It does matter, in the end, if you win or lose. The only question left: does it still matter how you play the game?

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Ken Dryden’s most recent book is The Class: A Memoir of a Place, a Time, and Us.

My father loved the saying, “It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s how you play the game.” The words are from Grantland Rice, the great American sportswriter of the first half of the 20th century. For my father, they captured exactly how he understood sports, what he loved about it, and why he wanted my brother and me to play. Winning and losing mattered, he believed, but how you won or lost was bigger.

I grew up in Toronto, a hundred miles from Buffalo and the relentless bigness and optimism of the United States: its population 10 times that of ours, its Hollywood, its Broadway, its Empire State Building, its big-league baseball and big-time college football. Yet what made it seem even greater to us was the bigness of its story. The story of America.

America was about dreams. A country formed by revolution and tested by a civil war, its story was about the West, the frontier; about aspirations, possibilities and dreams fulfilled. Today, maybe; some day, absolutely. A ride off into the sunset wasn’t just a Hollywood ending, it was an American ending. The idea – America – and the reality – the United States – seemed one and the same.

I was a student at Cornell University in the late 1960s during the Vietnam War. It was a time of protest marches, riots, assassinations and civil-rights unrest, when doubt, disappointment and anger crept into the country’s story. I learned about Mosaddegh and Iran, Arbenz and Guatemala. Soon after, there was Watergate. Overt America, covert America. Yet all this, it seemed, might even be part of America’s greatness: uncovering wrongs, seeing injustice, fighting back, at least eventually, never giving up on America. That was part of the story, too.

I repeated Grantland Rice’s words to myself many times through my childhood. I’m not sure when I started to question them. But one day, probably in my 20s, and probably after I’d lost a game, I asked myself: Why do I feel better when I win? And why do I feel almost as good after a well-played loss as after a poorly played win? To me, I realized, it does matter whether you win or lose, and it matters how you play the game.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this during the U.S. presidential campaign, and even more with the election now only days away.

I found it amazing that, the one time that the two squared off in a debate, Donald Trump could be the Donald Trump he seems to be and Kamala Harris the Kamala Harris she seems to be, without pause or fail, throughout their exhausting, pressure-of-the-highest-order 90 minutes together. They talked about the “issues” of the campaign – the border and immigration, abortion, the economy, jobs, America’s place in the world – mostly by trading accusations, but in doing so, I think, both clearly, absolutely, laying out their visions of the country.

A lot has happened in the weeks since, but not much has changed. The polls have hardly budged, and remain deadlocked – the winner no more certain than a coin flip. The rhetoric has hit new lows, then surpassed them. All the while, Mr. Trump has carried on being Mr. Trump, and Ms. Harris has carried on being Ms. Harris.

In these final days, more and more desperate, anguished words are being written and spoken. It seems we are in a historic “speak now or forever hold your peace” moment. Yet, it seems, too, as if there are no votes to be won, no minds to be changed. The candidates talk about big, important issues, but nobody’s quite listening. They’re done listening. They’re focused on something bigger.

This election is not about issues. It’s not even about personalities or character. It’s about world views, about understandings of humanity, about the big picture in its biggest sense. And on these, the people have made up their minds.

To his supporters, Donald Trump is the tough guy. The realist: This is the way the world is. This is the way it works, in your neighbourhood and workplace, and mine. Inside our borders, and outside. This is about punching the other guy in the nose before he punches you. Eating or being eaten. Who do you want in that Oval Office? Who do you want in that foxhole next to you? This isn’t about being a nice guy, a guy you’d want your kid to be. This is about being strong, tough, respected, feared. This is the United States, the greatest country on Earth. This is about winning. Don’t be a sucker. A sap. A loser. In your neighbourhood, your workplace, in this world, who gives you the best chance to win? Against China and Xi Jinping? Russia and Vladimir Putin? Against tinpot dictators and terrorists everywhere? That’s the question, the only question. And the only answer: me. My words, my exaggerations, my lies, my outrageous claims, they don’t matter. Details, specifics, what’s true, who cares? I speak truths. People get it. It’s the message, the whole message, that matters. And I am the message, and my message is straight-between-the-eyes clear. This is the real world. Fear against joy? Are you kidding? You can’t trust joy. Fear wins every time. Hands down.

To her supporters, Kamala Harris is the determined optimist: This may be the way the world is, inside and outside our borders, the way your neighbourhood and workplace are, but it doesn’t need to be this way. This isn’t about being a nice guy, but, in part, it might just be about who you want your kid to be. What you want your country to be. Yes, this is about being strong, tough, respected and feared. And yes, this is the United States, so this is about winning. But it’s also about how we win. Against China and Mr. Xi, against Russia and Mr. Putin, against tinpot dictators and terrorists everywhere. This is about America.

Two visions. Two embodiments. This is where we are. This is not so much a presidential vote as a referendum on a country’s psyche and soul. To see how wide the divide really is. Is America possible in this world? Does how we win matter any more?