Tears from the city of big disappointments

A weekend of NFL playoffs reminds us how bleak is the landscape of Chicago sports. Identified as major league, local teams hide their faces and nod, agreeing that is what it says on the letterhead.

The Bears play sack the scapegoat, keep the coach and promise to think seriously about what to do about a quarterback.

The Bulls are harder to swallow than supermarket sushi. The scattered and unseen Blackhawks are voluntarily pulling the earth in on top of themselves, hoping Connor Bedard can hold his breath.

And the prospect of the Cubs and White Sox heading toward spring training causes more shrugs than hope, the distraction of a new White Sox ballpark nothing more than just another skin tag.

Clearly what our local jocks could use more than a second chance, or second place, is an all-purpose concession speech.

They need something handy to whip out during those moments when they are inevitably asked, like bronze medalists, why they failed.

When the time comes, as it shall, when they do not fail, they are on their own. For now, I am delighted to provide multiple-choice reactions, useful for all teams, seasons and goats, or whichever franchise has been most recently skewered.

The generic apology is always a grand place to start.

“The people I feel sorriest for are (the fans) (Jerry Reinsdorf) (Bennie the Bull) (all of the above). We wanted to win it for (them) (him).”

You see how it works. And it works every time.

In moments of extreme stress, the names of Justin and Zach may come to mind also, and brief sympathy may be earned for invoking a Cody or a Connor, never forgetting that sincerity is just a mask.

The most noble of motives having been established, a selection may then be made from the following:

(“We wanted it too much.”) (“We were trying too hard.”) (“The problem, silly us, was overconfidence.”)

Who can argue with effort? Or conviction?

One looks at the Bulls and is already tempted to vow, “Wait ‘til Next Year.” Not a good idea. Next Year for the Bulls can be traced back roughly to the Last Dance, which forever exaggerates what happened.

Here are the alternate choices:

(“Soon.”) (“Eventually.”) (“Whenever.”)

It would be OK if Chicago sports teams were private disappointments, mumbling into a few sympathetic ears, but because of cable and podcasts they must lose with the world looking in and must accept a greater responsibility. They must be prepared to impress strangers as well as keeping their own constituency from investigating alternatives, like Indiana or Wisconsin, a tough choice.

Designer diversions such as the Sky or the Fire are slight enough to relieve this author from having to translate alibis into boutique-speak, no small favor.

In all cases the best thing to do is cry. Tears can be overdone but are always effective. In fact, depending on how dramatic a loss is, tears are expected and may have a variety of their own.

(“Sniff.”) (“Sob.”) (“Weeeeaaghhh!”)

This last one should be used only by field-goal kickers, relief pitchers or insecure foul shooters, and only when the camera is on. Linebackers, power forwards and catchers should hit something obvious. I suggest field-goal kickers, relief pitchers or . . .

No matter. Losers are expected to be miserable. Otherwise, losing is pointless, no pun intended. Not to be forgotten is the chanciness of it all.

“It's all (a roll of the dice anyhow) (the luck of the draw) (what the heck is a play-in tournament, anyhow?).”

“Winning depends on lots of things, all of which rely on (fate) (whim) (luck).”

“There are no losers, only (survivors) (discards.)”

Another possibility to consider each time so much local incompetence coincides is that there is something wrong with us and not with them. It is an instinct fertilized by succeeding generations of heroes who are not enough in talent, commitment or number.

(“I wasn't even born when Jordan was a rookie.”) (“I never saw Payton play.”) (“You mean they used to not promote gambling?")

It is too frightening to consider that the problem might actually be among ourselves, in the water we drink, the air we breathe, the SUVs we drive or, as I suspect, deep dish pizza.