KANSAS CITY, Mo. — In the 55th Super Bowl last Sunday in Tampa, Fla., the Chiefs became one of just 14 NFL teams to return a year later ... only to get clobbered, 31-9, by the Buccaneers.
That was a shame. But the defeat also is part of why now is a good time for perspective on what it actually means in the course of real life.
Let's remember what Buffalo Bills coach Marv Levy said amid an astounding tenure that would become most remembered by four straight Super Bowl losses: "This is not a must-win; World War II was a must-win," said the 95-year-old WWII veteran who previously coached the Chiefs.
Let's forget how Vince Lombardi is most widely quoted ("winning isn't everything; it's the only thing.") but consider his later regret ("I meant the effort ... I sure as hell didn't mean for people to crush human values and morality.") and what he said best: "It is the spirit, the will to excel, the will to win; these are the things that endure."
And ponder this gem from former Dallas Cowboy Duane Thomas just before Super Bowl VI: "If it's the ultimate game, how come they're playing it again next year?"
Because, in fact, it's not the ultimate game. And winning it all isn't everything. Or even a must-win.
We actually know all this for many reasons, don't we? But the context is particularly acute and poignant now, closing in on a full year of devastating loss from the pandemic and chaotic division in our country and a shattering sequence of events connected to the Chiefs in the last week: the car crash involving Chiefs' assistant coach Britt Reid that left a 5-year-old girl fighting for her life; the sudden loss Tuesday of our beloved colleague and former Chiefs writer Terez Paylor at age 37; the death of former Chiefs coach Marty Schottenheimer at 77 on Monday night while in hospice care in Charlotte, N.C., after a six-year battle with Alzheimer's disease.
Each has been a piercing reminder in its own way of what the "ultimate" in our world actually is. And that's what endures about your essence, not the trophy chest or the cosmetic elements that too often make for the superficial shorthand of an epitaph.
Not that it's irrelevant that the Chiefs lost the Super Bowl. And it will be absorbing to further dissect what happened and explore where they go from here in the months to come.
But let's juxtapose that with what really matters.
In the case of precious Ariel Young, a victim of the crash who remained in a coma as of Thursday, we've seen it in the response to a GoFundMe page that had raised more than $450,000 and counting. And with the latest message asking that donors include where they are from so that "one day when she is older ... she can see the huge outpouring of love and support she has from all over the world."
When it comes to Terez, think about the infinite expressions of love and admiration because of the joy and warmth and thoughtfulness he radiated that could be as readily known from afar as up close.
And then there's Schottenheimer, one of the top coaches in NFL history (eighth in regular-season wins with 200) and surely the best who never won a Super Bowl.
Which we will stipulate here was far more a matter of the cruel whims of fate than anything else ... and also not remotely revealing about who he was and what his life meant.
While some lament on his behalf that missing jewel in the otherwise stunning mosaic of his coaching career, and while Schottenheimer regretted he wasn't able to deliver that for fans in Kansas City, that was incidental and even negligible in the grand scheme.
Think of the hundreds, if not thousands, of moving testimonials this week from people whose lives Schottenheimer touched for the better, who forever saw him as a motivator or mentor or father figure (even if that might be delivered with the tough love part of parenting).
Think of how he changed the landscape itself when the Chiefs had been to just one postseason in 17 years and Arrowhead Stadium was a dead zone.
In collaboration with Carl Peterson starting in 1989, when Peterson began a 20-year tenure as the Chiefs president and general manager, Schottheimer revived the drooping franchise and coaxed it to a 101-58-1 regular-season record.
To frame that properly now, consider anew how it unfurled in real-time.
"If you're a Chiefs fan and over the age of, say, 40 years old, Marty Schottenheimer was something more than a terrific football coach," my friend Michael MacCambridge, a renowned author and expert on the Chiefs, wrote in an email. "He was the symbol and the catalyst of the team's renaissance, and immediately signaled the end of the long, depressing period when the team was an object of ridicule — so inept and irrelevant they were routinely dismissed as 'the Chefs' on ESPN.
"The Chiefs didn't win a Lombardi Trophy under Schottenheimer, it's true, but Schottenheimer accomplished something that was extremely important. He made Chiefs fans proud to be Chiefs fans again. And he, along with Carl Peterson, helped transform the atmosphere at Arrowhead Stadium, turning it into one of the most iconic gameday scenes in all of football.
"So much is written and discussed about the heartbreaking playoff losses in the '90s at Arrowhead. But they hurt so much precisely because, under Schottenheimer, Chiefs' fans rediscovered hope and belief, for the first time in decades."
Indeed, Schottenheimer was 3-7 in the postseason with the Chiefs and 5-13 overall in the playoffs. But that was not only a distraction from what he accomplished but also infused with snake venom.
That poison was administered in such memorable forms as the AFC Championship Games when he was coaching Cleveland marked by "The Drive" orchestrated by Denver's John Elway in the 1986 title game and "The Fumble" by Earnest Byner in the 1987 title game at Denver.
He whisked the Chiefs to an AFC Championship Game, too, only for them to fall 30-13 at Buffalo in a game marked by quarterback Joe Montana suffering a game-ending concussion.
While the Chiefs were trailing 20-6 when Montana was knocked out of the game, Peterson to this day swears he knows the Chiefs would have won if not for that injury.
Maybe it played out that way in a more forgiving parallel universe.
But this reality, we know, is a lot about how we react to what happens to us. And sports are in part meant to show us something more meaningful about ourselves in the striving.
The rugged components of "Martyball," exceptional defense and typically a pounding ground game, represented that.
"I think through the ups and downs, you really see the joy of sports fandom," said Kansas City mayor Quinton Lucas.
The devoted Chiefs fan then playfully invoked late President Richard M. Nixon's words that you can only know "how magnificent it is to be on the highest mountain" if you've been in the deepest valley.
But Lucas, whose first fond memories of the team were under Schottenheimer, still revels in that era.
He thinks of the tall, slim guy with the tough face, wearing a cap in such a way as to conjure the image of someone who could only have been a general or a football coach.
In some ways, Schottenheimer seemed to him like a "father-like character for a community."
"That's what kind of makes us so protective about him," he said. "Unless you get the hardware, the rings, sometimes in that national conversation and that historic conversation, you're not up there, you're not mentioned.
"When, in reality he's one of the greatest coaches in our city's history in any of our professional sports. And he'll be known as that and remembered as that."
He'll also be remembered for a defining personal touch, including with the media here. Former Star colleague Randy Covitz was among writers and friends who covered him and forever treasures the off-the-record media sessions and life lessons and recall him even seeking out media opinions and observations.
Then there were the lesser-known tales of his humanity, such as the one experienced by my friend Elizabethe Holland Durando, then covering the St. Louis Rams for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.
To advance a Rams-Chiefs game, she came here to interview players. In the locker room as she approached a high-profile player she'd been assigned to write about, another disrupted the interview, grew increasingly louder until finally yelling repeatedly, "She's staring at my hose!" while her would-be interviewee laughed.
When she told a Chiefs PR man what had happened, he told her he'd tell the coaching staff.
An hour or so later, Schottenheimer sought her out in the Arrowhead press box.
"He said he'd heard what happened, that it was unacceptable and that he was very upset about it," she said in an email. "He said he not only planned to talk to the individual player to let him know how inappropriate and out of line it was, but that he would deliver that message to the entire team to make sure everyone knew that such behavior would not be tolerated.
"He seemed very sincere ... He took the time to respond in a thoughtful, respectful way. I think it said a lot about him."
So, too, did his last few years, including in the broader context of his family. While I regret to say I never met him in person, I was struck by my telephone conversation with his wife, Pat, and him in 2017 as he was battling Alzheimer's.
As we spoke, he gazed out a window at Lake Norman and said, "It's a magnificent setting. Life is good." Ever upbeat and courageous, Pat told of how he was still "Marty all the time" but also of their approach to the disease — including participating monthly in a drug-trial test.
"We are hopeful that it can help him," she said. "It may not, who knows? But then hopefully it will make a difference for somebody in the future."
So the family persevered and faced it all head-on, including trying to maintain a sense of humor amid the anguish. Like coaching, in some ways. In the profession, she said then, "you're forced to stay positive, if that makes sense. It becomes a habit, and it's a good habit."
Schottenheimer will always stand for that in his coaching, including the words "there's a gleam" that he became known for.
The reference, he clarified with Cleveland.com in 2011, was "to the reflection of sunlight or any light on the Super Bowl trophy and the gleam that becomes the byproduct of the reflection of light off of the Super Bowl."
That was, he added, "what we were chasing."
Turns out, though, that all along the light was beaming from the man engaged in the chase.
Maybe nobody said it better than Bill Cowher, a former assistant to Schottenheimer in Cleveland and Kansas City and a Pro Football Hall of Fame coach with the Steelers who was among those offering commendations upon Schottenheimer's death.
"Marty, you say, 'There's a gleam, men,' " Cowher said. "There is, and it was always YOU."
And that's the ultimate and the everything — something Terez gave us all, too, and something we can feel in the tenderness of the efforts on behalf of Ariel Young.
And something we can all hold tight to in these hard days.
