Nothing, be it good, bad or gruesome, lasts forever in our world.

My goodness, if 2016 didn’t teach us that, will anything? Most of us whose love of music exceeds singing in the shower would vote to keep all our rock stars over age 50 in a protective bubble, given the ones we’ve recently lost.

Sports are the same way, and probably that’s why both realms work so ideally as bedrock diversions in life. The windows of stardom and greatness are small and fragile. Something new invariably comes along and compels us to cheer or jeer.

One-hit wonders and rookie sensations grace us with their unforgettable presence before changing styles and human frailty interfere. The next big thing appears, and we’re left with nothing but memories, the technology that documents the bygone transcendence of the dearly departed, and ammunition for our bitter belief that everything used to be better than it is now.

I was reminded of those parallels again this week, in a whirlwind of conflicted emotions, after hearing that Rob Gronkowski — barring a rapid post-operative healing of Biblical proportions — would be lost for the remainder of the New England Patriots’ season with a bad back. Indeed, injured reserve was his fate.

Gronk hasn’t passed on to the great 87-cent coffee drive-up window in the sky, thank heaven. Nor has the malady that sent him to surgery been deemed life-altering, career-threatening or anything of the sort.

Still, upon hearing the news flash that the all-world tight end’s seventh autumn in the NFL was abruptly over, I couldn’t help but feel a pit in my stomach. There is the very real chance that this is the first domino in a chain of developments that breaks up the band. There is a possibility, perhaps even a likelihood, that we won’t hear any new music from Gronk, short of him showing up in another side project.

He is the rock star of this traveling show, after all. Rock stars are fun, even ridiculously entertaining. But they’re built for speed, not longevity. In part, that’s why their fame is fleeting and why their days on earth tend to be abbreviated.

I’ve always struggled to reconcile my contradictory feelings about Gronkowski. His exploits on the field are can’t-miss TV. There is zero doubt that the Patriots have been a better team since 2010 when he is on the field. Key qualifier, there, at the end of the previous sentence.

But I’m conservative by nature. I think old-school. I think long-term. And likely those are the reasons I never fully warmed up to Gronk’s all-out style or his frat-boy schtick. None of it convinced me that he ever would challenge Tony Gonzalez, Shannon Sharpe or Jason Witten in the “I’ll-play-forever” pantheon at his position.

Gronkowski is more comet than North Star. He exploded onto the scene. He is almost uncontainable when visible to the naked eye.

Can you count on his appearance with the moon and the constellations? Hardly. Gronkowski has suited up for one full season out of his seven since being stolen with the 42nd pick of the draft. It hasn’t prevented him from making the trip to four Pro Bowls or ensuring that the Patriots are doggone-near unstoppable when out there.

Those operative words, again. And “operative” being something all too familiar to No. 87. Back. Neck. Knee. Ankle. Forearm. Lungs. Lord only knows what damage is already done to his head. That’s the toll too many pro football legends silently pay in retirement.

It’s easy to marvel at Gronkowski’s physical gifts and surmise that he is the best tight end in the game when healthy, and that second place is more like ninth. It’s also easy to forget that he will be an old 28 when next season begins.

To award No. 87 his market value — a business decision most teams make without weighing the fickleness of the human body — beyond the expiration date of his current contact would be foolhardy for the Patriots.

That’s a position sure to be unpopular with pink-hats, fanboys, and even devoted, reasonable and common-sense followers of the franchise. If they aren’t charmed by Gronkowski’s image, they’re spoiled for all future replacements by years of watching him punish opponents as an unprecedented combination of hands, speed and power.

But those people are clinging to the memory of a Gronk who won’t produce at that level in two, three or five years. It’s almost physically impossible for him to do so. To commit so much capital to such a liability in a salary-capped league wouldn’t simply be un-Patriot-like. It would be paralyzing.

The Patriots’ persistence among the league’s elite this century has been about elevating value over nostalgia.

Save your nostalgia for concert halls, movie theaters and other venues in which old guys with wrinkles, battle scars and a proclivity for partying can still get the job done.

Time to thank New England’s resident axe man for his seasons of shredding, train up some apprentices, keep the tour bus rolling and let another team squeeze out whatever creative juices Gronkowski has left.

It will be hard, but losing the great ones is part of life.

Kalle Oakes worked in the Sun Journal Sports department from the year Rob Gronkowski was born (1989) until April 2016. He is now sports editor of the Georgetown (Kentucky) News-Graphic. He can be reached by email at kaloakes1972@yahoo.com.

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