By my New England birthright, I no longer believe in jinxes, curses, dumb luck or anything else that formerly characterized our star-crossed neighborhood in the sports universe.

So I’m comfortable pointing out that we are essentially four intermissions away from holding three of the four major North American team sports titles at the same time.

This never-ending rotation of must-have T-shirts and hats never fails to incite a bitter proclamation from someone else in the 99-plus percent who hate us and ain’t us.

“Y’all (because I may or may not have heard this once or twice in my new digs) don’t appreciate how good you have it right now,” they take turns muttering.

Wrong, Way wrong, at least if you’re talking to a Boston sports sympathizer of a certain age, which in this case means my number or tree rings or older.

We are, in fact, acutely aware of how ridiculously the first two decades of this century have unfolded. We fully understand that this embarrassment of riches won’t collect interest forever. We are keenly trained to hear the sound of the other cleat, sneaker or skate dropping.

Surely I’m not the only one who sits around recalling what life was like in 2002, before John Madden got goose bumps, Adam Vinatieri split the uprights, and Lonie Paxton made dry, artificial turf snow angels.

It was the year I turned 30, and I had every reason to believe I might never see one of “my” teams win a championship even if I lived another six decades.

This past week’s journey around the circle of life, underscored by the death of Bill Buckner and the promotion of Carl Yastrzemski’s grandson, Mike, to the big leagues, brought it all back in waves.

The Red Sox were the best team in baseball for most of 1978 and had 1986’s clear-cut, runaway champion-in-waiting on the ropes after a comeback for the ages simply to get there. Yet in both cases it was clear the baseball deities harbored no illusions of releasing us from purgatory.

Two future American League East champions were foiled by the Oakland Anabolics, uhhh, I mean Athletics, not to mention their ace-turned-closer the Sox once traded away in return for (of course) Buckner.

Not even having the best starting pitcher of his generation, in his prime, was enough to derail a Yankees mini-dynasty of four titles in five seasons. We cringed when Pedro Martinez made those daddy issues public, but he merely verbalized what was in all our minds.

Our other folk hero of the day wilted every time he stared down the rival and their intangibly gifted star who played the same position. It was all too familiar. The Olde Towne Team brought us batting titles and Cy Young Awards for days, but they were never going to put a ring on it.

As for the Patriots, my goodness, there was no more stigmatized outfit in all of pro football. Trust me, 30-and-under folk: To whatever degree you consider the Browns, Bengals, Raiders or Lions a laughingstock, they paled by comparison to the knock-knock joke of a team in Foxborough.

The list of things for which New England’s football was known other than winning was a mile long. Some low lights: Fans getting electrocuted after tearing down the goalposts to celebrate a wild card berth; a 46-10 drubbing that same winter, sandwiched by the star receiver getting gashed by a kitchen utensil and numerous players being outed for drug abuse; a locker room sexual harassment travesty that was handled with utter disgrace by everyone except the victim.

Even after Robert Kraft inexplicably bought the team to keep it from moving to St. Louis, and Bill Parcells brought immediate credibility on the field, the two bickered like an old sitcom couple and ultimately divorced. Parcells’ second replacement cost a first-round draft pick and seemed like a grasping at straws, since he’d presided over the last days of the Browns’ first incarnation in Cleveland with but one playoff berth to show for it.

The Bruins? Well, they had become the poster team for winning division titles – 10, between Bobby Orr’s belief that he could fly and century’s end – without a sip from Lord Stanley’s chalice to show for it. Their 1989-90 President’s Trophy might as well as have been a paper cup with Edmonton’s Mark Messier and Jari Kurri so highly motivated to win one without their infamously traded teammate, Wayne Whatshisname.

And the next decade was such a vacuum of real success that the great Ray Bourque finally was dealt away out of mercy. Can’t say for sure what is the definition of “rock bottom,” but in sports, it’s probably when your starving section of the country throws a parade for a guy who finally gets to go somewhere else and win it all.

Once the standard bearer for this sorry lot, the Celtics were stuck on 16 banners for a relative eternity. Len Bias and Reggie Lewis were lost in unspeakably tragic fashion. Larry Bird’s spine and spirit broke at roughly the same time, the latter a product of rival and friend Magic Johnson’s HIV disclosure. The coach hailed as savior, still one stop away from his own career-killing, adult-themed scandals, took too much pleasure in reminding us that Bird and the fellow legends of his era weren’t coming back.

It was all so inspirational and glorious, and it was the fate to which I was sure I’d be condemned through my adult life as a fan.

To tell us we don’t appreciate the here-and-now grossly discounts our level of emotional investment in the been-and-gone.

Can’t speak for you, but I know I’m enjoying every nanosecond of this time atop the mountain.

Go B’s.

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.