Last night I had a beautiful dream. I became King, High Priest and Commissioner of Sports.

Lucky me. Lucky you.

Don’t worry. I used this power selectively. No spectators were harmed in this semi-lucid activity, tempting as that would have been. No results were manipulated, either, because: a) I don’t work for NASCAR; and b) When the Red Sox and Patriots cap their current seasons with duck boat rides, it’s going to be on their own merits.

In my unconscious universe, I had the serenity to accept the things I didn’t need to change, the courage to overwrite what I could, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Dream along with me …

• Fantasy football ceased to exist. What a glorious day.

No more “breaking news” on a pre-game show declaring that Calvin Johnson won’t play today, followed by five full minutes of analysis before somebody whispers a word about — and call me crazy for wondering — how this might actually affect the Detroit Freaking Lions. No more touting Matt Schaub and Victor Cruz as “offensive players of the day,” only minutes after Schaub followed his 31 completions with a game-killing, soul-crushing pick-six to Richard Sherman, or after Cruz caught 10 eminently meaningless balls in a four-touchdown loss.

People actually learned to analyze the great game of football by comparing (gasp) one real team to another real team again. Thus explains the puddle of joyful tears on my pillow.

• Talk of “sports etiquette” was equivalent to hate speech and no longer tolerated.

Instead of hitching a ride in the waaaaaaah-mbulance over David Ortiz taking .647 seconds to observe a blast that was parallel to the foul pole, David Price took his medicine like a man and blamed himself for hanging a godawful pitch in a preeminent power hitter’s wheelhouse.

High school football fans were denied access to games if they didn’t have the critical thinking skills to realize that screaming “take a knee!” at the opponent’s huddle six times was infinitely more disrespectful to the player lying on his back.

Heck, since this was my little world, I’m pretty sure the people in it were smart enough to recognize the difference between a cramp and a concussion. We all had greater perceptive powers and thicker skin. It was fantastic.

• Maine actually cared about its only Division I football program.

If there’s a coach in any sport in America who does more with outdated, inferior facilities in a recruiting wasteland than Jack Cosgrove, I haven’t met him.

Cosgrove has built the Black Bears into a Top 25 program on at least an every-other-year basis in what is, by far, the toughest Football Championship Subdivision conference in the nation. This, in a time when the University of Maine can’t overcome its revolving-door leadership or remote location to save its life in any other sport.

More than once the coach has compared his roster to the Island of Misfit Toys, an allusion to the recruits being players that no other major program on the East Coast found or wanted. Well, the pieces fit to the tune of 62 points Saturday against Delaware, an ages-old rival with a national championship pedigree. They fit just fine at Northwestern, where the Black Bears traveled for a payday and to be a sparring partner, only to come within one or two plays from beating a big-time opponent that subsequently put itself one or two plays away from beating Ohio State.

Yet while his program has chronically overachieved for two decades, Cosgrove has been continually forced to fight for respect, long-term contracts and commitment from his school and the state in which it resides. More often than not, 10,000-capacity Morse Field at Alfond Stadium is two-thirds full, at best. New hockey coach Red Gendron got more TV time during the summer than Cosgrove ever enjoys at midseason.

In my dream world, attention follows achievement.

• Hockey fans from Lewiston and surrounding communities bought up all 140,000-or-so seats for the Portland Pirates’ entire home schedule at Androscoggin Bank Colisee.

Despite the overall strength of the on-ice product, the Lewiston Maineiacs’ eight-year stay was an abject economic failure. Let’s chalk it up to two factors. The team had a marketing department that couldn’t have sold beer to thirsty bikers, and despite the city’s reputation as a hockey haven, the “casual” fan on this side of the international border didn’t understand what level the QMJHL truly was.

There are no excuses now. Well, if you don’t count the potentially distasteful feeling of being used as leverage, but when the phone rang in my dream, it was Sherbrooke calling to say you’re used to that. The AHL and the Pirates have been around long enough for us to know what we’re getting. There are no 16-year-old boys in the lineup. Everybody in a red sweater is one heartbeat and 10 digits away from a call to the big time.

Professional hockey has come to your city. While I was sleeping, y’all didn’t wait around for that to sink in. You just went.

• Somebody was smart enough to draft a formula that paired up high school football opponents based on location, socioeconomics and tradition instead of sheer student population.

Not a moment too soon. Because if I ever have to stand through another 68-0 game, I might stab a pen through my eardrum.

And that surely would wake me up. Talk about a buzzkill.

Kalle Oakes is a staff columnist. His email is koakes@sunjournal.com. Follow him on Twitter @Oaksie72.

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