000 employees had health insurance for which they weren't eligible, according to Tulane researcher Doug Harris.
New Orleans was a place struggling to stand up.
And so it was that the people tied their personal and civic self-esteem to the play of a football team, as if 53 men and their coaches predicted whether the city would get off its knees.
People call New Orleans a Catholic city, but that's not really true, not anymore.
With every census, the percentage of practicing Roman Catholics declines.
The religious iconography laid over the rise of a football team would have been considered blasphemous a generation ago, and maybe even for this generation, had the people in New Orleans not needed to believe in something so desperately.
The public institution that has replaced the church's ubiquity is the Saints, and so, "Amen," the headline writers decided -- the most beautiful and surprising gift for a city stripped of its faith: an answered prayer.
Hurricane Katrina: A symbolic statue Hurricane Katrina destroyed much of New Orleans, but a statue of Jesus Christ in Jackson Square was only lightly damaged.
Ten years after the storm, as a symbol for the city's recovery, the statue will finally be repaired.
Photo: George Steinmetz IF THE MOST VISIBLE day in the past 10 years was the day the Saints won the Super Bowl, the most impactful might have been the one before, a Saturday, when people went to the polls and overwhelmingly elected Mitch Landrieu as mayor.
To many, his election is the moment when the city began its rebirth, dividing the past decade into two distinct halves: from the storm to the Super Bowl, and from Mitch's election until the anniversary.
Landrieu's media advisers understood this, placing billboards around the city that tied his victory with the victory of the Saints.
They read, "One Team.
The event takes place at a renovated theater across from what used to be the Lafitte projects and is now part of a major construction plan for the city, the Lafitte Greenway, a long public park and bike path connecting City Park and the French Quarter.
In Landrieu's speech, he describes the summer's Katrina 10 events and celebrations, and the recovery the city has made.
He loosens his blue necktie, taking a short break between meetings.
He was born and raised in New Orleans, brother of former U.
Senator Mary Landrieu, son of a former mayor, Maurice "Moon" Landrieu, who integrated city government in the 1970s, hiring dozens of young black staffers, and was called "Moon the Coon" by angry whites.
On Card counting casinos office wall, there's a framed newspaper editorial about his father, with the headline: "Can an honest man win?
We're an ascendant city.
The recovery wasn't going well.
Finally it started to jell the year before I got elected.
And just that weekend, us winning the Super Bowl and then the new election.
Landrieu is the first white mayor in three decades -- the last was his father -- and he has the trust of most of the city's black population; in his last election, he defeated two African-American candidates.
Saints coach Sean Payton, who is politically conservative, believes in the mayor too.
He points to the nearly completed Lafitte Greenway, almost three miles of public space, with energy-efficient lighting, fully compliant with the Americans with Disabilities Act.
There's a crushed-stone walking path and more than 500 trees providing shade on those hot summer days.
It'll be a beautiful, modern centerpiece of the city, running through a place that was blighted and dangerous before the storm.
Landrieu's interest is complicated.
He is trying to drive an economic rebirth while rebuilding the city itself, but when you hear him talk about things like the greenway, his excitement seems to be about something simpler: He remembers a New Orleans that looked and felt like a city on the rise, and he wants to leave that city behind when his time as mayor is up.
The new University Medical Center and VA hospital, the biggest medical construction project in the country, are positioned near the Lafitte Corridor, and the hospitals fit into the modern design, with no parking visible from the street.
This summer, a developer bought nearby land to convert into restaurants and shops.
A Whole Foods recently opened near safe mbs casino membership tier consider path of the greenway, right on the edge of Treme, the corner of Bienville and Broad.
The neighborhood is already filling with tourists.
Pedestrians walking from either direction will be able to step off the greenway into Dooky Chase's Restaurant and Willie Mae's Scotch House, two of the most famous soul food places in the city.
This is one of the oldest and most important African-American neighborhoods in the country.
Free blacks lived here during slavery, and in its clubs, jazz was born.
Some call it Treme, and others call it Lafitte, after the former project.
Its original name best expresses its place in the minds of the white citizens who named things back then: "Back of Town.
Fans at the Saints' Super Bowl victory parade surround the front page that will become ubiquitous in New Orleans.
When Steve Gleason blocked that punt, Mitch was there too.
To him, it felt cathartic and cleansing, like the team had taken the Superdome back from Katrina.
Three and a half years later, the day after he won his election, he went to church and then to his brother's house in Lakeview to watch the Super Bowl.
The whole family was there, and when the game ended, and the Saints had won, his 80-year-old mother led the family out of the house, dozens of Landrieus running around the block in rapture.
KATRINA BROUGHT the two central players of spooky dooky kid casino Saints' journey together.
Sean Payton took the job five months after see more hurricane, after the Green Bay Packers turned him down.
He instinctively understood how the flood might unify the team; the Friday night before the first game back crescent city casino new orleans the city, he gathered the Saints at midfield and played a video showing the devastation of Katrina.
The Dome felt like a church.
Payton said that the same people suffering in those images would be back in the stadium the next evening and that the Saints needed to remember these pictures when they played because those were the people in the stands cheering.
Payton signed a quarterback nobody but the Dolphins wanted, Drew Brees, who was coming off potentially career-ending shoulder surgery and still unable to throw.
The team flew in Drew and his wife in March 2006, and after pitching them on the Saints, Payton drove them around, only he got lost, and the carefully curated tour of New Orleans turned quickly into a war zone.
They passed houses ripped off foundations, with boats and cars at odd angles.
They passed houses with the fluorescent orange X's painted on them, the utilitarian National Guard system for keeping track of what got searched and when.
Ten years later, the X's mean different things in different neighborhoods.
On Magazine Street, they are something from the past, almost ironic now, or at least a way for survivors to nod at each other in solidarity and silence.
Across town, driving into the 7th or 9th Ward, dozens of abandoned houses still have X's painted on them, one more divide in a city separated by money and opportunity, as well as time and race.
Life in white New Orleans is much different from life in black New Orleans, no matter what Landrieu's billboard says.
Near Carver High School, Marshall Faulk's alma mater, an abandoned lot of graffitied cop cars looks spooky dooky kid casino a scene from "Mad Max," a square of official government land, left in the panic of full retreat.
Trees grow out of windowless houses.
Carver still isn't finished, even 10 years later, the students attending class in white trailers.
Near the old Desire projects, the Savemore Supermarket is boarded up, with a graffitied warning: "Do not make this mistake again.
The street names remain: Abundance, Benefit, Pleasure.
The nearby Press Park complex is abandoned, just shells and skeletons, each collapsed in its own way, snowflakes of blight.
This is the kind of destruction Drew and Brittany Brees saw on their drive through the city, and instead of feeling repelled, they felt called.
They didn't move to the suburbs like most players and coaches, instead rehabbing a big white house in Uptown, near St.
And when Drew wasn't practicing or playing football, he was donating or raising money, much of it aimed at the 9th Ward.
When the team started winning, https://yournaughtystory.com/casino/directeur-casino-joa-la-seyne-sur-mer.html would write signs and tape them to the iron fence at his property line, like something that might happen to the high school quarterback.
After the Super Bowl, Brees arrived home to find a few six-packs of beer on his front walk.
He took them inside.
Hidden among the big poster-board and butcher-paper banners, there hung a note signed by the Argus and DiPaola families, written on printer paper torn in half: "My family lost everything in August 2005.
Last night you and our beloved boys gave us everything back.
John District of New Orleans since Katrina.
William Widmer for ESPN THE SAINTS MATTER DEEPLY to the people of New Orleans, but in the year after the storm, the man who owned the team did not.
Tom Benson became public enemy No.
Fans booed him when the Saints played at LSU's Tiger Stadium, and he threw a temper tantrum over the abuse.
With the city filled with rancid refrigerators, a meme emerged: People spray-painted them with the words: "DO NOT OPEN: TOM BENSON INSIDE.
The mayor of San Antonio pushed for the relocation.
One of President Bill Clinton's Cabinet secretaries -- HUD director and former mayor of San Antonio Henry Cisneros -- reached out to the commissioner, arguing on behalf of moving the franchise.
The Saints fiercely deny the team tried to move.
In fact, many other businesses did not and have not returned.
But following Katrina, we can proudly argue that Tom Benson has led a renaissance in our city.
He is not, however, a Texan.
He grew up poor in New Orleans' 7th Ward, near the corner of North Johnson and Elysian Fields -- on the wrong side of a divided community, in one of many blue-collar families who made the rich elite of St.
Charles Avenue richer and more elite.
Anyone who expected him to be civic-minded in the immediate aftermath of the hurricane does not know Tom Benson.
The city exists in his memory as a place he escaped.
He fought his way out.
Call it greed or focus or drive.
The ancestors of the blue bloods who curry his favor today would have looked right through his father, who worked as a clerk in a department store and would give Tom 7 cents to ride the streetcar to school.
Tom walked and saved the money.
“It takes three-fourths of the owners to move a team; there's no owner out there who is prepared to abandon New Orleans.
” - Former NFL Commissioner Paul Tagliabue to Saints owner Tom Benson Much of Benson's past remains hidden, and only a 2001 profile in The Times-Picayune managed to partially reveal him.
He served in the Navy, a yeoman on a battleship in the months after Japan surrendered, and when he returned home, he started work as an accountant at a local Chevrolet dealership.
He moved up, managing the office, then the sales staff and soon his own dealership.
He turned one into more than 30, the start of a sprawling financial empire.
He hired his three best friends from the 7th Ward and fired two of them -- ultimately cutting ties with all three.
Nobody would stop his rise to success.
Eventually, he'd spend much of his time on a ranch in Texas, the open space as far from the cramped streets of a New Orleans slum as a little boy could travel.
The Saints coaches and executives of the past decade are a reflection of Tom Benson's bruising approach to business and life -- the Bountygate scandal, and the team subsequently shrugging off the NFL's inquiries, a perfect Bensonian moment.
In Tom Benson's mind, Tom Benson is a winner, and he doesn't care whether people like him, which is lucky because after Katrina nobody did.
Even before the storm, he'd been publicly pushing for a new lease, saying he needed millions in concessions from the state to stay competitive in the New Orleans market.
His offensive burned bridges, and after Katrina, the business community believed he was using the disaster as the final piece of leverage.
Tagliabue decided to meet businessmen from New Orleans to hear directly from them.
He'd heard the Saints complaining that the storm had made the tough economic climate in the city even more difficult.
Another NFL owner, Robert McNair of the Texans, set up the meeting.
They gathered at the river camp owned by shipping magnate Thomas Coleman, at one of a dozen exclusive shacks built on the thin, fragile strip of land, called the batture, running between the levee and the river.
Generations of New Orleanians have used these shacks, just a couple of miles from Audubon Park and the mansions on St.
Charles, for whiskey drinking and holding meetings too secret for the public exposure of an office.
Everyone ate dinner and admired the Louisiana folk art on the walls.
No politicians were invited, just businessmen and bankers.
Tagliabue listened to the men's belief in New Orleans and their frustration with the Saints.
Their hope for the city underscored what he already thought and what he'd told Benson.
In a recent phone interview, Tagliabue recounted the conversation.
The first, his granddaughter Rita Benson Https://yournaughtystory.com/casino/microgaming-no-deposit-mobile-casinos.html, made him finally seem in tune with the city.
Rita's rise to power in the organization was primarily about repairing relationships between the family and New Orleans.
She grew up in Texas, spending summers running around the Saints' practices, until she went to college and spent her summers interning at the NFL office in New York.
Tom Benson, whom she called Paw-Paw, adored her and saw in her his best chance to turn the Saints into a family dynasty.
With each year, he gave her more responsibility and the titles to go with it.
Between 2006 and 2010, when the Saints were still building toward something, the now 38-year-old Rita became the public face of a youthful, modern corporation, fully in tune with the city it represented.
Actors and celebrities watched the games in her suite, everyone's place arranged according to a seating chart she closely managed.
The art museum wanted her for its board, and she found herself at the nerve center of the city, drinking whiskey and talking politics in James Carville's living room.
Better than anyone else at the Saints' facility on Airline Drive, Rita saw the connections between the town and the team in the years after Katrina, and talked about them in ways that weren't ham-fisted and trite.
At a meeting as the team prepared for its first season back in the Superdome, she listened as marketing people pitched pop-culture slogans and themes that ignored the drowning elephant in the room.
She said the team's slogan needed to be something that reflected the goals of a football team and, subtly, of New Orleans itself.
They hung a banner on the Superdome that said, "Our home.
Rita has been described as a tyrant, burning through dozens of personal assistants.
Even in the run toward the Super Bowl, she showed signs of the strain that would come out in later years; after one big victory in 2009, she got agitated when a guest in her suite, a famous painter from New York, opened the bottle of Perrier-Jouet Fleur de Champagne that had been icing down during the game.
The bottle was hers to open.
The night of the Super Bowl, she reveled in her glory, holding court at the team's victory party inside Miami's InterContinental Hotel, dancing with her friends by the stage to New Orleans frat-rock band Better Than Ezra.
She'd protected and resurrected her family's name in the community, especially with Uptown businessmen who never trusted casino consulting 7th Ward grandfather.
The party raged all night.
Jimmy Buffett laughed with Carville out in the hall, and Sean Payton cradled the silver Vince Lombardi Trophy, now covered with smudges and fingerprints.
He took a picture with anyone who wanted one.
That victory party was the end of the Saints as the standing army of the Rebirth of New Orleans, less a pro sports franchise and more the 1980 Olympic hockey team, a vessel for hopes and dreams.
The team had served as a life-support system, nearly as essential as the one strapped to Steve Gleason's wheelchair, keeping the city breathing until it could breathe on its own.
Rita danced and Payton raised a glass, and in the city of New Orleans, and everywhere its sons and daughters had been scattered, people remembered their journey away from the flood.
As photographer Akasha Rabut finds, the musicians at Edna Karr High in New Orleans, the marching band is a way of life, a road to college and a point of pride.
TOM BENSON MET the other woman who's shaped his past 10 years, his third wife, Gayle, at Mass.
They married a year before the storm, and in the decade since, she's made him into one of New Orleans' most generous philanthropists, giving away the millions he worked so hard to make.
Tens of millions have gone to hospitals, churches, high schools and universities.
He cried when the team unveiled a statue of him outside the Dome, and in all the photos, Gayle was by his side, wiping away the tears.
The years between spray-painted refrigerators and a big bronze statue of Tom Benson were dominated by Gayle.
She herself is a character in a supermarket novel; married twice before, click financial peril and without prospects, and suddenly pulled into a casino biloxi ms golden nugget of privilege and luxury.
She shares with Tom a deep Catholic faith; both clearly nurse the wounds and insecurities all poor kids carry with them through life.
She https://yournaughtystory.com/casino/commercial-casino-niagara.html up in Old Algiers, directly across the river from the French Quarter, her father a janitor at a local store.
They lived in a small shotgun house in a working-class neighborhood, where generation after generation tried to inch out of the mosquito bogs and sugarcane plantations.
The money spent on the big Uptown mansions is made down here.
The air smells like sugar or sulfur, depending on the wind and the century, and the flare stacks of the refineries throw shadows onto the fields and levees.
You can always see the skyline of the French Quarter, and in the other direction you can see the cities of pipe and smoke out in the marsh, stretching mile after mile, bracketed by where you're going and where you've been.
Brenda LaJaunie says her sister always wanted a better life than the one they had growing up.
Gayle barely appears in her high school yearbook, one of those nowhere girls who don't find a place with any group.
Gayle Benson says, through a Saints spokesman: "Mrs.
Benson has provided for her family for years and now she continues to give and offer her time and focus to charities throughout our city.
She has no comment about what others may say about her.
Her focus remains taking care of her husband and doing what she can to help our city grow and prosper.
Last December, during a Saints game versus Atlanta, the contentious relationship finally reached the public.
Rita had learned that, for the first time in her life, she would not see Tom Benson on Christmas.
Rita and her mother, Renee Benson, blamed Gayle for splitting the family apart.
In the suite this past December, witnesses say Rita shook Gayle and screamed at her.
Rita denies this, calling it a fabrication of the Saints' spin machine.
She says she merely begged Gayle to let them see Tom during the holidays.
Six days after that game, Tom Benson sent a memo to his daughter and grandchildren saying he never wanted to see them again because of, among other things, their disrespectful behavior toward Gayle.
He also said he wanted to take the shares of the team out of the trust he'd set up for them and give the Saints to Gayle.
Before the memo, Gayle stood to inherit a few million dollars upon his death.
The childhood home of Saints owner Tom Benson, who grew up in the 7th Ward before clawing his way to riches.
William Widmer for ESPN ON THE FIRST OF JUNE, the Benson family feud hits Louisiana district court -- the family tearing itself apart, in New Orleans and in Texas, through a series of lawsuits challenging Benson's competency and right to disown his daughter and grandchildren.
Benson has placed shares in the Saints in an irrevocable trust, which means he'll need to replace them with assets or cash of an equal value.
And before fighting over that amount, his daughter is taking him to court, challenging his mental capacity to make such a draconian decision.
The battle, when whittled to its essence, pits Gayle Benson against Rita Benson LeBlanc, fighting over money, over love and out of spite.
It's the first day of hurricane season, and in another courtroom in the magnificent pub fruity casino think building, a lawsuit over the 22 Katrina-related deaths at the Lafon nursing home begins.
Family members of the dead believe the nuns and nurses who ran the facility effectively killed their patients by refusing to evacuate ahead of the hurricane.
Nurses had stood in the streets and tried to flag down the passing National Guard.
No one had stopped.
A nun still wearing her habit had found a New Orleans police officer who'd promised to help but never actually did.
Now, in the courthouse, nuns and priests https://yournaughtystory.com/casino/grosvenor-casino-chinatown.html through the lobby, some quietly waiting by the vending machines for their turn to testify.
The crowd of television cameras and newspaper photographers isn't there, though, for the nuns -- the 22 awful deaths holding none of the fascination of an intrafamily battle over billions, the whole scene feeling like a piece of performance art about the state of America.
Reporters wait on the first day to finish, everyone turning to the elevators at the far end of the long hall whenever they open, waiting to hurl questions at a Benson.
A black Mercedes pulls into the sally port and parks by the curb, and Tom Benson's driver, Jay, comes inside to wait on his boss.
Upstairs, family members face one another, the first time they've all been in a room together since everything collapsed in January.
Renee Benson, Tom's last living child and Rita's mom, clutches religious medals and photographs of their family, before money and time tore it apart.
OUTSIDE, people smoke on the steps of Loyola Avenue, two blocks from the corner where an 11-year-old Louis Armstrong fired a pistol and got arrested, learning to play the horn while incarcerated.
He first performed in jazz clubs that were torn down to build this courthouse.
Perdido Street was flooded during Katrina, and if you'd been here 10 years ago, you'd have ducked and covered from the noise and toxic spray of fan boats cutting through the water.
Their turbines threw a mix of human waste and chemicals into the air.
The survivors from Charity Hospital a few blocks away were headed toward safety, finally.
The staff had been abandoned for three days after the storm, watching helicopters land at every nearby medical facility where the patients paid for their care, the rescuers leaving behind those at the hospital where care was free.
casino junkets from cleveland think the last to leave Charity was NOPD Officer Daryle Holloway, who'd weathered the storm with his mother, one of the head nurses at the hospital.
Holly, as his friends called him, worked the Desire and Florida projects.
The people in the community respected him and thought he was fair.
His fellow officers still talk in hushed tones about the morning, years ago, when they responded to a shootout in the Florida project.
They arrived to find total chaos, people bleeding and screaming.
One of the gunmen's young sons had been hit in the crossfire and died.
The boy's mother wailed over his body as the cops tried to figure out what had happened.
They sent Holloway into the apartment of the dead boy to see whether anyone else was armed.
Holloway saw four or five kids inside, looked around at the empty cupboards and fridge.
He walked back outside, and everyone stopped for a moment to see him go into a corner store, buy cereal, eggs and milk, then walk back through the active crime scene to feed the hungry kids stuck in an apartment with no food.
In the days after Katrina, he and Charity staffers went out in a boat to find survivors.
They passed a man sitting on his porch with his dog, drinking a bottle of Jack Daniel's.
The man refused to get into the boat.
They found girls on the roof of a house and brought them in the boat to the Superdome.
On one trip, the prop hit a floating body and the body, filled with gases brought on by decomposition, exploded -- the foulest smell and sight any of them ever saw, and on the emergency room loading dock afterward, someone snapped a photo of Holloway, staring out at the city, his eyes empty and hollow.
The bonds of community, and even civilization, frayed and broke during those long days, but the bonds of family held strong.
Holloway refused to leave his mother, even though he'd later be suspended by the police department for abandoning his post.
On Day 3 in Charity, a nurse named Jewel Willis worked in what had turned into a sort of Civil War triage hospital: no power, little medicine, the big brick building an oven during the day and not much cooler at night.
One day, a man with a thick Cajun accent showed up in his fishing boat.
He'd somehow navigated his way through the disaster, pulling right up to the emergency room doors.
Willis came outside, and there he was.
Her dad had come to save her.
OUT AT THE SAINTS' facility on Airline Drive, there's a sense of remembering prompted by the approaching anniversary, along with the humbling experience of last season's 7-9 record.
Each passing year in the NFL is a reminder that everyone and everything has an expiration date.
It's been almost six years since Sean Payton coached the best team in the league.
Payton watched the Warriors win the NBA championship and the Blackhawks win the Stanley Cup and he focused on the flash of joy in the seconds after the deciding games ended.
He wants to feel that again, which becomes more and more unlikely every year.
Drew Brees must also be considering the end of the most important relationship in his professional life, the undimming love affair between his family and the city that took them in.
Both of them exist around town as pop-culture deities: T-shirts for sale that say "Free Sean Payton" or "The Krewe du Drew," or the signs pledging faith to "Breesus.
One day, someone else will own the team, and Brees will live in San Diego, and Payton will be replaced by a new coach with the energy and hunger he used to have.
He'll be content living on the coast of Florida, remembering when they were all young and invincible.
THE HEARING ENDS and, when the elevator doors open, Tom Benson passes security guards and takes a left, stooped and slow, an octogenarian helped into his car by his attorney.
No less a moral arbiter than the archbishop said Benson's mind remains sharp, and Tom jokes with reporters.
He carries a black and gold walking cane.
Rita has a thousand-yard stare, audibly scoffing when one of the Saints beat reporters asks a question.
The three of them walk down the steps, across Loyola Avenue, disappearing into the Central Business District.
Watching the two sides go in opposite directions, as if the photo of them on the field in Miami were being ripped in half, feels like the end of something.
Only five players from the Super Bowl remain.
The Saints' front office has the highest amount of cap space taken by players no longer on the team, the barometer of a front office's ability to spend money smartly.
It's all coming undone.
The third day of the trial occurs on the 30th anniversary of Tom Benson buying the team, and now he's an 88-year-old man who will never see his daughter and grandchildren again, at least outside a courtroom.
In a few weeks, Renee will try to call Tom on Father's Day and instead will get a letter from his attorneys, telling her to stay away.
Workers tend to the growing of grass on a levee on the shore of Lake Pontchartrain.
George Steinmetz for ESPN NEW ORLEANS HAS never been one static thing.
The city has both died and been reborn with every agent of change that lands on its shores, immigrants and floods alike.
Its people fled revolutions and dictators and famine, arriving in waves from Haiti and Ireland, Italy and Vietnam.
The immigrants re-created the city, as did the levee breach of 1849, the flood of 1927 and Hurricane Betsy in 1965.
That's how it's always been.
New Orleans is a port city, a slave market, a river town and, since an assistant engineer of Sieur de Bienville's laid out the French Quarter's grid almost 300 years ago, a place that has never been sentimental about what it was.
Ten years after the flood of '27, the local papers did not run a single anniversary story.
Anniversaries are a modern invention, as is the idea of holding on to one New Orleans instead of just embracing whatever rises in its place.
Katrina lives, and so does the New New Orleans, until another agent of change comes to erase them both.
The only television show to ever really get the city, David Simon's "Treme," revolved around a theme common to Simon's work: People in urban America aren't Shakespearean characters with free will but actors in a Greek tragedy, all subject to the whims of postmodern gods: cops, mayors, schools, newspapers, oil company CEOs -- and in New Orleans two more, Rebirth and Recovery, the most powerful spooky dooky kid casino gods of all.
They bless some lives, curse many others, controlling the future of people who are rebuilding what was taken away.
The fence that separates the New Orleans Country Club from the surrounding neighborhood is a barbed-wire divide between rich and poor.
William Widmer for ESPN ONE MORNING, a rapper and producer named Nesby Phips says there's something he wants to show me.
He's from Hollygrove, a poor 17th Ward neighborhood stretching between Uptown and the Jefferson Parish line.
He has a Mayan amulet on his necklace and a Patience tattoo on his arm.
He says he can reduce the entire ecosystem of New Orleans to one street corner.
Academics quote statistics about the inequality of the city, the extreme prosperity so close to extreme poverty; a study last year puts New Orleans' wealth gap on par with Zambia's.
Katrina didn't create this problem, but it did make it worse.
Phips can do better than calculating the Gini coefficient.
He starts to laugh.
” - Rapper and producer Nesby Phips, on the differing realities of New Orleans He points at a chain-link fence on Hamilton Street covered in some green cloth or nylon so nobody can see inside the New Orleans Country Club.
There are three lines of barbed wire on top.
We don't cross that line.
They don't cross that line.
Grass grows up around abandoned houses.
There's an empty foundation, all facing the golf-course fence.
The entrance to the club is at the intersection of Quince and Last streets.
The security guard eyes Phips as he drives through the gate into the parking lot to turn around.
Welcome to New Orleans, man.
Everything is right up on each other.
Country club right here.
Phips is sure they know every lyric on "Tha Carter III" but have no idea Lil Wayne grew up in the neighborhood on the other side of the fence, the green shade blocking the poor kids from seeing in and the rich kids from seeing out.
SINCE KATRINA, life on the wealthy side of that fence has improved.
The New New Orleans really is a safer, wealthier place with more responsible institutions.
Nobody dares write it.
We still hadn't even found our dead and people were saying that.
Now, you look back and you gotta think about what it was like in 2005, our crime, our corruption, our police, our education.
They're all better now.
Would they have improved had we not had this intense, overwhelming catastrophe, which forced us to not only rebuild and recover and repopulate but also reimagine ourselves?
Would that have happened?
I think it's safe to say no.
UPTOWN TO DRIVE THROUGH back-of-town neighborhoods to the intersection of St.
Roch is to cut through the heart of pre-Katrina black Learn more here Orleans -- thriving decades ago, now battered -- only to find, at the corner on the Lake Pontchartrain side of the street, a new market that's gleaming and white inside, high, tall windows reflecting light on the tile floor.
This is the St.
Roch Market, one of the places Mayor Landrieu likes to use as an example of what the city might be.
As a kid, he remembers coming to the back to get crawfish for his mom from the Italian family who ran the place.
He grew up, and the market fell into disrepair, eventually abandoned.
Now it's home to more than a dozen small businesses.
The market sells things rich people like -- expensive balsamic vinegar, Negronis, fusion Korean food -- and for someone who lived in the city before Katrina, the sheer number of white people walking around this stretch of St.
It's just a whiter city than before.
You see white people in places they never used to go, which the people who live in those places notice too.
The white population has grown, while the overall population has shrunk by more than 100,000 people, almost all of them black.
More than half of the black males in the city don't have work.
More than half of black male ninth-graders fail to graduate from high school on time.
There are few jobs and fewer places to live -- none of the city's housing projects was seriously damaged in the storm, but all of them have since been torn down, which opened up the valuable real estate trapped beneath them.
One study says there are now 3,221 fewer low-income units than before the storm.
The city didn't replace the public housing units one-for-one, so poor citizens are being pushed toward the outskirts of town.
The crime in suburban neighborhoods, like New Orleans East, is exploding.
There are shootings and stabbings night after night.
With the lack of affordable housing, activists tried to save some of the projects, among them the Iberville, the last project to come down.
One group came a few years ago to meet with Blair Boutte, Shack Brown's friend and former boss.
They wanted his help in stopping the demolition.
Boutte not only runs a prominent bail bonds company but also has built significant real estate holdings and a political and business consulting firm.
He knows the streets better than anyone else, and politicians pay for that knowledge and influence.
During the activist group's meeting, everyone sat around Blair's conference room table, in his office across from the Orleans Parish Prison in Mid-City.
Only one or two people he recognized.
Everyone else was from out of town.
He listened and, when they finished, he asked one question.
One person he didn't recognize answered, "That's our home, and we can't let them just come in and take it.
Where are you from?
The poorest of the poor, the most uneducated, were all boxed into one geographic location.
And we suffered through that.
And for anyone to come in and suggest somehow that that is a great thing, that we should preserve it, they did not live through it.
There are no easy answers and no readily assignable villains or heroes.
The Iberville should come down, and whatever rises in its place will not be designed to help the people who used to live there.
Battling to save the projects is really a proxy fight against the helplessness that poor citizens feel.
The decisions about their future will be made by unseen people in unseen rooms, then handed down like tablets, their tomorrows already carved in stone.
Children at a playground at the newly reconstructed mixed-income neighborhood that replaced the Lafitte projects.
William Widmer for ESPN THROUGHOUT THE SUMMER, the state continues debating how to use the vacant Charity Hospital building on Tulane Avenue, even as its replacement hospital prepares to open just before the anniversary of the storm.
Although UMC's complex will continue to serve as the gunshot emergency room for the city, the spirit of serving the poor mostly died with the nuns whose ranks at Charity began to dwindle in the 1990s.
Katrina merely destroyed what little of that mission remained.
Charity stands empty now, while the new hospital stretches over three blocks in upper Treme, on the Mid-City line, which will soon be home to the Lafitte Greenway.
The plan is working.
Real estate prices in nearby Treme are the fastest growing in the city.
This was a dangerous, blighted neighborhood before Katrina.
These prices will only continue to climb.
In two generations, nobody will remember learn more here dangerous back-of-town streets between Orleans and Esplanade -- or the people who died defending tiny pieces of forgotten turf -- and nobody who grew up in the shadow of Willie Mae's Scotch House and Dooky Chase's will be able to afford to live there again.
The nearly completed Lafitte Greenway -- almost three miles of public space -- will have energy-efficient lighting, crushed-stone walking paths and more than 500 shade-providing trees.
William Widmer for ESPN A MILE AND A HALF up Broad from Dooky Chase's, there's a music club on the narrow wedge of land where North Broad and Hope Street intersect.
Blair Boutte is waiting at a table in the back.
There's little he's not connected to in New Orleans.
His bounty hunters can find bail jumpers who remain invisible to the police.
The famous Rebirth Brass Band started in his house, he says, with Blair on the saxophone, and when he left the projects for college, the band re-formed without him -- was reborn, you might say, hence the name.
In his office on South Broad Street, two photographs hang on the conference room wall.
The first is Boutte with Nelson Mandela, taken when the South African leader visited Louisiana.
The second is a close-up of the street signs at the intersection of Crozat and Iberville, so he can look up at that wall and remember how far he's come.
Boutte has brought me here because he has a story to tell.
He leans toward the middle of the table and begins to talk.
The parks in the city, he says, are the knife's edge.
In a place where the most disenfranchised group is young black males, a good park is sometimes the only thing holding someone upright.
It's about surviving in my neighborhood.
Who's click to see more be able to avoid the land mines?
Having a coach, having a team, having something to do after school can minimize the risk.
Coaches got together and raised money, building a thriving youth league, drawing kids from the neighborhoods in the 17th Ward: Hollygrove, Pigeontown and Gert Town, the last a shortened version of the racial slur that gave the place its name.
They got a concession stand up and running, which allowed the park to become self-sufficient, and when the Super Bowl came to the city, the NFL installed a field.
Then there's his friend Shack Brown.
“For anyone to come in and suggest somehow that that is a great thing, that we should preserve it, they did not live through it.
” - Blair Boutte, on retaining the Iberville projects In 2009, Brown came to Boutte asking for help.
The men from the neighborhood wanted to start some organized sports at Lemann Playground near the Iberville projects where Blair and Shack grew up.
When you're dead broke, now you're gonna try to figure out how to finance a playground?
Helmets and shoulder pads and jerseys and mouthpieces, the whole deal from scratch.
I admire these guys.
They came to me: 'Blair, how do we get the money?
Shack Brown took on this impossible task and damned if he didn't get the park running.
They had four to five age groups playing football by 2013, more than a hundred kids running around.
Then Shack and Blair began dreaming bigger.
They figured the boys and girls needed restrooms.
First they tried a port-a-potty, but it got filled with junkies and drug needles.
Blair decided to build a cinder-block concession stand, which would provide restrooms and a way for the park to make enough money to survive.
He got an architect involved while Shack found bleachers to set up by the field.
Boutte wanted the kids in the Iberville to have the same opportunities available to the boys and girls growing up around Blair's new neighborhood Uptown.
He says the biggest threat to a child's future is the two hours after school and before practice.
Empty warehouses sat useless across the street from the field, and Blair made plans to buy or lease them.
He wrangled retired teachers and started thinking of tutoring programs to go with the field.
By the overpass, in between the old Iberville and Lafitte projects, he says, a little organic miracle was flourishing.
Then it all fell apart.
The parks department tore down the makeshift concession stand and forbade spooky dooky kid casino from building a permanent one, according to Brown.
Without a way to support itself, Shack's football program died.
The people who'd spent their own money on the league felt powerless and impotent, as if they weren't residents of a neighborhood but a problem to be solved so the neighborhood could reach its potential.
They felt in the way, which they were.
Now the program that Shack built is gone.
By the time the greenway is completed, Boutte and Brown won't be able to find all the scattered kids.
Sitting in the jazz club, Boutte sighs.
They want to ride bicycles everywhere.
All the ists are in town.
These people need a green space to walk and ride their bikes on.
There is a point he wants to make clear.
The choices are tough, and he understands.
Even inside himself, he's torn, happy to see Iberville come down and nice mixed-income housing built in its place, even as he mourns the same rush of progress crippling Lemann Playground.
For Blair, two contradictory ideas are true at the same time; there aren't good guys and bad guys, but there are certainly winners and losers.
A public green space is part of a modernizing city.
He also knows that park could have saved a lot of kids.
He imagines the boys he saw flying around the field, disciplined in their gap assignments.
Parents filled the bleachers during games.
Now that's all gone.
Only the best two or three athletes get taken to a different park, since coaches can fit only a few in a car.
The best kids find a new team, and the rest fade away.
You know the story.
These guys are in an uphill battle with cement shoes on, and it's slippery.
We send them right back to the jungle.
And we tell them, in our most authoritative voice, 'Be good.
William Widmer for ESPN SHACK BROWN STANDS in the empty Lemann Playground.
It's an early afternoon in June.
The field is a narrow patch of green near the interstate.
When he closes his eyes, he can see how it was before.
The kids playing ball ranged in age from 5 to 14.
Every year, he says, at least one had a parent murdered, and Shack watched helplessly as the boys slipped through his fingers.
One of his player's dads threw his body over his children during a shootout.
He died, and they survived.
Shack tried to fill the hole in their lives.
The playground served as a safe haven, which it will undoubtedly be again.
An official with the city's recreation department insisted that there'd be youth football in Lemann in 2015, although parents and coaches in more info neighborhood don't seem to know anything about it.
Everything in New Orleans happens over and over, so this is perfect, really, the idea of something new trying to find a foothold in the same place where something beautiful has been destroyed.
Trees line the edges, one taller theme, casino secrets oxygen sorry the rest, on the right if you're facing the old projects.
Brown heads over to the Iberville, parking on the side street between the two corner stores.
Some guys hang outside the New Image Supermarket.
One of them, a kid named Spencer, rushes over.
He played for Shack at the Lemann, even went out of town with the team.
The boys on those trips still talk about the foreign experience of staying in the host families' houses.
They'd never heard of a breakfast casserole, or seen big backyards with swings and pools.
Many more like him suffered the same fate when the park shut down, collateral damage of the city's new urban corridor.
Now he's just on the corner, and shoalwater bay casino reviews enough, we find out why.
Shack heads into the store and buys two Big Shot sodas and when he swings the door back open and steps outside, he walks right into what looks like a drug deal in progress.
Spencer is making some sort of transaction with an old junkie.
The older guys hanging by a truck a few feet away look embarrassed and try to shoo the junkie away, at least until Shack leaves.
The whole time, Spencer's mother is standing a few feet away, stone faced, looking at him and then at Shack.
She doesn't smile, the only one who doesn't seem happy to see her son's old coach.
The Hotel Monteleone's iconic neon sign looms above the French Quarter -- and for years loomed over the nearby Iberville projects, a reminder of how far four blocks can be.
William Widmer for ESPN THE PARTS OF the city falling further behind were in trouble long before Hurricane Katrina formed over the Bahamas.
New Orleans is one of many American cities that rely on tourism and sales tax to support themselves.
To survive, New Orleans needs mega-events and massive entertainment districts, and an aggressive police presence in places where consumers gather.
Sociologists describe this as post-Fordism, the economy of a place after the death of manufacturing jobs.
The new focus divides a community into consumers and criminals.
Most post-Fordism economies see a rise in zero-tolerance policing and incarceration rates.
That's exactly what has happened in New Orleans since 1970.
During roughly that time frame, half the city's white population moved to the suburbs while the murder rate grew by 329 percent.
Between 1981 and Katrina, the incarceration rate increased by 173 percent.
The city lost 13,500 manufacturing jobs between 1970 and 2000, and the low-paying service industry grew by 136 percent.
All the while, the city's most famous institutions were born.
The Saints started playing in 1967.
The New Orleans Jazz NBA franchise formed in 1974.
The Superdome opened in 1975, created as part of the city's new vision of itself.
New Orleans as a carnal playground famous the world over didn't happen on its own; it was a calculated and sophisticated marketing campaign.
The city closing those housing projects closest to booming entertainment districts isn't an accident.
The rich stayed rich in this new economy, but the poor trapped in the housing projects were almost exclusively a financial engine for tourism.
The jobs available didn't pay to build a middle-class life.
The city needed its black people to shuck oysters and pour drinks but chased them back to the Iberville on horseback at the slightest provocation.
Hurricane Katrina: The return of the Superdome Doug Thornton, manager of the Superdome, looks back on the damage that Hurricane Katrina inflicted upon the iconic building and the emotional moment when it reopened.
Photo: George Steinmetz BOUTTE DRIVES down Basin toward Iberville Street, where a few blocks away, the sign from the Hotel Monteleone dominates the sky.
If you lived in the Iberville, you saw that sign every day of your life and never once went inside unless you carried bags or cleaned rooms.
The glowing sign is always there, a reminder that four blocks is a nearly impossible distance to travel in this life.
Boutte rounds a corner and sees the first flash of red brick.
He stops in the New Image and talks to some guys hanging outside.
Being back here reminds him of his own rebirth, of death too.
One afternoon we sit in his office, in the room with the photo of him and Mandela.
He describes the project as "quicksand," then says, in a voice quieter than before, "I ended up in all of that.
I very seldom talk about it.
I don't like to go back here.
Blair Boutte's mother raised him and his three siblings by herself in the '80s and '90s in a New Orleans housing project.
She never drank or did drugs, never bought herself new clothes.
Everything Blair wanted to do, she supported.
Sometimes working two jobs, sometimes not being able to work at all.
It's a pretty rough ride.
And my brothers and I, we weren't singing in the church choir, all right?
We were typical New Orleans boys growing up in the housing projects in every sense of the word.
And she fought and she fought and she fought, and she scratched, and she toiled, and she basically became the anchor to whatever good we had.
She never abandoned ship.
She never gave up.
His mom came up for his graduation.
They had a party at a local restaurant, and while everyone celebrated, he looked over and saw her in tears.
After graduation, he got a full ride to Tulane Law School, and before classes began, he went back to the projects.
What do you do?
You go back and you live with your parents, right?
The city was a dangerous place, around 250 murders a year.
He went and registered the firearm, wanting to both protect himself and be legal.
On April 10, 1988, Blair walked through the Lafitte projects and a drug dealer nicknamed Two Pistols drew both guns and tried to rob him.
Blair pulled his gun and fired, and the man fired back.
In his office, a universe away from that night, he looks haunted.
He's learn more here whispering now.
At the end of the day, I ended up pleading guilty to manslaughter.
An innocent bystander was actually the one who died.
Tulane took away Boutte's scholarship, and he did three years, nine months in jail.
When he came out, he started his business.
It grew into an empire, with real estate holdings and his B3 Consulting firm.
Few people in New Orleans understand more about the goings-on in the shadow city.
Security guards here bar the passage of everyone except those on a preapproved list.
George Steinmetz for ESPN THE MOST EXCLUSIVE STREET in New Orleans tells the same story as the intersection of Iberville and Crozat -- the history of a city where some people pull the strings and other people move at the end of an invisible wire -- just from a different point of view.
The fortunes might come and go, but the houses on Audubon Place remain.
They are monuments to the way things have always worked, and the way they always will.
He'd never wanted to live Uptown, but she wanted a home on Audubon.
The houses there all tell similar stories too.
The sugar-and-coffee baron who built No.
The man who lived at No.
He built an empire, as well, United Fruit, overthrowing governments in Central America, commanding a private standing army of mercenaries and cutthroats.
His soldiers terrorized a village where a young novelist grew up; the book based on the massacre is "One Hundred Years of Solitude.
Zemurray died in 1961 and gave his house to Tulane University, and the school's president now lives there, talking about social justice while walking the same halls as the man who gave the world banana republics.
The architect who drew the United Fruit house also designed the Bensons' home, as well as the Hotel Monteleone, the one whose glowing sign dominates the sky in the Iberville projects.
A hidden world plays out behind the stone and wrought-iron entrance to the street, where a guard approves everyone in or out.
Last year, parents threw a debutante party for their teenage daughter that required building a structure on an empty lot near their family's mansion.
The guests, the sons and daughters of dynasties, made their way through a so-called Gallery of Stags.
Through another set of doors, the ballroom waited, where the girl's family had flown in Maroon 5.
They were the opening act, because the family also flew in Wiz Khalifa, who rapped and smoked joints in the bathroom with future Wall Street titans.
The party cost millions of dollars and lasted one night.
Hearn built the Bensons' home in 1902, his reward for the coffee-and-sugar empire he'd created.
His money came from the same plantation parish where Gayle LaJaunie's father lived.
There's nobody from Hearn's family left in New Orleans, an empire built just click for source lost.
The house changed hands four more times before Tom Benson bought it, the history of the city's financial health told through the transfer of deeds: a bank president to a railroad man to a real estate developer to an oil-field equipment supplier to the owner of a football team.
A tech billionaire will surely buy it next.
Gayle oversaw the interior decoration of the house, no expense spared.
A golden stained-glass window in the stairwell, with deep greens and airy lavenders, accents the gold walls and the heavy valances.
A painting by Miro hangs over a table with a statue by Remington.
There's a Salvador Dali and photos of Popes Benedict and Francis above the umbrella stand.
It looks like a pre-revolution French aristocrat's dollhouse brought to life.
Her china pattern is Spode Stafford White, the same table settings used on the television show source Abbey.
On a table, there's a photograph of Tom holding the Lombardi trophy, and over a marble fireplace, Gayle hung an enormous oil portrait of herself.
Photographer William Widmer illustrates how Harry Sims wasn't about to let Katrina knock him out link the business of mentoring the youth of the Lower 9th Ward.
DREAMS DO COME TRUE.
At the end of May, Boutte and 25 family members fly to see his daughter graduate from Brown University.
He's got a hat that says "Brown Dad," and he keeps it in his office, the same room as the Crozat and Iberville photo, a reminder of the distance a family can cover in a generation.
Suddenly, he stands up and excuses himself, and the other people at the table, who know him well, look at each other, stunned.
They've never seen him like this, Boutte crying alone in the bathroom.
He returns to the table when he has composed himself, makes a joke about the onions from the red beans cooking in the back and continues.
It's an emotional thing for me because, you know, I feel like.
All this past year, she asked Blair over and over about their plans to attend the Brown graduation, worrying, calling to make sure he'd booked tickets and made the reservations.
His phone would ring and she'd be on the other line.
I don't want to miss it.
They traveled north together, his mom telling every person she encountered where she was going and article source />In the hotel the night before, he couldn't sleep.
His mother joined him in the lobby.
Sitting in that lobby, he understood finally what his mother had felt all those years before.
Both of them cried then, feeling the weight of their past and also feeling somehow free from it.
His mother raised four boys in the worst kind of hell America can throw at a family, and Blair has mirrored her devotion and belief.
His children grew up in the city's affluent Carrollton neighborhood.
His daughter graduated from the city's most elite private prep school, the alma mater of Peyton and Eli Manning.
In one generation, the Bouttes had made it to this hotel in Rhode Island.
The next morning, Boutte wore white pants with a pink shirt and a pink pocket square, bucks on his feet -- "looking like a Southern gentleman," he says, smiling -- and the whole family waited on the college green as the seniors marched through the old stone and iron gates.
Red and white balloons floated everywhere.
The graduates came on campus in procession, and Blair looked to find his daughter first in line, holding the sign that read "Brown University.
It was a perfect day, 82 degrees, blue skies.
Most of the time, he just watched his mom take it all in.
The old stone buildings, some of the oldest in an old-money world, rose around them.
You couldn't get farther from the Iberville, and that's what Blair thought about and couldn't articulate: He was watching a family change its arc.
No Boutte would ever live in a housing project again.
And when the ceremony ended, the degrees awarded and the hats thrown, the Bouttes, from the corner of Iberville and Crozat, took out an iPad and cranked up the Rebirth Brass Band.
They made their own Second Line that day, dancing through the crowd, waving hankies embroidered with Elaina Boutte's name.
These women lead hundreds of people behind them through the streets of New Orleans in a roving party known as a "Second Line" parade.
William Widmer for ESPN THERE'S A MAP on the Internet of the city's worst flood before Katrina, in 1849, when a levee ruptured rock casino age limit a sugarcane plantation west of town.
Water rushed in, and if you look at the map of that flood and a map of the areas flooded by Katrina, they are almost the same.
The United States invested millions of dollars, following plans drawn by the best scientific minds of the day, the construction coming at a great cost, both financial and learn more here, and in the end, it didn't matter.
Katrina flooded the same areas, almost down to the block.
The high ground along the banks of the river, raised by a thousand years of floodwaters depositing silt, stayed dry in 1849.
The land farther back, what is now Lakeview, New Orleans East, Chalmette and the Lower 9th Ward -- all that was then empty marshland.
That's how it would have stayed, except that in the 1890s humans created the ability to drain swamps so that more people could build homes and lives.
By 1915, the first phase of the draining project was complete and new neighborhoods grew unchecked until Katrina turned them back into brackish swamps.
But the drainage had an unintended side effect.
As the pipes and pumps drained the water table, the land compacted, and the city began to sink.
Today, almost everyone knows that New Orleans resides below sea level, but very few know that it didn't start that way.
The city and its people, trying to survive and expand, literally sank themselves.
In New Orleans, a place of self-inflicted wounds and unalterable cycles, the past repeats itself over and over, whether in the city's struggles against the water or against the hundreds of murders year after year, all immune to police action and prayer vigils and nonprofit intervention, as constant a threat as the water that surrounds it.
The locations of homicides in New Orleans this year mirror the areas that were flooded after Katrina.
Every murder while he's been in office is in there, with a photograph of the deceased.
One victim, a 5-year-old girl named Briana Allen, lives in a frame on a table in his office.
To understand the city's violence, go now to a different map.
This one shows the location of each murder in 2015.
The heart of Uptown is a big rectangle, bracketed by Napoleon Avenue and South Carrollton Avenue, Freret and Tchoupitoulas.
Inside this enormous swath of bungalows, shotgun shacks and mansions, there have been zero murders.
In the Central Business District, from the Superdome down to the casino, there have been zero murders.
In the French Quarter, there have been two.
Now go to the other New Orleans.
The 5th Police District, which includes parts of the 7th and 9th wards, has long been the toughest assignment for cops.
Daryle Holloway, who rode out Katrina at Charity Hospital with his mother, is stationed there.
The 5th District was home to arguably the worst housing project, Desire, and to the Florida projects, where Holloway bought cereal, milk and eggs for the hungry kids whose brother had been shot.
Clusters of red markers appear on the district's map, each identifying a murder, and here article source come in bunches -- in time and in geography.
Four shootings over the course of one night, then 11 in 11 days.
Four murders within a block or two of Elysian Fields and Claiborne and nearly a dozen in the corridor between St.
Four in the small square formed by St.
Bernard, Claiborne, Elysian Fields and St.
Two dozen and counting in New Orleans East.
This summer, a man got shot two blocks from the New Orleans Country Club in Hollygrove, the go here murder in the city within an hour.
The shooting happened around 5 p.
The dead man was the 93rd murder of the year.
His name was Bradley De'Penis, so obviously he got teased in school.
He was born on a Thursday in 1980.
He died on a Thursday too.
When Steve Gleason blocked that punt, De'Penis was back in the city rebuilding, and three years later, he went to Miami for the Super Bowl.
He left behind a mother and a son.
Three hours later, a 22-year-old named Jermal Jarrell was shot in front of A.
Davis Park off 4th Street in Central City; he died at the hospital.
Some people die in New Orleans without fanfare or public mourning, just names and addresses in a news story, the dead come and gone on B6 in the Metro section, a paragraph, two if they're lucky.
Officer Daryle Holloway policed the dangerous 5th District of New Orleans, which included parts of the 9th Ward, shown here.
George Steinmetz for ESPN ON THE MORNING HE DIED, Officer Holloway arrived for his shift in the 5th District.
A divorced father of three, he'd had a big bowl of Rice Krispies for breakfast.
His first task of the day was transporting a suspect from the precinct to central lockup on South Broad Street.
The suspect, Travis Boys, had somehow hidden a.
Holloway then loaded Boys into the back of a car.
They drove down North Claiborne Avenue.
Nearing the intersection of Elysian Fields, Boys reached the gun through the partition between the front and back seat and fired a single shot that entered on the right side of Holloway's chest and exited the left.
The bullet pierced his heart and lungs.
With Holloway bleeding and the car still moving down North Claiborne, Boys climbed into the front seat through the opening in the partition.
He reached for the passenger door.
Holloway, pumping blood from his wound, grabbed the escaping Boys and held firm with one hand while driving with the other.
Holloway refused to let go, fighting and wrestling with the prisoner in the last moments of his life, bleeding out in the front seat of an NOPD cruiser.
He held tight until he lost consciousness.
Then his fingers went limp and Boys slipped out of the moving vehicle, heading into the 8th Ward on North Claiborne Avenue.
Holloway's body camera recorded the out-of-control transport vehicle crashing into a utility pole outside a Shell station at the corner of Elysian Fields and North Claiborne.
Holloway died a short time later at the hospital.
The morning after the shooting, a Sunday in late June, Holloway's cousin drove down there.
She went to the just click for source pole outside the Shell station where his patrol car came to rest.
She tied two Mylar balloons to the pole.
Both read "Happy Father's Day.
Cops found Boys; uniformed officers saw him in a gas station in the Lower 9th Ward buying a hot sausage po'boy.
The monument grew at the Shell station, people writing messages in marker on the pole, or leaving flowers, stuffed animals or balloons.
The stereo played a sad, funky tune, a perfect and mournful eulogy.
The rain fell hard.
The downpour outside sounded like part of the song, accenting the white spaces.
Juan couldn't turn away, living right around the corner from where Holloway died.
He talked about wanting to move, even a few blocks, above Esplanade, find some breathing room.
Get his kids out of the goddamn shooting gallery.
So many dead in the city, so many dead.
A 1-year-old shot and killed in the arms of her baby sitter.
A 5-year-old girl shot at her 10-year-old cousin's birthday party.
So much rain, washing away nothing.
One of two Mardi Gras Indians at More info Holloway's memorial service.
William Widmer for ESPN SOME TRACES OF WHAT came before cannot be scrubbed away.
They're layered beneath the current iteration of New Orleans, one sprawling metaphysical capital built from the overlapping maps of the past three centuries.
Crackpot locals once devised a plan to rescue Napoleon from exile and bring him to live in the French Quarter; the house they'd planned to give him is now a restaurant.
The house of New Orleans founder Bienville is an insect museum between a Marriott and a Morton's steakhouse.
Mitch Landrieu works on the spot where Louis Armstrong lived as a child, and four blocks from the Shell station where Daryle Holloway lost consciousness is the house where Tom Benson grew up.
The small shotgun at 2127 N.
Johnson is still standing, although thieves stole all the wiring and pipes not long ago.
An old man, Antonio Anderson, lives next door.
He is a Mardi Gras Indian chief.
The Indians started appearing during Mardi Gras in the 1880s, led by Chief Becate of the Creole Wild West tribe.
Their roots lie in Congo Square, across Rampart Street from the French Quarter, where owners allowed their slaves to dance on Sundays.
These dances were the few moments of freedom in a life of bondage, and every Mardi Gras Indian carries the spirit of those enslaved ancestors.
In the brightly colored suits made of shiny stones and feathers, these Indians are not subject to earthly constraints like time.
Elaborate rituals and customs have developed, the spy boys and kc casinos kansas city boys, tribes battling each other, often beset by the police.
Inside Anderson's house, the walls are red and the heat is stifling.
He sits in his chair most days and sews, not far from a framed photo of Barack and Michelle Obama.
After his stroke, he struggles to talk.
He's a chief in a small tribe in the 7th Ward.
Last year's suit is hanging from a wooden stand, green, white and pink feathers, with elaborate beaded grasshoppers and alligators on the headpiece.
Next year's suit is coming together, and he's doing small detail work, running his needle and thread through a cardboard mold he made.
Eventually, the suit will become a peacock.
There's something magical and rare about spotting a Mardi Gras Indian in full regalia, as if the soul of the city has somehow taken on a physical form, the man in the suit a vessel for something old and mysterious.
Parades are not scheduled or announced.
The dancers just appear, mirages almost, envoys from a long-ago city.
When they turn a street corner, shaking pastel feathers and bright flashing beadwork, dancing to a frenetic beat of a brass band, the rhythm that produced horn players and bounce rappers comes alive.
Benson came from the same street as a Mardi Gras Indian, and although he looks frail now, the frenetic energy that drives the Big Chiefs also lives in him, the very same passion that once pulled him out of poverty, giving him the strength and callousness to crush anyone who tried to stop his rise.
Friends and enemies alike agree: Don't fuck with Tom Benson.
The judge in New Orleans this summer ruled he was of sound mind, which isn't a surprise, really.
Disowning family he no longer likes is completely in character.
This latest legal action is exactly something he would have done as a young man, risking the destruction of all he built in pursuit of what he wants.
His final court battle is the fitting end to a life of combat, and to a decade that has seen many things rise, and just as many fall.
Three hundred roller girls, close to 20,000 runners and not a single pair of horns -- photographer Ryan Hodgson-Rigsbee brings alive Running of the Bulls, New Orleans style.
A RELIC FROM Steve Gleason's own fading past is parked outside his house: a 1965 Ford Mustang, black with gold racing stripes, a Saints logo in place of the blue oval on the grille.
You should hear it in the driveway, a 302 bored up to 311, Holley four-barrel carburetor, Edelbrock intake manifold, shifter kit, roller rockers, 300 horsepower.
His grandfather bought it off the San Jose line 50 years ago, Jan.
After his diagnosis, Steve had it turned into a Saints-themed Mustang and sold it to raise money.
Not long ago, the buyer fell on hard times and called the Gleasons, asking if they wanted to buy it back.
Steve told his wife, "I want to buy it and give it to Rivers," their 3-year-old son.
“It doesn't seem mundo casinos mas famosos del be something a 3-year-old should need to learn.
” - Former Saints player Steve Gleason, on telling his son about his ALS They'll get it all fixed and then it will sit there and wait for the boy to turn 16.
Rivers will climb inside and bring the engine to life.
The rumbling block will be a father's whisper from the beyond -- the car a way for Steve to stay in his son's life, one more reminder of the ugly truth that hovers over Gleason's resilience: His health is fragile, and he's aware of his impending extinction.
Not long ago, he talked with a child psychologist about the right time to explain everything to Rivers.
Already he's approaching the edge of an ALS patient's usual life expectancy.
With his access to the greatest care in the world, and the sense of purpose his foundation provides him, he might live a long time.
Stephen Hawking is still alive 52 years after his diagnosis.
Gleason and his caregivers monitor every vital sign carefully, and Steve can tell when something inside his body isn't right.
One of Steve's oldest friends from high school, J.
Ward, picked up the '65 Mustang in Pensacola a day or two ago and drove it back to New Orleans.
They grew up together in Spokane, Washington, hitting the Four Thousand Holes record shop, spending hours discussing the relative merits of Pearl Jam's Atlanta show in 1994 or the Bridge School Benefit later that year.
They're making a playlist for the band's XM channel, and the thing has taken on the scope and seriousness of an invasion plan.
His wife, Michel, puts up a good front but is clearly overwhelmed, visibly stressed.
While Steve works, J.
He's emotional, grappling with watching his friend cry earlier.
Before ALS, he saw Steve cry exactly twice.
Once when they lost a high school football playoff game in double overtime to Eisenhower, and the second time during a baseball game when Steve's father screamed at him while he sat in the dugout.
Now he's watching his friend lose the fight.
Death by ALS is an ugly thing, and people who've seen it kill a family member will inevitably struggle to block out the memory of someone they love begging to die.
After a stop for a beer, J.
The Pearl Jam show that happened just after the levees broke plays on the car's stereo.
He points to his arm.
It was green and blue and magnificent.
They were both young and invincible then, blind to how much could be taken away.
Chris Rose toasts with Paul Sanchez, former lead singer of Cowboy Mouth, outside a bar on Canal Street.
William Widmer for ESPN CHRIS ROSE is going out tonight.
A group of old friends invited him.
Walt Handelsman, the Pulitzer-winning cartoonist who worked at the Picayune, wrote a song about the newspaper staff during the hurricane.
Some other friends were playing -- Paul Sanchez, formerly of the local rock band Cowboy Mouth, and a singer-songwriter named Lynn Drury -- and they'd asked Walt to sing his song.
Standing on the sidewalk outside the club, as traffic passes on Canal Street, Rose postpones the awkward hellos with a cigarette.
He's excited about the show; Drury wrote his favorite Katrina song, "City Life," and he's hoping she'll play it.
Inside, the band covers Bruce Springsteen's "Atlantic City": Everything dies, baby, that's a fact.
But maybe everything that dies someday comes back.
He's wearing a white T-shirt and a black vest, cool in black, leather Skechers.
A bunch of reporters hang out at a table next to the wall.
They all wrap him up in hugs casinos near los angeles airport ask where he's been hiding.
The bar is dark, but people start to notice.
Sanchez tells the story of a hurricane party for Andrew, in 1992, when they all played cards and drank whiskey as the storm blasted the city.
He's got that blue-collar New Orleans accent, the Irish Channel thick on his tongue.
That night, Paul passed out in the pantry and woke up cradling a can of creamed corn and a bottle of scotch.
Outside, he found Rose and some other folks wrestling in the mud.
They were all on mushrooms.
Rose drove a 1963 convertible with the top down through the torrential, sideways, Exodus-style downpour, just tripping his face off, passing cops who just waved.

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The runner who was once saddled with the nickname "bajsmannen" "poop man" finished that 2008 race, the Göteborg half-marathon, in 21st.
Needless to say, he won the race, poopy pants and all.
This Olympic Athlete Who Pooped His Pants During His Race Is A.
Why do you have to poop during or after a run?
I've pooped my pants on a run.
As a long-time runner, I assumed the pains were typical stomach cramps.
Yohann Diniz collapsed on the side of the track shortly after apparently pooping himself mid-walk.
Runner's trots are a real thing, and they're.
A hilarious pic of a marathon runner who end up crapping his pants while running a marathon then keeps on going.
Her children were the first to catch the runner mid-poop, with her pants around her ankles, Cathy Budde said.
Immediately, they ran to get their.
I was watching 16 and Pregnant the other day and had to laugh when this week's mom-to-be said her biggest concern in labor was "pooping at delivery.
Readers, it isn't often that I write about other sports spooky dooky kid casino this space.
Partly because Remy's World is — in theory, anyway — a column about running.
Sometimes, the only thing standing between you and a new PR is that pesky midrace porta-potty break.
And even if it's not a full-on sprint to the.
What the runner's trots can teach us about ourselves.
Yes, grown adults poop their pants.
And when I say poop, I'm not talking about a cute.
One of the greatest mistakes a runner can make on the day of a big race is.
Shartzer, a seasoned runner and pre-race pooping expert, was ashamed to.
TO ME WHEN THERE'S A CHANCE I MAY HAVE SHIT MY PANTS.
Don't worry — not every long-distance runner ends up pooping.
Why Was Everyone Talking About Poop At The NYC Marathon?
Apparently what marathon runners know is that pooping your pants or.
I typed the obligatory "Why do you have to poop so much after you run?
Your Best Friend Jennifer Lawrence Shat Her Pants A Thousand.
The Houston Marathon is on Sunday, with thousands of runners ready to do their utmost and push their bodies to the limit to get a personal best.
I run half marathons for many reasons.
Joe compiles a compendium of the most famous running related poop stories, all true except for one he made up.
Can you determine which.
Happened to the guy I was running with in my last marathon.
What happens if marathon runners feel like to pee during the race?
When running long distances, you all of a sudden feel an extreme urge to poop and if you don't get to a toilet fast, you're probably going to poop your pants.
One of the most annoying issues that can pop up for runners is having to go.
We break down how to avoid having to poop while running.
I feel like the more that I run now, the more chances that I get of encountering a run on a spooky dooky kid casino where my bowels aren't quite so cooperative.
I run 6 days a week.
So, any defecating or pooping that's out of the ordinary might cause you concern.
If you're a runner, you might wonder why being on the go, causes you to go.
Chinese runner shits himself during Shanghai half-marathon, still finishes strong.
Even with the diarrhea weighing him down, he was the fastest.
This very good kid had a simple message for runners to watch out, take stock of their situation, and save their race as well as their pants.
Runners of all levels experience diarrhea and other forms of gastrointestinal distress.
Why is it so common for runners to have runny poop?
The Answer: Emergency pit stops are a common problem for runners on their way to the finish line—and, indeed, sometimes there's no time to.
It's called dedication when a marathon runner craps her pants.
But, it's called disgusting when I crap my pants when out to eat?
Digestive issues while running - runner's diarrhea.
Doesn't Mind Passenger Accidentally Pooping in Car During Traffic Jam.
I can't even imagine how awful it would be to be in the poop-runner's shoes.
Then, if I actually DID crap my pants, I'd pull out of the race so I didn't have to run.
Do runner's really pee in their pants during a race?
An Olympic Speedwalker Appeared to Poop Himself Before.
The Mad Pooper is the nickname given to an unidentified woman in Colorado Springs.
Runner's World magazine ran a story with a headline asking the woman to stop.
Here's why running makes you poop, and what you can do to control it, or prevent it from happening in the first place.
Football Player Takes Cue from Runners, Poops Pants Runner's World WHCA Statement on President's Remarks in Montana.
The science behind your runner's shits.
In other words, athletes poop their pants or shorts far more often than you.
I later learned that human poop is really terrible for the environment, and.
It wasn't like, juice-running-down-my-legs type of shitting my pants.
Video: Olympic Race Walker Poops His Pants, S.
This just seems like a sport that these guys were slow runners so they decided hey I'm.
Florida running back Adam Lane says pooping his pants during Florida's bowl game was "the best thing that could have happened.
The family says it was just the first time it actually caught the runner doing it, but.
Cathy Budde, whose lawn was one of the Pooper's victims canvases?
I am a 29-year-old woman who, just a year and a half ago, pooped my pants while running a marathon.
When Budde went outside she caught a woman, pants down, taking dump a right.
Now the runner poops at least once a week around the.
Justine Kish UFC ladies.
How to Do It: If you have to go while spooky dooky kid casino, it's probably urgent.
Who knew pooping and running go hand in hand?
Mid-run diarrhea, aka runner's trots, is a ~shitty~ drawback a lot of runners deal with.
This Seven-Time Marathoner Gets Candid About Running With Crohn's Disease.
It is my least favorite thing about.
I am a 29-year-old woman who, just a year and a half ago, pooped my pants while running a marathon.
Perhaps you read about it in.
Marathoner Consulta popular ecuador McGregor on Running, Pooping.
OK, most embarrassing running moment.
Pull down your pants in the road.
A family is begging a runner to stop defecating outside their house.
Why are people pooping in public?
Inside the Fascinating Mind of Olympic Runner Alexi Pappas.
Explore and share the best Poop Pants GIFs and most popular animated GIFs here on GIPHY.
Find Funny GIFs, Cute GIFs, Reaction GIFs and more.
Top 15 Athletes Who Pooped Their Pants During Competition.
Even though Lane, a running back for the University of Florida, was named the.
As is the casino pour macon ga with casino hotel south point of the pooping incidents on this list, Cena lost control.
A runner from China has followed in the footsteps of sporting legends Gary Lineker and Paula Radcliffe, pooping himself right in the middle of.
Cathy Budde says her children caught the woman mid-squat with her pants down.
The family says the runner continue to poop and run off.
With Tenor, maker of GIF Keyboard, add popular Poopy Pants animated GIFs to your conversations.
Poop Shit GIF - Poop Shit Diarrhea GIFs.
click the following article more are out because an inherited runner scored, and while a clean inning can apparently include poop in one's pants, its definition.
Looking for the perfect card https://yournaughtystory.com/casino/coconut-casino-in-florida.html congratulate someone running a marathon?
How about congratulating them they didn't poop themselves while running!
Vinney is so excited that he craps his pants.
BIGGEST FEAR WHEN RUNNING: Pooping my pants.
There's not much that's scary about the act of running.
It's right foot, left foot, repeat.
Gary Lineker, an English soccer player, crapped his pants during a World.
Baseball players, football players, marathon runners and NASCAR.
Yoga Farts And Running Poops — Your Most Embarrassing Exercise.
French Olympic race walker Yohan Diniz was on top of his game during the 50 km walk final in Rio Olympics when his own body tried to.
Warning: we are about to get a little closer.
Being running friends means we can talk about things that you normally wouldn't with non-running.
The benefits of trail running are no different for women than theme, vancouver edgewater casino review all are for men.
For gender-neutral advice on how to poop in the woods, see the chapter on Trail.
Pooping your pants as an adult can be one of the most embarrassing moments of your.
So I ended up running to Walmart for some sweats THEY WERE ON.
A running track is pictured in this file photo.
Taken on May 17, 2008.
All rights reserved · Nikon D80.
A Lake Worth man beat a 3-year-old boy who he said "intentionally pooped his pants," according to a Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office arrest report.
So here they are - a huge collection of funny poop jokes.
Second Wave Poop: You're done pooping and you've pulled your pants up to your knees, but.
These are just a few of the places runners we talked to have admitted to, well.
And we don't mean figuratively: Yep, we're talking about poop.
After accidentally fertilizing his pants, he withdrew from the course in shame.
The best runners probably finished about 2:14-these shots were about mile 24.
If I saw this during a race I'd probably pee my pants!
WATCH: Racewalking World Record Holder Yohann Diniz Poops His Pants at.
Diarrhea, or runner's trots, is a concern for athletes, especially.
They are perfect capri pants for women that love their yoga, running or crossfit.
Compilation of girls pooping in her panties On dirtyonline.
A woman runner is caught on security camera relieving herself next to a house in Albuquerque and it's not the first time.
Marathoners pooping while running?
Mile 17: "Don't poop your pants, don't poop your pants.
But my reporting has found that Paulie and Keith, while they are possibly real people from England, are not the source of the infamous poop.
A few weeks ago we put out a call for backpacking poop stories shared.
What is it that sets climbers apart from the skiers, surfers, runners, and.
We all have poop stories spooky dooky kid casino embarrass us to the core, but if you can't face your.
I ended up just running out of the bathroom when that happened without.
So I went on running, uncomfortable and praying that I wouldn't poop my pants.
I modified my route and came to a little strip mall that had an.
Here's how to stay ahead of the dreaded runner's cramps.
It happens to the best of us — even Paula Radcliffe.
In 2005, on her way to winning.
I trained by spending the past couple of months running 50+ miles a week over.
There's no Port-a-potties out there so everyone craps alongside the trail.
Ervin reported that he goes running almost every day around 4 AM, and.
Maybe there's a time that you need to hold in your poop.
Nothing funny or you may have a real accident in your pants.

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The runner who was once saddled with the nickname "bajsmannen" "poop man" finished that 2008 race, the Göteborg half-marathon, in 21st.
Needless to say, he won the race, poopy pants and all.
This Olympic Athlete Who Pooped His Pants During His Race Is A.
Why do you have to poop during or after a run?
I've pooped my pants on a run.
As a long-time runner, I assumed the pains were typical stomach cramps.
Yohann Diniz collapsed on the side of the track shortly after apparently pooping himself mid-walk.
Runner's trots are a real thing, and they're.
A hilarious pic of a marathon runner who end up crapping his pants while running a marathon then keeps on going.
Her children were the first to catch the runner mid-poop, with her pants around her ankles, Cathy Budde said.
Immediately, they ran to get their.
I was watching 16 and Pregnant the other day and had to laugh when this week's mom-to-be said her biggest concern in labor was "pooping at delivery.
Readers, it isn't often that I write about other sports in this space.
Partly because Remy's World is — in theory, anyway — a column about running.
Sometimes, the only thing standing between you and a new PR is that pesky midrace porta-potty break.
And even if it's not a full-on sprint to the.
What the runner's https://yournaughtystory.com/casino/harrahs-reno-casino.html can teach us about ourselves.
Yes, click to see more adults poop their pants.
And when I say poop, I'm not talking about a cute.
One of the greatest mistakes a runner can make on the day of a big race is.
Shartzer, a seasoned runner and pre-race pooping expert, was ashamed to.
TO ME WHEN THERE'S A CHANCE I MAY HAVE SHIT MY PANTS.
Don't worry — not every long-distance runner ends up pooping.
Why Was Everyone Talking About Poop At The NYC Marathon?
Apparently what marathon runners know is that pooping your pants or.
I typed the obligatory "Why do you have to poop so much after you run?
Your Best Friend Jennifer Lawrence Shat Her Pants A Thousand.
The Houston Marathon is on Sunday, with thousands of runners spooky dooky kid casino to do their utmost and push their bodies to the limit to get a personal best.
I run half marathons for many reasons.
Joe compiles a compendium of the most famous running related poop stories, all true except for one he made up.
Can you determine which.
Happened to the guy I was running with in my last marathon.
What happens if marathon runners feel like to pee during the race?
When running long distances, you all of a sudden feel an extreme urge to poop and if you don't get to a toilet fast, you're probably going to poop your pants.
One of the most annoying issues that can pop up for runners is having to go.
We break down how to avoid spooky dooky kid casino to poop while running.
I feel like the more that I run now, the more chances that I get of encountering a run on a day where my bowels spooky dooky kid casino quite so cooperative.
So, any defecating or pooping that's out of the ordinary might cause you concern.
If you're a runner, you might wonder why being on the go, causes you to go.
Chinese runner shits himself during Shanghai half-marathon, still finishes strong.
Even with the diarrhea weighing him down, he was the fastest.
This very good kid had a simple message for runners to watch out, take stock of their situation, and save their race as well as their pants.
Runners of all levels experience diarrhea and other forms of gastrointestinal distress.
Why is it so common for runners to have runny poop?
The Answer: Emergency pit stops are a common problem for runners on their way to the finish line—and, indeed, sometimes there's no time to.
It's called dedication when a marathon runner craps her pants.
But, it's called disgusting when I crap my pants when out to eat?
Digestive issues while running - runner's diarrhea.
Doesn't Mind Passenger Accidentally Pooping in Car During Traffic Jam.
I can't even imagine how awful it would be to be in the poop-runner's shoes.
Then, if I actually DID crap my pants, Go here pull out of the race so I didn't have to run.
Do runner's really pee in their pants during a race?
An Olympic Speedwalker Appeared to Poop Himself Before.
According to Deadspin, he shoved "a sponge down his pants to soak up wet.
The Mad Pooper is the nickname given to an unidentified woman in Colorado Springs.
Runner's World magazine ran a story with a headline asking the woman to stop.
Here's why running makes you poop, and what you can do to control it, or prevent it from happening in the first place.
texas star casino Player Takes Cue from Runners, Poops Pants Runner's World WHCA Statement on President's Remarks in Montana.
The science see more your runner's shits.
In other words, athletes poop their pants or shorts far more often than you.
I later learned that human poop is really terrible for the environment, and.
It wasn't like, juice-running-down-my-legs type of shitting my pants.
Video: Olympic Race Walker Poops His Pants, S.
This just seems like a sport that article source guys were slow runners so they decided hey I'm.
Florida running back Adam Lane says pooping his pants during Florida's bowl game was "the best thing that could have happened.
The family says it was just the first time it actually caught the runner doing it, but.
Cathy Budde, whose lawn was one of the Pooper's victims canvases?
I am a 29-year-old woman who, just a year and a half ago, pooped my pants while running a marathon.
When Budde went outside she caught a woman, pants down, taking dump a right.
Now the runner poops at least once a week around the.
Justine Kish UFC ladies.
How to Do It: If you have to go while running, it's probably urgent.
Who knew pooping and running go hand in hand?
Mid-run diarrhea, aka runner's trots, is a ~shitty~ drawback a lot of runners deal with.
This Seven-Time Marathoner Gets Candid About Running With Crohn's Disease.
It is my least favorite thing about.
I am a 29-year-old woman who, just a year and a half ago, pooped my pants while running a marathon.
Perhaps you read about it in.
Marathoner Katie McGregor on Running, Pooping.
OK, most embarrassing running moment.
Pull down your pants in the road.
A family is begging a runner to stop defecating outside their house.
Why are people pooping in public?
Inside the Fascinating Mind of Olympic Runner Alexi Pappas.
Explore and share the best Poop Pants GIFs and most popular animated GIFs here on GIPHY.
Find Funny GIFs, Cute GIFs, Reaction GIFs and more.
Top 15 Athletes Who Pooped Their Pants During Competition.
Even though Lane, a running back for the University of Florida, was named the.
As is the case with many of the pooping incidents on this list, Cena lost control.
A runner from China has followed in the footsteps of sporting legends Gary Lineker and Paula Radcliffe, pooping himself right in the middle of.
Cathy Budde says her children caught the woman mid-squat with her pants down.
The family says the runner continue to poop and run off.
With Tenor, maker of GIF Keyboard, add popular Poopy Pants animated GIFs to your conversations.
Poop Shit GIF - Poop Shit Diarrhea GIFs.
Two more are out because an inherited runner scored, and while a clean inning can apparently include poop in one's pants, its definition.
Looking for the perfect card to congratulate someone running a marathon?
How about congratulating them they didn't poop themselves while running!
Vinney is so excited that he craps his pants.
BIGGEST FEAR WHEN RUNNING: Pooping my pants.
There's not much that's scary about the act of running.
It's right foot, left foot, repeat.
Gary Lineker, an English soccer player, crapped his pants during a World.
Baseball players, football players, marathon runners and NASCAR.
Yoga Farts And Running Poops — Your Most Embarrassing Exercise.
French Olympic race walker Yohan Diniz was on top of his game during the 50 km walk final in Rio Olympics when his own body tried to.
Warning: we are about to get a little closer.
Being running friends means we can talk about things that you normally wouldn't with non-running.
The benefits of trail running are no different for women than they are for men.
For gender-neutral advice on how to poop in the woods, see the chapter on Trail.
Pooping your pants as an adult https://yournaughtystory.com/casino/mohegan-sun-casino-in-ct-address.html be one of the most embarrassing moments of your.
So I ended up running to Walmart for some sweats THEY WERE ON.
A running track is pictured in this file photo.
Taken on Spooky dooky kid casino 17, 2008.
All rights reserved · Nikon D80.
A Lake Worth man beat a 3-year-old boy who he said "intentionally pooped his pants," according to a Palm Beach County Sheriff's Office arrest report.
So here they are - a huge collection of funny poop jokes.
Second Wave Poop: You're done pooping and you've pulled your pants up to your knees, but.
These are just a few of the places runners we talked to have admitted to, well.
And we don't mean figuratively: Yep, we're talking about poop.
After accidentally fertilizing his pants, he withdrew from the course in shame.
The best runners probably finished about 2:14-these shots were about mile 24.
If I saw this during a race I'd probably pee my pants!
WATCH: Racewalking World Record Holder Yohann Diniz Poops His Pants at.
Diarrhea, or runner's trots, is a concern for athletes, especially.
They are perfect capri pants for women that love their yoga, running or crossfit.
Compilation of girls pooping in her panties On dirtyonline.
A woman runner is caught on security camera relieving herself next to a house in Albuquerque and it's not the first time.
Marathoners pooping while running?
Mile 17: "Don't poop your pants, don't poop your pants.
But my reporting has found that Paulie and Keith, while they are possibly real people from England, are not the source of the infamous poop.
A few https://yournaughtystory.com/casino/harrahs-casino-kansas-city-mo-phone-number.html ago we put out a call for backpacking poop stories shared.
What is it that sets climbers apart from the skiers, surfers, runners, and.
We all have poop stories that embarrass us to the core, but if you can't face your.
I ended up just running out of the bathroom when that happened without.
So I went on running, uncomfortable and praying that I wouldn't poop my pants.
I modified my route and came to a little strip mall that had an.
Here's how to stay ahead of the dreaded runner's cramps.
It happens to the best of us — even Paula Radcliffe.
In 2005, on her way to winning.
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There's no Port-a-potties out there so everyone craps alongside the trail.
Ervin reported that he goes running almost every day around 4 AM, and.
Maybe there's a time that you need to hold in your poop.
Nothing funny or you may have a real accident in your pants.

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Wright Thompson on life, loss and renewal in New Orleans 10 years after Hurricane Katrina
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