Aren’t enamored with the weather in the northeast frontier? Wait five minutes, says the snarky, self-assured local.

Likewise, if you are disturbed, disenchanted or just plain bored with the New England sports scene, just give it a week.

You can’t fully appreciate the value of seven days until you have spent them in this part of the world during one of those overlapping seasons when almost all the big-league sports franchises are in action.

Think about what we thought we knew merely one Sunday ago.

Bobby Valentine was an arrogant buffoon. The Red Sox bullpen was steeped in historic horribleness. Forget contending for the third world championship in nine seasons; finding a way to stave off the Baltimore Orioles and avoid the American League East cellar was their best possible destiny.

The Bruins were the reigning Stanley Cup champions. Other low seeds were melting away and taking their places at the first tee. Tyler Seguin’s overtime goal to win Game 6 in Washington was a sign from the heavens. A nervous delegation of fans exhaled with abandon, all while exercising their social media freedoms in a manner that would make Jesus and Mama proud.

Oh, and we were days away from having to suffer through another three-day draft with the New England Patriots. They lost the Super Bowl. They flaunted what was statistically one of the worst defenses in history. And they had a still-legendary coach in the middle of a mad scientist phase, stockpiling draft picks as if he were auditioning for the next season of “Hoarders.”

My, how times have changed.

Those crazy Sox still occupied the cellar Saturday afternoon, but they were a lusty 5-0 since giving Joe Buck and Tim McCarver the warm fuzzies with a gift-wrapped Yankees comeback for the ages.

A slimmed-down David Ortiz is rolling up a slow pitch softball batting average, inexplicably hitting opposite-field line drives for the first time in his life. Kevin Youkilis is showing signs of life and of, ahem, physical and mental engagement. The pick-your-starting-outfield-from-a-hat of Sweeney, Ross, MacDonald, Byrd and Anderson is making us forget about their disabled brethren.

What to make of these guys? As is usually the case with a franchise that inspires us to let the highs soar too high and the lows sink too low, the truth is somewhere in the middle.

I still see a team that bears a gruesome resemblance to the Red Sox of 1979 to ’85, a franchise that wielded batting champions and home run kings but flaunted a train-wreck pitching staff. Neither Jon Lester nor Josh Beckett is flinging with the authority of an ace. And until somebody figures out that Daniel Bard is a starter and Alfredo Aceves is a starter or middle reliever, the entire staff will carry an identity crisis.

Then there’s the Bobby V factor. His I’m-the-smartest-guy-in-the-room schtick will go over like a hearty belch in Sunday School when things aren’t going well. Then again, that might make him the perfect field boss for a team that has week-to-week written all over it.

Late-inning giveaways and one-sided wins are a far cry from the series of one-goal games and sudden-death scenarios the Bruins put their backers through.

Every year the NHL playoffs prove that hockey’s regular season is the most meaningless enterprise in sports. More devoid of significance, even, than preseason rankings in college football and basketball. April hockey is such a different game from December hockey as to be unrecognizable.

Yet the same alarming red flags that surrounded the Bruins before the new year were the ones that flew over their postseason’s premature end.

Tim Thomas’ transcendence in the 2011 playoffs made us forget how streaky and erratic he can be. Ditto for the rest of the team, which had an agonizing knack all season for scoring nine goals one night and missing the bus from the hotel the next.

As for the racist drivel that flowed from a few fans’ flaming fingertips after Joel Ward scored the series-clinching goal for the Capitals, let’s not make it more than it is.

Bruins fans and hockey enthusiasts as a whole are not bigots. Calling attention to the hateful words of a few in an effort to raise awareness, unfortunately, is giving these idiots what they crave: attention.

They deserve, instead, to be ignored like the Neanderthals they are. When people at your job, watering hole or social club speak in the same manner, on any subject, shun them there, too. Let that person’s life become a more miserable, lonely place than it already is.

One place that won’t be lonely is the Patriots’ bandwagon in 2012.

New England not only showed a renewed interest in the draft; it had arguably its best and most purposeful one in this decade-plus of unprecedented excellence.

Trader Bill still lives. Belichick and the Patriots made their share of swaps. When the wheel stopped, however, the selections the Patriots did make — particularly Nos. 21 and 25 — smelled like success.

Chandler Jones is a freakish athlete with family ties to both the NFL and UFC. If his career as a pass rusher is accompanied by half the production of Syracuse forebearer Dwight Freeney, consider him a steal.

But he might not be the steal of the draft. That honor may go to the Patriots’ second first-round choice, Alabama linebacker Dont’a Hightower.

It’s like getting a third- or fourth-year pro. Starring for Nick Saban and the Crimson Tide last season was equivalent to playing for an NFL defense.

In fact, if somebody had offered me the Alabama ‘D’ in a trade for the Patriots’ flimsy facsimile on Super Bowl XLVI media day, I probably would have taken it.

I might have been right and I might have been wrong. But I only would have needed a week to find out.

Kalle Oakes is a staff columnist. His email is [email protected].