For years in the Crescent City, nothing was more anticipated than Peter Finney’s annual prediction column.
The only thing that came close: At the end of every year, the same joker would send Pete a copy of said column, with everything he got wrong carefully marked through in the same blue ink.
Imitation being the sincerest form of flattery, I did a Saints prediction column at this time last year. And, sure enough, a few days later there was an email promising to keep a running tally on how much we got right and how much we got wrong.