It’s not often that the average man gets a chance to be a hero, but with the well-above-average crime element in the city of New Orleans, the old football saying applies: “On any given Sunday…”

To begin with, I was driving the wrong way on a one-way along the side of the Breaux Mart on Magazine. It was a very early 10 in the morning for Johnny Valentine, because the night before had been filled with the usual “Happy Saturday” mix of drugs and alcohol. Your hero was looking (not to mention feeling) pretty rough.

As I was slowly cruising up the side of the grocery store, I saw it. “It” was an old, dirty bastard (not the original O.D.B., of course, but…). This fat, sweaty (not sweetie), holes-in-his-blue-T-shirt, smellin’-like-he-took-a-bath-in-warm-beer-and-dog-sh–t lookin’ ass on the wrong side of 50 was in a full sprint around the corner of the store.

A couple of seconds later, another portly, 50-year-old man wearing a Drew Brees jersey came around the same corner, screaming, “Help! That guy just stole my wallet!”

Something inside me clicked. I was running on pure instinct now, and this O.D.T. (Old Dirty Thief) wasn’t going to get away from me today.

I threw my truck in reverse and zoomed the “correct” way down the one-way, running even with the O.D.T. I pulled just a little bit ahead and cut the wheel, blocking his path. He slammed into the front driver’s side fender and spun around to the front of the truck.

As he looked up at me through the windshield, I could see the fear in his eyes. Once he saw my truck and all of the damage it managed to acquire under my seven years of ownership, he knew he was f–ked. At that moment, he knew, just as well as I know, that I would wreck my truck to prove a point. And this was certainly one of those point-proving moments.

In a flash, I was out of the truck and pursuing the suspect on foot. I could hear the heavy breathing and snorting of the fat piece of sh–t as I gained ground on him. I couldn’t believe this guy really thought he was going to get away on foot! He should’ve thought about having a getaway car, or a getaway bicycle at the very least.

But unfortunately for him, he didn’t have an escape vehicle besides his dirty Adidas high tops. And those weren’t outrunning my Nikes.

A few short seconds later, I was on the culprit’s back, riding him to the ground. He stumbled for about ten feet before he took a face plant on the concrete. I’m sure the last thing running through his mind as he cushioned my fall with his 230-lb ass was, “Just living in the city is a serious task. The bitch didn’t know what hit her, didn’t have time to ask.” – Ice T

In the next instant, Garden District security guards were pinning the criminal down, and I was back in my truck.

I pulled into the parking lot and went into the Breaux Mart to grab a bottle of juice. I overheard a conversation in the check-out aisle next to me: “What’s all that commotion going on outside?”

“Oh,” the clerk replied. “Some old man was checking out and he left his wallet on the counter. Then, this other guy snatched it up and took off running. They must’ve caught him.”

True story. Happy Friday. Go Tigers!