Brian Out Loud

The ball hit the left upright. It then hit the crossbar. I swear it bounced off the John Hancock Tower.

The ball went everywhere but through the uprights, keeping alive, at least for another year, the words of my father in the living room of our Illinois home in 1986. He said to enjoy this Super Bowl victory now because the Bears may never win one again.

Twitter went nuts. Facebook went nuts. The hate spilled over like fizz on the brim of your cup when you’ve poured too much soda into it.

My tweet after the game had nothing to do with hate. I simply said the Bears had chances and that you can’t put all the blame for the loss on the kicker.

I thought back to the time I asked a high school basketball coach about a shot one of his girls missed in the final seconds. The shot would have won the game.

In the interview, I asked him how tough it was to see a game come down to one shot and it doesn’t go in. His response was one I haven’t forgotten. He pointed out that one shot doesn’t decide a game. The collection of every moment of that game does.

But in the heat of the excitement of a potential game-winning kick, such as the one Parkey had a chance to make, and in the madness of the final seconds of a basketball game that ended without that girl making the shot, you forget about the other minutes of the game.

You forget there were chances to take care of business then as well. You don’t think about those moments because the game wasn’t on the line at the time.

In the aftermath of the Parkey miss, some fans, the handful of crazies out there, showered Parkey with death threats.

Really?

Over a football game?

Come on America, we should be better than that.

Yet, despite it all, Parkey faced the media after the game while enduring one of the worst feelings in the world.

I saw a few comments from people on social media saying that Parkey shouldn’t be praised for facing the media because that’s his job as an athlete paid to play a sport.

Yes, it is, when you get right down to it, I guess, but it doesn’t mean he has to do it. He could have showered, dressed and walked into the night without saying a word to one reporter.

But he faced the firing squad and handled it with class. He did what most of us never would do in the wake of a devastating moment.

Politicians are paid to answer questions and they don’t always do it. And I’ve seen coaches bolt out an alternative entrance to avoid the media after a game.

Yes, Parkey is paid to play a game, and yes, he is paid to make kicks.

But he’s also human.

And I think among the lessons we can all learn from this moment is that sports isn’t life or death.

Athletes are human.

And that the outcome of a game doesn’t hinge on one kick or one shot.

And while it may be tough to deal with missing that kick or that shot, the world won’t end.

The sun will still come up tomorrow.