After a classic, simply gratitude for participants

HOUSTON — How do you ever believe something is impossible ever again after watching this? And how do you ever believe something is inevitable?

How do you ever — as in ever, again — count out a great team, especially this great team, after watching the Patriots rally from 21-0 down, from 28-9 down, to capture this 34-28 victory in Super Bowl LI? And how do you ever — as in ever, again — allow yourself to invest your heart in a team like the Falcons, a team that had this game by the jugular vein and then … just let it get away?

(“Man, Falcons coach Dan Quinn said, “this hurts like hell.”)

How do you ever again think Tom Brady — if he plays until he’s 50 — isn’t capable of anything after watching him piece together the 19 unanswered fourthquarter points on the most challenging arithmetic possible — field goal + TD + 2pointer + TD + 2-pointer — when just one misstep would have not only ended all hope for New England but reduced the fourth quarter to an unwatchable mess?

(“You know how Tom is,” Bill Belichick would say. “He just grinds away better than anyone ever has”)

And how can you not feel bad for Matt Ryan, selected the league’s Most Valuable Player over Brady. Ryan was literally perfect for a half, but when simply being adequate would have solidified the first world championship in his team’s history, the banana peels started falling at his feet. He coughed up a fumble. He took an unforgivable sack. Matty Ice to Matty Vise just like that.

How can you not look at Bill Belichick this morning and not think about the old Branch Rickey line — “I’d rather be lucky than good” — even if you rank him at the top of the list of the NFL’s all-time great coaches? Belichick now has won five titles by a total of 19 points and won this one in large measure because Julian Edelman made a David Tyree-style miracle catch on the drive that tied the game.

(“We’ve been on the other end of those passes, you know,” Brady gushed. “That was one of the greatest catches I’ve ever seen. I have no idea how he caught it. And I don’t think he does, either.”)

And how can you not look at Dan Quinn and wonder if he even wants to replace Kyle Shanahan once the Falcons’ offensive coordinator takes the 49ers job this week. Two years ago, as Seattle’s defensive coordinator, Quinn watched helplessly as Seattle offensive coordinator Darrell Bevell bypassed his bowling-ball beast back, Marshawn Lynch, in favor of a high-risk pass on the goal line. On Sunday, the Falcons already were in position to kick a game-sealing field goal … and once again, the offensive coordinator tried to be too cute. Soon it was fourth-and-33, and soon it was 28-28.

(“#@#$$#*&%!” every Falcons fan you know just screamed.) (“#@#$$#*&%!” added every Seahawks fan you know.)

How could you not look at the defiance in Robert Kraft’s eyes as the Patriots’ owner endured torpid congratulations from commissioner Roger Goodell before shaking his hand (as Brady classily had done earlier) and not detect, clearly, the satisfaction in his voice as he declared to the joyful mass of Patriots Nation: “This unequivocally is the sweetest one of all!”

And how could you not look at the sadeyed, hangdog look that Arthur Blank wore on the sidelines at NRG Stadium, clutching the hand of his wife, Angela, believing he had come to the first floor of a civic coronation and slowly seeing all of it melt around him, like a surreal and sorrowful Dali painting? How could you not see the entire sporting city of Atlanta — now 1-168 for championship seasons in the four major sports going back to their origin as a big-league town in 1966 — in those eyes, in that face?

How can you awaken Monday morning with hate in your heart for the Patriots — even those devil Patriots — who played with precisely the kind of heart and grace and grit that is only and exactly what we ask from any team we hand our heart over to? Just because they don’t belong to us doesn’t mean they can’t elevate us.

(“For a long time today,” Brady conceded, “it was hard to imagine us winning.)

And how can you not have pity for the Falcons — a team so mostly nondescript for most of its 52 years — who now must convince themselves the sun really will come out Monday morning. Answer to all: You can’t. What a game. What a hell of a game.