Correct me if I’m wrong – and I’ve found that most folks aren’t shy about setting people in my profession straight when given even a ghost of a chance – but it seems as if many people who profess to be New England Patriots fans have no immediate plans to get excited about this year’s Super Bowl.

It’s probably not a character flaw exclusive to the Patriots’ gallery. We do live in a gotcha, all-or-nothing, if-I-can’t-have-it-neither-can-you society. All it takes is a cursory listen to sports talk radio or a modicum of attention to everyday goings-on in Augusta or Washington, D.C., to discern that.

What I never understand is why. Why are we so parochial that another athlete or team’s success shakes us to our core? Why are sports, which should be an escape from the stress and outright stupidity of the world at large, reduced to this zero-sum game in which some entity’s excellence automatically detracts from what my favorite franchise accomplished yesterday?

If you’re upset that Patrick Mahomes and Andy Reid finally got the Kansas City Chiefs to a Roman numeral game for the first time in a half-century, or that they will be taking on ever-popular, erstwhile Patriot understudy Jimmy Garoppolo and the San Francisco 49ers, check yourself. Re-evaluate life. Try some deep breathing exercises. Do something.

Let me guess. It’s the fault of the loud, obnoxious guy on your TV. You were flipping through the channels, heard him screaming that Mahomes is already the greatest quarterback in the history of the National Football League, and now your dander is up.

Please, do yourself a favor, do us all a solid, and grow some thicker skin. Be shrewd enough to understand that he was told what to say in a production meeting. Be mad at yourself for even watching or listening and affording it a moment’s contemplation.

Nobody’s taking away the six Lombardi trophies procured by the Patriots from 2002 to 2019. No amount of conjecture or imagination will expunge the absurd total of yards, touchdowns, regular-season and playoff wins Tom Brady achieved in your neck of the woods, whether the meter is still running or not.

Your unnecessary defense actually cheapens the accomplishments, because ain’t nobody walking away with six championships, nine Super Bowl appearances or 17 division titles anytime soon. Not Mahomes, not Garoppolo, not Lamar Jackson, Drew Brees, Aaron Rodgers, Baker Mayfield, Joe Burrow or some 12-year-old who’s already received a scholarship offer from Lane Kiffin.

If what your team accomplished in the past two decades were easily dismissed, everybody would be doing it. Maybe you didn’t get the memo, but the Chiefs haven’t been in the big game since it was fashionable for Len Dawson to fire up a lung dart and pound down a saccharin-laced, carbonated beverage at halftime.

Their last appearance on this stage was before I was born, and I’m ancient. In fact, I’m pretty confident that some wholesome combination of Up With People, the USC Trojan Marching Band and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir served up the halftime show.

If you have a child in utero, you have ample time to live vicariously through his or her athletic achievements and grow a hefty college fund before you’ll ever have to worry about Arrowhead Stadium housing a dynasty.

As for the 49ers, with the exception of one or two seasons in which Colin Kaepernick was actually interested in playing football and defensive coordinators figured out a way to solve his fairly limited professional skill set, they have been irrelevant since Joe Montana and Steve Young unsuccessfully pretended to like each other.

Believe it not, even if they’re allowed to wear throwback uniforms, not a thing the ‘Niners accomplish next Sunday will magically grow the legacy of two guys who starred before the turn of the century. Nor will it in any way, shape or form detract from the resume of a 42-year-old free agent. So stop sweating about it.

Maybe I was just blessed to grow up in the 1980s. When the Patriots mostly couldn’t get out of their own way. When they burned No. 1 overall draft picks on Kenneth Sims and Irving Fryar. When their owner’s greatest indiscretion in the playoffs was giving his kid just enough leash to get his face rearranged by Matt Millen. When the one moment of actual prosperity was obliterated by the 46 defense and a drug scandal that broke before the return flight landed at Logan.

It was OK and even fashionable to have fall-back teams. I adopted the Cincinnati Bengals long before I ever lived in their long-suffering market. I rooted for the Washington Redskins and their Hogs because they gave me hope as a fat kid. I bought that set of 28 pencils, one colored for each team, at the school book fair and would fight anyone who thought about stealing the Tampa Bay Buccaneers after they borrowed it to fail a math test.

Life was simpler, and so was being a sports fan. The Super Bowl, World Series, NBA Finals and Final Four were a big deal whether the team I liked best was playing or not.

It was the default setting to respect and appreciate greatness from whomever and wherever, both for the obvious reasons and because we were smart enough to understand that it was fleeting. Somebody would come along next season or the year after that and build a better mousetrap.

Enjoying the Super Bowl next weekend shouldn’t be like watching someone date your dream girl. It ought to be enjoyed with a feeling of eternal security in your favorite player and team’s accomplishments.

Doing so is a sign of strength, not weakness, and the failure to fully embrace what you’re watching is only cheating yourself.

Kalle Oakes spent 27 years in the Sun Journal sports department. He is now sports editor of the Georgetown (Kentucky) News-Graphic. Keep in touch with him by email at kaloakes1972@yahoo.com or on Twitter @oaksie72.

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