Scattered throughout my childhood home were all the earmarks of fair-weather fanaticism.

From cradle to college chemistry class, I was the proud owner of a Pittsburgh Steelers parka, Dallas Cowboys pajamas, Cincinnati Bengals plastic iced tea tumblers, Miami Dolphins baseball cap, Philadelphia Eagles high-top basketball sneakers, Oakland Raiders wool hat, Chicago Bears windbreaker, Detroit Lions sweatshirt and Denver Broncos nightshirt.

You might say I didn’t wear my allegiance to the New England Patriots on my sleeve or on my head, chest, back and feet, for that matter.

My inventory of officially licensed National Football League paraphernalia did include a Patriots seat cushion, which, come to think of it, was a relatively appropriate place to keep paper-thin passion for the home team concealed.

Oh, don’t get high, mighty and more-devoted-than-thou with me. If you were born at any point in the 1970s (some of us, sigh, earlier than others), with few exceptions, the Patriots stunk out loud during your formative years. Acknowledging any sympathy for such a sorry lot to your circle of friends was the social equivalent of confessing that you preferred classical music to rap or hair metal.

Other NFL franchises had distinct advantages, such as a tough-guy quarterback with whom you immediately identified and whose jersey you were honored to wear in public. As for the Patriots, there were brief moments of prosperity when Steve Grogan wasn’t in recovery from knee surgery, Tony Eason wasn’t in the throes of an anxiety attack or Doug Flutie was being used as a pawn to motivate Grogan or Eason.

Aside from those occasions, it was a decade of guys under center whose kids didn’t even want to be seen in their colors. Drum roll, please

Enjoy this walk down memory lane. Matt Cavanaugh, where art thou? How’s life, Tom Ramsey? What’s going on with Marc Wilson?

Mercifully, time and space will prevent us from recounting the contributions of Tom Flick, Scott Zolak, Jeff Carlson, Tom Owen, Tom Hodson, Hugh Millen and Scott Secules. Renowned Patriots passers, all.

Perhaps now you understand that there simply were too many superior alternatives. Too many teams who could beat the Patriots in a butt-kicking contest with one leg tied behind their back and the cleat removed from the other foot.

To demonstrate, let’s play a word association game.

San Francisco 49ers? That’s too easy. Joe Montana Jerry Rice Ronnie Lott. In a word, greatness.

New York Giants? Lawrence Taylor Phil Simms Mark Bavaro. Simply put, toughness.

Chicago Bears? Mike Singletary Walter Payton Jim McMahon. They redefined cockiness.

How about our New England Patriots? Um er poor Andre Tippett. He comes in fourth on the list behind drugs, knives and miserable locker room jokes. Under the bizarre watch of the Sullivan family and Victor Kiam, the Pats served nicely as the NFL’s poster children for silliness.

You remember Kiam, especially, don’t you? His Remingtons shaved closer than a blade, or your money back. He liked the razors so much that he bought the company. Too bad he liked football. His ineptitude made Al Davis’ micro-management acceptable and makes Daniel Snyder’s megalo-meddling smell charmingly refreshing.

Kiam was the architect of the 1990 Patriots, a team that remains a monument to ignominy, inability and inappropriate behavior.

About a week ago, I had the opportunity to watch one of those “lost treasures” of NFL Films recounting the expansion-year Tampa Bay Buccaneers of 1976. The bicentennial Bucs, who went 0-14 with none other than Steve Spurrier (bet he wishes he’s been standing on the sidelines wearing a sun visor) at QB, were touted in that video as the worst team in pro football history.

Maybe, but I respectfully submit that a case can be made for the Class of ’90. Those Patriots were outscored 446 to 181. After they beat the Colts (some things never change) in Week 2, Boston Herald reporter Lisa Olson’s sexual harassment allegations broke. Kiam couldn’t seem to stop himself from keeping the pace of one crass comment per week thereafter, and head coach Rod Rust, the architect of an AFC championship defense only five years earlier, was powerless to stop the flood of 14 consecutive one-sided losses.

Maine native Dick McPherson grabbed the baton but wasn’t a miracle worker, either, battling illness and a startling lack of talent in his locker room to the tune of 2-14 in 1992.

Funny things happened as a result of that bottoming out, however. It attracted an independently wealthy fan named Robert Kraft and a coach named Bill Parcells. It afforded them the draft position to pluck two blue-chippers named Drew Bledsoe and Willie McGinest.

Then an even funnier thing happened. The teams that persisted in making childhood miserable grew old. On top of that, the terms “free agency” and “salary cap” became sexy. In the NFL, just as in America’s economy, there was a price to be paid in the 1990s for the way you conducted business in the ’80s.

Slowly, but oh-so-surely, the 49ers, Cowboys, Washington Redskins and Buffalo Bills fell on hard times. Meanwhile, the Patriots gradually developed a swagger that not even three water-treading years under Pete Carroll could diminish.

Poker-faced defensive wizard Bill Belichick and baby-faced quarterback Tom Brady transformed themselves from question marks to exclamation points in the space of three months in 2001. That foolish franchise from Foxboro won a Super Bowl. A week from now, most of us in customarily pessimistic New England expect it to win another. That confidence alone is proof that life in our world has changed forever.

Best of all, somewhere in California, there’s a 10-year-old kid who’s tired of taking abuse for his faithfulness to the San Diego Chargers. He also finally realized that defensive players are cool. Today, he tucked away his LaDainian Tomlinson pullover and asked Mom if he can have a blue one with “Law” and “24” on the back.

It’s even an epidemic among adults. Somewhere in the outskirts of Detroit, a sporting goods store has a plethora of Lions merchandise collecting cobwebs on its shelves but just sold its fourth and final Patriots retro red uniform.

What about me, you ask? Whatever logo-laded clothing I own generally stays folded up in a storage bin. We sports writers have to keep up the appearance of objectivity, you know.

Pssssssst GO PATRIOTS! And thank you, at long last, for making it fun to be a fan.

Kalle Oakes is sports editor and can be reached by e-mail at .

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