Dear Falcons fans,
Here’s the thing: It is more than a football game. People like to whittle the importance of the Super Bowl into a rational, bite-sized portion of, “It’s just a game. There’s always next year.” And the second sentence is true. (In fact, the almost necessary inclusion of that second sentence proves that the first is false. If it were just a game, it wouldn’t be imperative that you look toward next year with ferocity and despair.) But it’s no secret why NFL teams have such a huge, passionate following: They are your home.
When the Panthers play, I picture Charlotte’s skyline growing out of their backs like tree trunks. It’s a bit of an unfair image; these are only people, after all. But there’s something 
deliriously exciting about watching Cam Newton cock his arm back and seeing the base of the Bank of America building quiver in response. When the Panthers play, I get to look at them and think, “Here is Charlotte; here are the Carolinas. Take them and wear them on your backs.”
Atlantans, like all fans, carefully packaged their massive, complex city and sent it to Houston in the pockets of football players. They said, “Here is resilience; here is a story of rising from ash. And these are the best hilly streets on which to watch a skyline sunset. Here are gang violence and income inequality. Here is the place my mom took me to get ice cream after my dog died. This is the bench I was sitting on when I realized I loved myself. This is a list of all the people who have been married in 
Piedmont Park, and here is the gold-tipped building that looks like a pencil. Take them.”
And the Falcons did, proudly. For a singular game, I felt nothing but warmth
for a team I’ve always despised. The athletic narrative of Atlanta (in all sports) isn’t unlike some of Charlotte’s past and present eras. An underestimated Southern city unexpectedly explodes with barely containable energy and promise. It’s contagious and beautifully human.
Falcons fans, I’m sorry you lost the Super Bowl, and I’m sorry for the tortuous way in which it happened. I’m extra sorry it was against the Patriots. While my Atlantan boyfriend and I have an ongoing deal that we both cheer for whoever’s team makes it out of the NFC South, the passion I felt for your city and team were perfectly organic. And, though you may not want to hear it, there is a next year. And a year after that. And then another. The Super Bowl means something large, and everyone in Atlanta felt last night’s hot energy whoosh from the city like air from a Whoopee Cushion. But the Falcons franchise rages on, as does the city it represents.
Someday, Charlotte and Atlanta will hang glinting Super Bowl rings from the needles atop our skyscrapers. It’s a matter of time, work, and luck. The past two years have forced the nation to truly ponder Atlanta and the Carolinas, and the places have earned a certain shimmer of respect and intrigue. A truth about football: at the core of every Super Bowl attempt is a place. Atlanta’s wrinkles and shine can’t be taken, and they are the fuel that will keep you rising.