It’s not fair. Even as I hear the ghost-voice of my dad tell me that life is not fair, I stand by my statement. It is not fair that the Saints are bad again. It’s not fair to me.

No team in the history of sports — heck, in the history of man — has been as consistently inept as the New Orleans Saints. And I’d wager that no fan has been as doggedly loyal to such a terrible team as yours truly.

I collected professional football cards my youth. I especially collected Saints cards. Imagine the glee of fellow collectors when I’d happily trade that Barry Sanders rookie for two John Tices, a John Forcade and a Dave Wilson.

I knew the book value of those cards, just as I knew their real value. Even though the book says a card is worth $20, I dare you to find a card shop that hands you a $20 bill. But more than that, I knew what those Saints cards meant to me, a true fan.

My love for the Saints was nearly equaled by my hatred for the San Francisco 49ers. The 49ers foiled every attempt the Saints had at legitimacy, and they made it look easy.

I wouldn’t even trade my 49ers cards. I destroyed them. Ronnie Lott ($15) — torn in half. Jerry Rice ($25) — burned. Joe Montana ($40) — Joe I took my time with.

No other individual was more responsible for the Saints’ — and my — misery in the 1980s than Joe Montana. I’d wait until Joe was about to take a vicious blind-side hit before I ripped his card apart, hoping that some of the voodoo curse that had obviously afflicted the Saints for decades would permeate the San Francisco line and finally give that Notre Dame pretty boy what he had coming to him.

Move forward 15 years or so. Things are good (as good as they get, anyway) for Saints fans. We have hard-nosed, no-nonsense and proven head coach Mike Ditka at the helm. We won six games last season, and showed marked improvement. We’re on the verge.

To make things even better, we get a good draft pick.

NFL draft day was a cold one in northwestern Pennsylvania. My friends, both Eagles fans, depended as much on this first-round pick as I did. They got Syracuse prodigy Donovan McNabb, and were pleased. I was anxious.

Then, with rumors flying faster than trades and picks, a block-buster deal was announced — for the low, low price of two years’ worth of picks, we got Heisman-winner and NCAA all-time leading rusher Ricky Williams. Ditka proudly proclaimed that Ricky was the key, the missing piece of the puzzle, the last element of his Super Bowl team.

What was three guys drinking beer watching the draft soon became a party. In what I considered a pre-party to the Super Bowl party I would surely throw in January, I called everyone I knew, bought a keg and fired up the grill.

I went to Radio Shack that afternoon and bought a satellite, only to watch every Saints game I could.

You know how this story ends. Ricky’s injuries, 3-13 record, Ditka kicked to the curb.

As is the curse of a Saints fan, I got excited with the Saints’ pick-ups in the offseason. Analysts said it was the most brilliant use of free-agency in the history of the sport. They said the Saints might have put a pretty good team together.

Imagine my delight at sitting in the press box preparing to cover my first Saints game, especially with the high hopes such predictions had given me.

Jeff Blake fumbled the ball on the Saints’ first offensive play from scrimmage.

I added my voice to the thousands of boos and jeers.

&uot;It’s not fair,&uot; I said.

Nick Adams is sports editor at The Democrat. He can be reached at (601) 445-3632, or by e-mail at nick.adams@natchezdemocrat.com.