As I write, roughly 1,100 miles from most of the people who shaped my existence, it is the morning of Sept. 11.

I shall never overlook or underestimate the significance of that spot on the calendar until the day I cease to exist. Anyone within the sound of my voice who is a reasonable member of the human race surely experiences the same, aching emptiness.

Millions of us were busy chasing our dreams that day, as is right and proper, separated from our loved ones by countless miles as I am today.

Easy to understand why we didn’t know what to say, feel or think. No mystery that our first move was to phone each of our loved ones and ensure that they were safe, even if they lived nowhere near Manhattan or Washington, D.C., or rural Pennsylvania.

What a morning. What a brutal, hideous, hopeless morning. And this anniversary morning, each year, slaps our face or punches our gut with those memories.

It is also Sunday morning. An NFL Sunday morning. The first one of another season, to be precise. I love the symbolism of that. It is a not-so-gentle reminder that we are America, that we will continue to live fast and party hard, and that we still have the unmitigated gall to kick your butt when it’s necessary.

To this day, it makes me angry that the self-destructive garbage who wrought that tragedy upon our shores succeeded in rearranging our lives for a week. That ensuing Sunday without football, without the race at New Hampshire Motor Speedway taking its green flag as scheduled, successfully redoubled my anger. At the risk of trivializing the horrific loss of life, I remain furious that scum on the pond of humanity succeeded in adding that small “victory” to its impact on our nation.

The beauty of freedom is that it’s fine for me to have felt that way, just as I’m cool with you if such dreadful events drive you to the “it’s only a game” philosophy. We get to disagree — even vehemently, sometimes — then go our merry way. That’s the individual liberty that drives a despicable minority of an unimaginable persuasion to target us.

Sports, on par with music and faith, was my refuge during those dark days. I saddled up and went to my job as Sun Journal sports editor that clear, bright Tuesday morning. I stood with colleagues at the corner of Park and Pine and handed out our bulldog edition, all the while planning the high school football weekend coverage that lay ahead.

Couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. At the end of our worst days, that’s what our country is all about. And when the buzzer or whistle sounds, it is the relentless mentality and dogged persistence that those just-a-games teach.

So I loved that second Sunday, when our leaders and the NFL commissioner (back when I respected each) deemed it reasonably safe, appropriate and even necessary to play on. And I’ve loved every one in the 15 seasons that have followed.

In this new, post-patriotic world where we entertain debate about whether our flag and our anthem are appropriate props for social protest, I adore the fact that both were on display Sept. 11, 2016, to ostentatious excess. In this new climate where the visible and invisible dangers of football are discussed with hand-wringing and fear, I love the fact that grown men strapped up and fearlessly entertained us by the tens of thousands across the fruited plain.

Because you know that the people who hate us hate that, too. They hate it all.

The healing power of sports is grossly underestimated. When my dear mother passed in 2005, even as tears were shed and hugs were exchanged at the funeral home on an autumn Friday night and the church on Saturday afternoon, I merely wanted to get back to my holy ground, pacing a sideline with clipboard in hand. And I knew she would understand.

Here in Kentucky, where I have embraced my new role as editor of a community newspaper’s sports section in a sports-ravenous small city, a college football player recently lost his life in an accident. Only nine days later, his teammates took out their hurt and frustration on a helpless opponent.

It actually was beautiful to watch. I’m fully convinced that their fallen friend had the best seat in the house. To say he understood that life must go on surely was an understatement. He would have been angry if they took any other approach.

Religion and politics divide us. Death and taxes haunt us. Evil threatens us. Sports galvanize us.

I don’t know where I would be without sports. I don’t know how I would have survived the racing heart and cold sweat of Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001, or any of the challenges in life that have followed. Frankly, I don’t understand how anyone enjoys life without sports.

You can’t relate to that? No problem. We can still be friends. Just know that I don’t understand you, either.

If you need me, I’ll be over here watching football, celebrating the nation and the freedom that I adore.

Kalle Oakes was a 27-year veteran of the Sun Journal sports staff before relocating in May. His email is kaloakes1972@yahoo.com.