Aaron Brooks and I were walking out of a service tunnel at FedEx Field Sunday afternoon, headed toward the team bus -- exhausted, Brooks leaned heavily on me as we walked, which was at once endearing and at the same time made me feel a bit like the kid in those Mean Joe Greene Coke commercials -- when the Saints QB noticed coach Jim Haslett 15 feet ahead of us and decided to have a little fun.

The blond hair. The crisp blue oxford. The confident gait of a former NFL linebacker who could probably still take the field in a pinch. No question, it was Haslett.

"So you want the dirt on Haslett?" Brooks asked loudly.

What the heck, I thought, I'll play along.

"Yeah, I want to know what it's like to play for a team where the quarterback is so good and the coaching is sooooo bad," I hollered down the hallway, overacting like some daytime soap hack.

Haslett turned around slowly, glancing back with fire in his eyes like the bad guy in a horror movie, about to pounce.

Gulp.

Holy shnikies.

	30 Second Column
	I had hoped for rain all weekend here in North Carolina. They can't race at nearby Lowes Motor Speedway if it rains. And if they can't race that means no one else will be killed. Last Wednesday Eric Martin, a rookie in the ARCA series died in a horrific practice-session wreck at LMS. According to an outstanding investigation by The Charlotte Observer, Martin, 33, who is survived by his wife and two children, is the eighth person to die at LMS since 1990, making this cement cemetery the deadliest track over the past 12 years. The Observer also found that at least 295 people have died in auto racing since 1990, including 25 this year alone. A few days after Martin's death, city leaders in Kannapolis, N.C., planned to unveil a 9-foot, 900-pound statue of the late Dale Earnhardt. It was a nice gesture but I wish this "sport" would put as much effort into saving its drivers as it does memorializing them. Until then I'll keep hoping for rain.
	The Flemister File
	Wherein we follow the exploits of FlemFile mascot and Washington TE Zeron Flemister: It was a tough day for everyone wearing the burgundy and gold on Sunday, but particularly for our man ZFlem. Veteran tight end Walter Rasby is now at full speed and he played most of the snaps against the Saints. When he was in the game New Orleans did such a good job of disrupting Patrick Ramsey with a four-man rush that the passing zones ZFlem normally flourishes in were flooded. The result? No catches. No passes. Seven sacks allowed. Four picks. And lots of standing and watching from the sidelines. Most players head toward midfield after the game to shake hands with old buddies and former teammates -- not ZFlem. He marched by himself straight to the tunnel, pulling his helmet over his face to hide his anguish. He was the first Redskin off the field. "It's a long season," he says. "You know there is going to be frustration. When that happens you have to try and stay focused and not worry about all the other stuff or it will get worse." Judging by Sunday, though, it can't.
	The Flem Five
	Top five worst sounds heard inside the open-air press box at FedEx Field: 5. GIT YER BUD LIGHT HeeeeRe-UH! 4. Play That Funky Music White Boy. This was the cue for the dance troupe The Funky 4 who performed the most horrendous dancing exhibition I've seen since my brother Greg cut the rug at my wedding. 3. Play-by-play action piped inside the men's room. 2. The sickening thud of the Saints' Charlie Clemons crushing Patrick Ramsey. 1. Five beered-up guys singing the Redskins fight song over and over again "Hammm pooo da reskins! Hammm pooo da cheese!"
	WHYLO of the Week
	Talk about your FlemFlattery. Wow. Almost 800 emails came in response to last week's essay on Emmitt Smith. Nick Carzoli writes, "I think this article should be inscribed in some sort of Hall of Fame." Victor Ramirez says, "Flem, you just made me cry." (Oh stop it no go on.) Dennis Meade writes, "This piece is probably the best written article I have ever read in all my life with respect to sports." Says Kevin Lockamy, "You have to be the best sportswriter on the face of the Earth. Anyone who can squeeze in the greatest running back in the world (Emmitt Smith) and the greatest band in the world (The Smiths) on the same page, has to be one hell of a writer." Of course there was also a healthy smattering of emails titled, "Dear Dipsh-t"; "Dear Moron" and, my personal fav: "Dear Mrs. Emmitt Smith." For pure buffoonery, however, they didn't come close to beating out, well, me. In most columns I make a mention of my Lil' Redhawks from Miami University. Last week MU crushed their 100-year rival Cincinnati, 31-26 to keep The Victory Bell ringing in dear old Oxford for yet another season. I, however, forgot to acknowledge this and the football gods seem to have cursed MU. On Saturday the Lil' Redhawks blew a 20-point lead and a MAC record 41 completions and 525 yards passing by Ben Roethlisberger to lose to Northern Illinois, 48-41. I understand if the folks at Miami want me to turn in my letter jacket. Hopefully, this will be punishment enough and it seems better than sending myself a hate email. But I do feel a bit like Dr. Moreau now that my WHYLO creation has turned against me. So here it is: Hey, Flem, Who Helped You Log On?
	Flem Gems
	While eating lunch with Michael Vick on Friday I noticed that he passed on the venison they were cooking outside at the Falcons Flowery Branch practice facility. D.C. Thought No. 1: I'd be lying if I said the sniper scenario did not cross my mind several times as I made my way to my rental car outside FedEx Field but all in all I was extremely pleased that hope reigned over fear -- at least on Sunday. Another sign that Emmitt Smith is getting old: when asked about the Panthers defense he said they've been "kicking booty". No Doubt's new reggae song Underneath it All tells me there's hope still for pop music. DCT No. 2: Ron Jaworski wears American flag cufflinks. Want to feel really short and ugly? Stand next to Venus Williams, who was on one of my flights last week. DCT No. 3: The Redskins play in the first quarter Sunday was the worst I've seen a team execute in a long, long time. And remember, I've attended a Bengals game this year. It's possible that I'm addicted to playing roller hockey. The Falcons' practice facility is so far north of the city that I think wild throws and punts sometimes land on the Titans fields. For an audio version of The FlemFile tune into ESPN Radio's GameDay with Jack Arute -- and occasionally yours truly. Last week a listener added "Faulk Ewe" to the Rams' FlemFile Five. Is there a former QB working the TV booth who isn't an apologist for even the worst QB on the field? Had a very insightful conversation this week with Panther phenom Mike Rucker. Before the season his wife and mother predicted he'd get 10 sacks. He might get that by Halloween. Finally, someone who is a worse prognosticator than me. DCT No. 4: Don't know if satellite radio is any good or not but the commercials rule. Snoop Dog comes crashing through the roof of an office building, dusts himself off and says "Sup, foo?" to the workers. When I got home Sunday night I greeted Kim with a nod and a "Sup foo?" To be honest, she really didn't seem to care for it. This column was written while listening to the Beastie Boys masterpiece Paul's Boutique.

My 7th grade homeroom teacher, Mr. Hamilton, promised me that one day I'd pay for my sarcasm with a terrible misunderstanding, and it was finally coming to pass.

But just as I was about to take cover behind Brooks (I would claim later to be getting in position to chop-block the charging Haslett) the coach smiled a wry grin and yelled, "I should have known. What are you two guys doing back there?"

Whew. For a second, I got to experience the moment of fear that QBs like Terry Bradshaw must have experienced back in Haslett's day. Or what poor Patrick Ramsey must have felt like after being planted, corkscrewed, head-slapped, crunched, bent backwards, snapped sideways and Beetle Baileyed all afternoon by the Saints' suffocating and merciless D.

And at that moment I knew it was true.

Before the season they were written off for dead -- just like in those B horror movies. As Halloween approaches (by the way, I'm going as Bono and baby Oop is dressing up as The Edge) they have risen out of the murky N'awlins swamp and are once again stalking the pretty-boy QBs and visor-wearers of the NFL.

No one is safe. Hide the kids. Lock your doors. In New Orleans this season it's …screech … flash…da-DADADA ... The Return of the Swamp Thing.

And in this movie you root for the monster.

Take your hands away from your face and look at this Dr. Frankenstein roster of castoffs, has-beens, diehards and gutter flowers. Brooks had been buried on the Packers depth chart until a trade and offensive coordinator Mike McCarthy brought him back to life. Return man Michael Lewis, who took two to the house Sunday, has no college experience, grew up in a section of New Orleans called The Dump and used to drive a beer truck. (Last year his story inspired me to write the most powerful three-word sentence in the English language: I like beer.)

Kyle Turley, the human ink blotter, has to be the nicest crazy man I've ever met. Wideout Joe Horn once worked in a sofa factory, and it had been so long since fellow receiver Jake Reed caught a touchdown pass that on Sunday he asked teammates to knock the dust off him after scoring on a 31-yard pass in the fourth quarter.

These misfits are all that's left after an off-season purge of superstars like La'Roi Glover, Joe Johnson, Ricky Williams, Willie Roaf and GM Randy Mueller. I know what the Saints did last summer: by gutting their roster, which had been plagued by infighting and persnickety stars, they returned to their junkyard dog mentality.

"This feels like 2000 again," says defensive tackle Norman Hand, referring to the team's run to the second round of the playoffs two seasons ago. (By the way, at 310 pounds, Hand can get away with wearing a baby blue pinstriped suit like he did on Sunday. Talk about scary.) "It's all about heart. We don't go by Pro Bowls here. Heck, half the people there [in Hawaii] shouldn't be there anyway."

And so, in a league where the parity of talent is almost absurd, New Orleans has pulled off the greatest example of addition by subtraction by focusing on the kinds of things money still can't buy -- heart, emotion, chemistry, good old cajun scrappiness. Want proof? The Saints are 14-6 on the road under Haslett, second only to the Eagles since 2000.

"We revamped some of the personnel," says Haslett. "We wanted to weed out some of the people we thought weren't our type of players. By the process of elimination we ended up getting some better character and some better players. This is a crazy business."

What I think he means is, you must be nuts to want to play quarterback against them. Ramsey, the poor bastard, was assaulted on almost every play. The first time he dropped back, linebacker Charlie Clemons hit him so hard the sickening thud made all 80,000 people in the stands collectively cringe. I don't think he knew where he was for the entire first quarter. He was picked off four times. He released more ducks than the SPCA. Sacked seven times, he finished with a 42.8 QB rating (you get 40 points for not tying your cleats together).

As time wound down, at one point Hand almost tackled the gutsy but overmatched rook by the ears. These guys, I swear, they'd do this for free. And they are as funny as they are ferocious. Later I slid up to the big guy and, real quiet-like asked him, "Be honest Norman, you guys really like, really enjoy beating people up, don't you?"

"Well, the QB was like a sitting duck back there," said Norman. (Okay, am I overdoing the horror movie theme just a bit?) "This is our forte, pinning your ears back and going after that guy. On Monday mornings it feels good to know the other team is going to be real sore. Yeah, it's definitely fun."

After the game Ramsey ran off the field, worried perhaps that they might make him play some more. Everything -- thigh pads, socks, chin strap -- seemed to have been knocked or twisted out of place. His uni was soaked. It was caked in dirt, particularly on the back, and so grass-stained it almost looked mossy.

The evidence was overwhelming.

He had been attacked by … screech…flash…da-DADADA …The Swamp Thing.

David Fleming is a senior writer for ESPN The Magazine. E-mail him at FlemFile@carolina.rr.com. But watch out -- you could be the WHYLO of the Week.