NEW ORLEANS — As I passed through (and set off) the metal detector at Greater Rochester International Airport around 5:30 a.m. last Friday, Leon from Air Tran extended a fist to mine and told me to ‘bring it home.’

I promised I would.

Come Tuesday, strolling up the Gate B9 jetway, who was there to greet my roommate and I but Air Tran’s everyday man, Leon Davis, Jr.

‘You brought it home,’ he proclaimed, ready to thump chests. ‘You brought it home.’

Instantly, I felt I’d let Leon down. Sure, they, the Syracuse Orangemen, had brought it home. Me, I’d brought home one brand new, unworn Syracuse basketball T-shirt (‘anti-fan’ journalists who don’t storm the court cannot jump on bandwagons), a replica Bourbon Street street sign, a Big Easy tank top, two boxes of Caf du Monde beignet mix and some beads that, regrettably, never changed hands.

Since I offered none of this to him, Leon definitely deserved better. At the very least, a first-hand account of Final Four weekend in New Orleans. Consider this in the mail.

Dear Leon,

Allow me to pick things up a few thousand feet above Lake Pontchartrain around 11 p.m. Friday. I chat up a New Orleans attorney in the next seat.

Curious, he asks what industries there are in Syracuse. I tell him we used to make salt.

He asks what types of restaurants we have and what the specialty cuisine is. Now I feel really inadequate. I tell him the pasta isn’t bad in Armory Square.

This is interrupted when a beautiful woman passes by our seats. My attorney friend asks whether I’ve brought along my girlfriend. No, I say.

‘Good call,’ he lauds. ‘You don’t bring sand to the beach.’

Saturday

Turning from Canal Street to Bourbon Street, the morning-after air — a mixture of beer, urine and humidity — is unparalleled and unbearable.

Breakfast, at 2:30 p.m., is a pina colada and pizza at Daiquiri Delite Bar, a cheery open-air establishment serving up frozen everything. Fellow patrons who’ve been indulging since 9 a.m. opt for stiffer mixtures, like ‘190 Antifreeze,’ a colorful, benevolent-looking mixture masking the active ingredient — Everclear (a 95-percent grain alcohol banned in New York State).

Kansas whoops Marquette by 37, and it easily could be more. Classy Kansas fans serenade their Jayhawks with a rendition of ‘Rock, Chalk, Jayhawk, KU.” We understand not a word of it. If you feel compelled to be weirded out, visit http://fightmusic.com. (You really should visit this site anyway.)

SU wins going away. In the frenzied concourse outside Section 641, a student spins me around. ‘Snow,’ he declares. ‘If we win Monday, you’re rushing the court.’

We coast down Bourbon Street, which is awash in celebration. Texas fans, who are all about 6 feet, 6 inches, congratulate us on a game well played and wonder why their team couldn’t ‘guard y’all.’ I tell ’em that y’all has averaged 80 points and 40 rebounds and is damn near unstoppable.

We see Craig Forth, Jeremy McNeil, Billy Edelin and Carmelo Anthony on Bourbon Street. ‘Melo turns down high-five requests, saying, ‘Saving the hand for Monday, man. Saving the hand.’

Sunday

We eat breakfast at noon in Jackson Square only because you really should not begin the day with beignets, the French donuts that resemble fried dough. By 2 p.m., we are chowing down on a batch of beignets (three for $1.37) outdoors at Caf du Monde. A man of about 60 strolls by, wearing a T-shirt that reads: “If a man speaks in a forest where no woman can hear, is he still wrong?” Our eyes meet. No words need be exchanged. He nods and twice says, “Yes.”

From there, we drift to Howl at the Moon, a piano bar at 135 Bourbon St. that has become our favorite hangout. Consider that its hours are listed as ‘4:00 p.m. – ?’

‘Closing times vary,’ the bar’s Web site explains, ‘since we are not required by law to have any.’

Six regular piano men run the show and a brilliant business. Patrons write their requests on napkins and attach a denomination of money. The higher the amount, the higher the song’s priority. Twenty bucks buys one guy a Neil Young song. Twenty-one dollars 30 seconds later is enough to get the band to stop playing the song.

The truly brilliant moneymaker is a white dry-erase board and a marker. Band members take bids for a word of the day, which they announce after every song. It can be a team name, location, person, anything. Once posted, only a higher bid can unseat it.

During the afternoon, ‘Philly in the House’ holds fast for $101. Then, in a period of 20 minutes, the bar makes about $600. ‘Arizona’ lands on the board for $111. It lasts one minute. Some guys pay $122 for ‘Ohio Buckeyes.’ This is gone faster than middle-age men’s dignity on Bourbon Street. Fans from Bloomington put up $160 for ‘Indiana.’ All this occurs before another song has begun.

One song later, Philly is back in the house, and back on the board for $191. Brotherly love and a little booze nets the bar $292 from the same table.

Piano man Jacob ‘The Bald Guy’ Prell said the musicians netted $2,798 the night before. Split four ways, the performers brought home $699.50 apiece. Had it not been for a 4:15 a.m. donnybrook between Marquette faithful and Jayhawk fans, the loot might have been more. The word of the day board reached $420.

Monday

To get revved up, we seek out Syracuse’s home base at the Marriott. I run into walk-on Ronneil Herron, who, with his straw hat, looks ready to cattle ranch. I congratulate him on the game and tell him I can’t believe how far he’s fallen, writing for the D.O. all of last week. In typical Herron fashion, he calls it a pleasure.

A torrential rainstorm around 5 p.m. floods the streets and creates a low tide washing up the sidewalks. The weather, coupled with the fact that the Louisiana Superdome is larger than Delaware, makes scalping a buyer’s market.

At 6 p.m., a scalper offers me a ticket for face value, $60. I tell him no thanks. He suggests we go down to $40. By 7 p.m., tickets can be had for $20. At 7:45, you could reach into your pocket, pull out the smallest bill you had and buy a seat comparable in location to the seats Syracuse students camped out for in 20-degree weather. Five dollars definitely would have gotten you in. I regret not trying to buy one for $1.

Syracuse runs its first-half lead up to 18, 11 at halftime. A kid in front of me gets a call from his roommate. Konrad’s, we are erroneously told, has burned to the ground.

Around 10:30 Louisiana time, Hakim Warrick comes out of nowhere to swat away a Michael Lee 3-pointer. Students, previously biting lips, nails and clothes, burst into euphoria, a blur of noise, hugs, kisses and flailing arms.

The chanting begins:

‘One more year.’

‘Big 12 champs.’

‘The Bills Are Next.’

Someone flashes a sign: ‘Suddenly, Boeheim’s Smarter.’

Temporarily mesmerized by the “One Shining Moment” video, my roommate and I book it to the car. Our flight is the first one out of Tallahassee, and we have a six-hour drive ahead of us.

Tearing down the endless ramps to street level, a Syracuse student flags me down.

‘Hey Snow,’ he yells. ‘Where ya going?’

‘Rushing the court,’ I respond.

Now, a piece of that I should have brought home.

Chris Snow is a staff writer at The Daily Orange, where his column appears on Thursdays. E-mail him at [email protected].

Published on April 9, 2003 at 12:00 pm