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Wright Thompson on life, loss and renewal in New Orleans 1. Hurricane Katrina. Chapter IThe 1. 0- Year Flood. Editor's note: This story contains mature language. As part of the stories of the year collection, this piece is being resurfaced along with others in the coming days as ESPN Digital and Print Media closes out the year. Check out the full list here. With the air conditioner off for filming, the only noise in Steve Gleason's home is the breathing machine that keeps him alive.

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That's as good a place as any to start a Katrina story, with the wires and plugs and tubes strapped to the back of his wheelchair, a life- support apparatus doing the heavy lifting for one of the most fervently alive people the city has ever known. The city has known its share.

New Orleans treasures hyperlocal folk heroes: Soulja Slim, the king of the street rappers before the storm, shot at least three times in the face and once in the chest, dead in his black Reeboks; Trombone Shorty, who closed out this year's Jazz Fest instead of Elton John or Lenny Kravitz; Chris Rose, the Pulitzer Prize- winning newspaper columnist who wrote the best stories about the storm until his life unraveled and he found himself waiting tables. Gleason is that kind of hero. Watch The Bling Ring Online Hoyts. In the team's first night back in the Superdome after the storm, he stretched out his arms and blocked a punt in the opening series of a Monday Night Football game. There is a 9- foot statue of him outside the Dome now, but the actual Steve Gleason is paralyzed, four years into an ALS diagnosis. Most people don't make it past five."OK, I'm rolling," the camerawoman says. Gleason uses his eyes and an interactive tablet to highlight the first sentence of the text, one of a series of love letters to the city that a local nonprofit asked influential citizens to write on the 1. Since he can no longer use the muscles in his mouth, he speaks through a computerized voice, his humanity blunted by a droning, syllable- centric machine.

Nothing works but his eyes."Dear New Orleans," he begins, and when he finishes reading the letter, one of his assistants, Lauren, wipes Gleason's eyes and nose with a towel."I cry every time I read it," he says. Lauren stays strong in front of Steve but when she gets around the corner into the kitchen, she falls apart, slipping into a bedroom to be alone. It's an ugly thing to watch someone fight a battle he cannot win. Living, then, is in the fighting.

No White Flags," it says on the Team Gleason foundation's T- shirts and wristbands. Dear New Orleans. No white flags. REBIRTH HAS BEEN the standing field order of the past 1.

New Orleans, a powerful force shaping the city in ways big and small. Everything is governed by this spirit of renewal, and everything is viewed through its lens, from the fervent love of brass bands to the New Orleans Saints, the standard- bearers of a city struggling back to its feet. But within this hopeful word an idea hides in plain sight: For something to be reborn, it must have first died.

One afternoon in August, the mayor of New Orleans, Mitch Landrieu, meets me at an old seafood market reimagined after the storm as a high- end culinary destination. He tries to explain how 1. For those of us who were here, it was a deeply emotional, deeply personal, painful experience," he says. I mean, it was hard.

But we were in a near- death environment, so we didn't really have time to process it. We literally had to get out of harm's way so that we could stay alive.

Then we immediately had to start rebuilding. And I'm not sure that a lot of us have had a chance to process it.""Have you grieved?"The question catches him off guard, and for just a moment he drops his smooth politician's front, closing his eyes, looking away."I really don't know the answer to that question," he says. Probably not fully. You know, I find myself really getting choked up."The hurricane lives in a complicated place. Everyone's experience is both communal and personal, obvious and hidden.

The memory of the death is everywhere, buried in shallow and temporary graves. Shack Brown, youth football coach, fled New Orleans in the wake of Katrina - - then returned a year later to form a league in the projects. William Widmer for ESPNEACH SUMMER IN New Orleans has a soundtrack. In the blistering, rainy summer of 2. Boosie Badazz, formerly Lil Boosie, formerly prisoner No.

Angola for a marijuana charge. New Orleans has the highest incarceration rate in Louisiana, which has the highest incarceration rate per capita in America, which has the highest incarceration rate in the developed world. Eighty- five percent of the inmates at Angola never get out.

They take a one- way bus ride to an eastward bend in the river near the Louisiana- Mississippi line. Boosie is one of the lucky ones - - he made the trip back south - - and now this summer his anthems of Louisiana street life throb out the windows of speeding cars, the floating hint of a hook giving away the track, drowning in cardboard subwoofer fuzz, trunks and rearview mirrors. You hear the songs over and over again, like now in Shack Brown's pickup truck, headed out of town on Interstate 1. Brown is a youth football coach, driving to Jackson, Mississippi, to do a stand- up comedy gig, one of the many jobs that allow him to spend most of his time working with kids. He talks quietly with music in the background, until a remix of Boosie's "Show da World" comes on. Brown turns up the stereo and sings. God keep blessing me 'cause I'm a good father ..

Brown got his nickname because he grew before the other boys, then quit growing just after his friends started calling him Shack. He's about 6- foot- 1 - - and was as a seventh- grader. He's got a barrel chest and the gut of a man who never let his changing metabolism alter his love for fried food. His New Orleans East neighborhood smells like bread and coffee, from nearby factories. In the summer, the streets smell like crawfish. Over and over, he listens to "Show da World," cuing it up when he needs a dose of self- confidence: "Lemme hit that Boosie," he'll say, and one line always makes him rise out of his seat and rap hard with the track, hitting an imaginary drum on each word."I'M A PROJECT NIGGA!" he shouts into the steering wheel.

Shack, who gets his name, if not its spelling, from the LSU basketball star, grew up in the Iberville projects. It is his armor and his weapon. Everything in the city rises on the ashes of something else, whether Shack Brown himself or the neighborhood where he was born. Before it was the Iberville, the streets between the French Quarter and what's now I- 1. Storyville, which the Navy insisted be closed in 1. At some point, big iron wrecking balls are cheaper than years of penicillin.) Only one or two of the buildings that were whorehouses and saloons still stand; an old jazz club is now Iberville's corner store, the New Image Supermarket.

The older men drink beer on the sidewalk a block away at Basin Super Market Seafood and Grill. Sometimes Shack visits old friends, but mostly he stays far away from the Iberville, or what's left of it. People in the projects respect Shack Brown because he survived the early '9. Iberville was at its worst. The cops in the nearby French Quarter ride horses, and Shack can still hear the pounding of hooves on concrete, like something from a dystopian Wild West movie.

They followed purse snatchers back into the projects - - cops in shiny helmets brandishing sticks and guns, flying through the Iberville courtyards, the horses breathing heavy in the thick, wet air."I've watched older dudes steal Greyhound buses," he says, laughing. The kids trust Brown because he was them. He sold drugs and tasted that life - - $1. Angola or to a cemetery at the end of Canal Street. Mostly, he couldn't deal with the damage he saw himself causing, making a bad place worse instead of trying to make it better. He was a lousy drug dealer, letting people slide on credit, not cracking down on the addicts who couldn't pay.