MIAMI, Fla. – The whole place was waiting: waiting for overtime, waiting for the debate to rage in earnest about overtime rules, waiting to see which receiver would catch the Payton Manning pass that would tie this 44th Super Bowl and force the first extra innings in the Big Game’s history.

You knew it was going that way, right? The Saints had already played an almost perfect game, ripping a page out of Bill Parcells’ classic template, keeping the ball away from the Colts for what felt like six hours at the end of the first half and the start of the second.

Sean Payton had made the daring call to start the second half with an on-side kick; while the rest of the world watched The Who, he’d opted for the stones. Drew Brees had played the kind of game quarterbacks usually only dream about. And yet: these were the Colts. This was Payton Manning. Seven times this year they’d erased fourth-quarter deficits. Only two years ago, Peyton had seen his kid brother come back on the Patriots at the end of a Super Bowl.

This was his time, right? This was his turn.

The Colts were on the move, zipping the ball down the field as if they were playing on fast-forward and the Saints were stuck in real time. Manning was in complete control, as if he were working the main deck of the Starship Enterprise. And a stadium of Saints fans both legit and temporary were quiet for the first time all day, keeping their “Who Dats?” to themselves for a change.

Then here was Manning, third down and five, looking for Reggie Wayne. How many dozens of times, hundreds of times, has that happened? How many dozens of times, hundreds of times, has 18 found 87 and broken the spirit of a team and the heart of that team’s fans? They work on an ESP level, always seeming to know where they’re supposed to go, supposed to be.

Only this time, that didn’t happen.

This time, Tracy Porter had other ideas.

Tracy Porter? Two weeks ago, the Saints looked to be out of magic and out of destiny as the fourth quarter of the NFC Championship game ground to what seemed like a certain Vikings victory. Except that time, with the Vikings right on the boundary of field-goal range, Porter had stepped in front of a Brett Favre pass and kept the game tied.

And here he was again. Here was Porter, gathering in another football from another Hall of Fame player, and as he started going the other way it was as if time and sound had both halted at Sun Life Stadium. The Saints fans didn’t yell at first, almost as if their voiceboxes couldn’t believe what their eyes were seeing.

And then they did.

It was right around the time that Porter stuck his right hand in the air, knowing that nobody was going to get in his way before he hit the end zone, before he would make the score 31-17 and bring the Saints all the way back from the abyss of their own history. Back in 1967, on the first play in their history, John Gilliam had returned the opening kickoff of the first game in Saints history back 94 yards for a touchdown.

Between that return and this one had come so many lost games and so many lost seasons, there had been a tragedy of Biblical proportions that nearly erased the city from the map and plenty of rumors that Tom Benson, the owner, might be looking at greener pastures in Los Angeles or San Antonio or anyplace other than the City that Care Forgot.

Now, none of that matters.

Now, there is confetti filling this stadium, and there are Saints fans who aren’t screaming anymore only because everywhere you look they are weeping and they are shaking their heads and they are hugging each other. This wounded city and these abused fans have what they could never have possibly believed reasonable.

Who dat?

It’s the New Orleans Saints, and they are the champions of professional football. Dat’s who. And dat’s amazing.

michael.vaccaro@nypost.com