The noise on Sunday, the screaming, the explosions, the sounds of bodies slamming against one another, was far different than those terrible days four-and-a-half years ago when the inside of the Louisiana Superdome edged precipitously close to the lawlessness and terror of Mad Max's Thunderdome.

Last Sunday, there were no wails of anguish, no shrieks of terror, no cries for help, any help, anyone, please, help, help us!!

There were no rending crashes as whole sections of the roof were ripped away as if by God's own celestial can-opener. No rain poured down, drowning hope and humanity beneath it.

No, about the worst thing that happened this Sunday was an overtime period gone haywire because of a little too much enthusiasm from the replay booth.

Other than that, Sunday's game between the Saints and the Vikings gave us all that we wanted: an epic shootout between two once-discarded quarterbacks, a back and forth emotional slugfest that left even the team captains sucking wind during the coin flip before overtime.

Adrian Peterson burst back on the scene after having largely disappeared over the last two months. His once-in-a-generation combination of speed, guile and sheer, freakish power was on full display. So, sadly, was his penchant for coughing up the ball. His three stomping, romping, bulling touchdowns were things to behold, especially the first. But jeepers-creepers, that guy has about the worst case of fumble-itis ever. And Brad Childress, the lemon-sucking fun-vacuum of a head coach of the Vikings, just kept giving him the ball.

Let's be honest, though, and let's be fair. Peterson, even with the fumbles, didn't give this game away. That sad and sorry weight rests squarely on the shoulders of Brett Favre, and he knows it. It's not fair, it never is, but the quarterback that gets the praise all season for being the difference-maker gets saddled with the crushing burden of responsibility when he throws the kind of interception Favre did with the game on the line, the kind he's so carefully avoided all season, the game under control in the closing seconds and a shot at a makeable field goal right there for the taking. Was the field goal a gimme? Of course not, and especially not this post-season. But if you give me a choice between trying to kick that game-winning field goal in the closing seconds or just brain-locking a gift-wrapped interception to the other guys and taking my chances on a coin flip to start overtime? Chuck the rock out of bounds.

In Indy, the results were expected even if the J-E-T-S, Jets, Jets, Jets did make everyone just a little nervous for most of the first half. Mark Sanchez played with the poise nobody gave him credit for, the defense did their best to storm the castle of the Colts offensive backfield, and, for that first half anyway, lots of us thought this might really be the second coming of Broadway Joe.

Reality made a late entrance with 1:13 left in the half when Manning hit Austin Collie with a 16-yard strike and you could sense a shift, not in momentum so much, though there was some of that, but there seemed a sense that Manning had figured it out, that the pieces had dropped into place, that what he saw across the line from him was no longer confusing him, no longer confounding him, no longer stymieing him and that knowledge bolstered the confidence of his Colts and drained it, slowly but inexorably, out of the Jets.

That's Manning's greatest gift, what he's worked so hard to perfect: the ability to break the cipher presented by whatever defense you line up against him within the time allotted him. He presses and probes, finding the weaknesses and seizing upon them, bleeding the hope and confidence from opponents.

If the Jets had played a perfect game, would it have been enough? We'll never know.

Jay Feely uncharacteristically shanked two field goals, but they weren't the kind that Nate Kaeding missed the week before for San Diego. Shonn Greene, the Jets explosive post-season playmaker, was lost for the second half with a rib injury, and Mark Sanchez, for the most part, was a non-factor in the second half.

In other words, the Jets' magical ride turned back into a pumpkin, just like most magical rides do when they finally run up against the real deal.

And that's exactly what Manning and the Colts are right now. Given enough time (hell, given 15 minutes), Manning has proven he can slice and dice an opponent's defense with the efficiency and cold-bloodedness of a great white shark through a fur seal. Don't get me wrong. Drew Brees and the Saints have been through their own battles. They've put a city on their shoulders, giving hope to millions by playing a game and more, by digging and giving back, with their time, with their blood, with their sweat. They'll fight and they'll claw and they'll scratch. There is no better story than the Saints and the city of New Orleans going to the Super Bowl in February.

My point is simply that Peyton Manning won't care. The Saints may be marching in, but they'll be limping back.

There's another Lombardi Trophy waiting in Miami, and no fuzzy, feel-good, fleur-de-lis-wearing Saints team is going to keep it from Manning.

Alex can be reached at cuda24@yahoo.com