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St. Louis' most notorious villains were exorcised Sunday night in Georgia's climate-controlled night air. The setting was odd for those of us whose native city has a reputation for its humidity. But that's during the summer when they play that other sport at Busch Stadium.

Sunday was moist but for a different reason. Tears of joy. From the upscale estates of West County to the Laclede's Landing bar district on the riverfront, St. Louisans got a new identity after their Rams beat Tennessee 23-16 in Super Bowl XXXIV.

Before this magic season, if the town had a personality it was --- what? Beer? Baseball? Maybe a decent Italian restaurant or two? It was jealous of Chicago to the east and superior to Kansas City to the west.

It was a 'tweener. That tired rep died Sunday when Steve McNair decided to throw a pass short of the end zone. It died when Titans receiver Kevin Dyson came up a yard shy of a touchdown. It seemed like the first time since rhinestone was invented that an entertainer from Nashville didn't steal the show.

St. Louis earned its new reputation Sunday when Kurt Warner heaved a 73-yard scoring pass to Isaac Bruce with 1:55 left. The Rams could have probed their way downfield and kicked a late field goal. But from the time offensive coordinator Mike Martz signed on last year, their philosophy was to attack.

Attack. Kill. Destroy. No Mercy. Hey, the Vikings were Purple People Eaters. Dallas had its Doomsday Defense. Pittsburgh maimed with its Steel Curtain. These Rams were relentless.

It was the city of excuses before this season. It never lost a game. It might have gotten screwed by a referee or official but it never lost. It accepted mediocrity. Busch Stadium continues to sell out to watch Mark McGwire hit homers and his team finish in the nether regions of the National League Central. Frankly, the whining over Denkinger's blown call in Game 6 of the 1985 World Series had gotten a bit old. So had that last baseball title -- way back in 1982 if anyone cared to remember Sunday.

Bidwill, the Cardinals owner, took the franchise to Arizona after the 1987 season, thus becoming the biggest Scrooge in two states. He left behind a football jones buried deep in the city's psyche. It wanted the NFL, it just didn't know how badly.

Eight years ago St. Louis wasn't good enough for Paul Tagliabue's closed-shop NFL consortium. An expansion team bid was fumbled just like so many footballs in the old days of the Cardinals. Now the town that football forgot will be remembered forever.

Make fun, if you will, of St. Louis coughing up $280 million for a new stadium and all that personal seat license money. Make fun of owner Georgia Frontiere, who was born in St. Louis. The conservative, mostly Catholic enclave certainly didn't teach her the values that led to seven husbands but we'll take her for now.

"We made the right move," Frontiere said Sunday night, probably unwittingly putting it in Los Angeles' face again.

But, yo L.A., it worked. The Rams, your former Rams, are champions because somebody cared. That somebody is the North County engineer working at Boeing. That somebody is the Clayton lawyer fighting ungodly traffic on Highway 40 each morning. That somebody is etched into the faces of the City's myriad neighborhoods.

Rams owner Georgia Frontiere (left) celebrates with coach Dick Vermeil and his wife, Carolyn.(AP)

The Hill. Soulard. Dog Town. Webster Groves. University City.

They all joined hands -- figuratively -- with one of their own late Sunday. Linebacker Mike Jones, a native Missourian, made the game-winning tackle at the Rams 1-yard line to save the game. Born in Kansas City, Jones played at the University of Missouri, where he never came close to a winning season. He didn't start an NFL game until his third season.

In a Super Bowl tale of two meandering franchises, it was fitting that it came down to a football transient. Jones' professional resume reads Los Angeles (Raiders), Sacramento (World League), Oakland (Raiders) and St. Louis.

After three franchises and four cities, Jones finally can say he came home.

And if you squinted hard through the beer, baseball and butchered calls, it was like football never left.

SportsLine senior writer Dennis Dodd is a native of St. Louis.