Sometimes, it ends abruptly–a single moment, a single crucial mistake. Sometimes, it’s over before it began–the odds so long there was no chance at all. And sometimes, it’s agony. For all of us who live and die with Chicago sports, last night’s Super Bowl was agony. Da Bears went down. And it wasn’t pretty. Witnessing a debacle like this one really hurt. The slow, grinding death of our hopes as the minutes ticked away, the flickering possibilities that kept firing off sparks every time we looked at the scoreboard and found ourselves still within reach, and the dreaded, leaden weight of our own errors–it all made for a very bitter experience. And what made it more excruciating was that, for a few moments, it was heaven. Our beloved Bears leapt out into the lead, and our hearts were racing. Devin Hester’s return felt like lightning striking. Every step we took seemed charmed–the interception, the long run, the rifled TD pass. We could do no wrong. Then, inevitably, ineluctably, our worst fears took shape in the drizzle and damp, and reality set in–in the person of Peyton Manning. The rest is silence–at least for me. But this year’s Bears taught us one thing. There’s glory in the struggle, in defying the naysayers and living the dream, even if it’s only for a brief moment. And so, for that moment–many thanks, to this year’s Monsters of the Midway.