The word is perspective. The dictionary defines it as “a view of things in their true relationship or relative importance.”

Perspective becomes very important when you think of North Carolina’s loss to Georgetown in the NCAA Regional final last Sunday in New Jersey.

As the same time the Tar Heels were losing, a young man from Concord named Jason Ray was in a coma, fighting for his life in a New Jersey hospital a few miles north of where the game was played.

Ray had been hit by a car on Friday just hours before North Carolina’s first game in the regional. For the past three years, he had been North Carolina’s mascot, Rameses.

Ray lost his fight for life and died on Monday morning.

I did not know Jason Ray and that clearly is my loss. By all accounts, he was the son every parent wants: excellent student and citizen, sense of humor, courteous, respectful of others and a young man to whom religious faith meant a great deal.

He had led youth Christian groups to Latin America and part of his college education was in religion. He would have graduated in a couple of months and had already accepted a job with a marketing firm in Raleigh. According to those who knew him best, his life, no matter which path it took, would have meant helping others in some fashion.

When something like this happens, you hear coaches and players say “this really puts things in perspective” and certainly it does. A Tar Heel loss seems insignificant, and I have no doubt that Roy Williams and his team would gladly have taken a loss if it meant Jason Ray could have lived.

But, having said that, I wonder how much perspective there really is about sports and winning and losing.

I have spent much of my adult life around sports at the highest levels. I have seen players and coaches cry after tough losses and become kids again as they wildly celebrated wins.

But for all my knowledge and experience, I freely admit I have never understood fans. I have never understood the mentality of someone who would place a ‘for sale’ sign in the yard of a coach who lost a few games, who would throw a brick through a coach’s window after a tough loss or harass a coach’s child at school because his team didn’t win.

I will never understand people who somehow think their school is better because they beat someone else in football or basketball or people whose weekends are ruined because their team lost. Nor will I ever understand big money boosters, men of stature and accomplishment, who tell college presidents and college boards that there will be no more million dollar donations unless the coach is fired. These things happen far more than the general public will ever know. And that’s why I’m not so certain there is a great deal of perspective when it comes to sports.

We all know it’s right and proper to nod our heads gravely and say “this really puts things in perspective.” But while we say the correct words, do we really keep them in mind?

So the next time you hear “this really puts things in perspective,” take it to heart and remember it. There is always another game, if not tomorrow, then next week, next month or next year. And if there is not another game, then there is still a life to be lived. But for Jason Ray there are no more tomorrows or next weeks. Nor is there a life that held such promise, and that is a far bigger loss than a mere game.

MOVIE OF THE WEEK

“Chariots of Fire,” 1981

This won the academy award for best picture and remains as good a sports movie as you will ever see. But like most great sports movies, sport is merely a metaphor for life.

It’s the story of two athletes from Great Britain who compete in the 1924 Paris Olympics. Eric Liddell wrestles with his religious conscience, trying to decide if he should race on a Sunday. Harold Abrahams has fought a battle against anti-Semitism.

Both are real figures who won Olympic gold medals and became heroes. They were sportsmen and gentlemen of the highest order, men who held fast to their principles in pursuit of sports glory. And yes, you can be excused for wishing we had more like them today.