As silly as this may seem, I’m going to accentuate the positive. I’m going to be the little boy at Christmas who smells poop and sees a pony.

The world has gone crazy. From the title of a song written by John Sebastian, Oh, the stories we could tell.

And will. Forget about the news and politics. Mainly, I write about sports, and I’m damn glad to do it.

Remember the year Carolina didn’t play Clemson and Clinton didn’t play Laurens?

Remember when Brigham Young and Coastal Carolina “got up a game” with two days to spare?

Remember when they played the games and ran the races without crowds to watch them?

Remember when virtual games became virtual reality?

Live on tape from the Ed Sullivan Theater? (Okay, not sports, but a memorable oxymoron.)

Each morning I awaken, put on some coffee, take a deep breath, turn on the TV and cell and have a look at the emails. Not much surprises me anymore.

Holed up and mingling socially with loneliness, I have seen some amazing ballgames. The aforementioned miracle match-up between BYU and CCU was also a miracle game. Not only that, but overnight, the number of people who could pronounce “chanticleers” doubled, maybe tripled, or even increased exponentially.

Why, a “shont-uh-CLEER” is a rooster. A Paladin is a knight. A Flying Fleet has Snoopy at the controls of his trusty Sopwith Camel. A Blue Hose is a kilt-wearing Scottish warrior. That’s Coastal Carolina, Furman, Erskine and Presbyterian if you’re keeping a glossary at home.

Ah, the stories we could tell / And if it all blows up and goes to hell / I wish we could sit upon the bed in some motel / Just listen to the stories we could tell.

As is often the case, it’s not as bad as some say. It couldn’t be, as well versed as we are in the use of hyperbole.

A fresh new generation will age fully capable of using such go-to terms as “back in my day” and “that ain’t nothin’.”

We won, Paw-Paw! The place was packed!

Back in my day, didn’t nobody come, sonny boy. They wouldn’t let but so many folks in.

Next week, we’re at home again.

We didn’t know who we was a-playin’ till two days before we played ’em.

Yeah, right.

Don’t you dispute my word, ya little whippersnapper!

What’s a whippersnapper?

Kids, be grateful for the perverse joy of enduring hardship to be exaggerated in future years. Think of the lame alternative.

Back in my day, we didn’t get to be beamed instantly into our classrooms. We had to drive to school in our own SUVs. And we were damned glad to have ’em.

As Bing Crosby famously sang:

You got to accentuate the positive / Eliminate the negative / Latch on to the affirmative / Don’t mess with Mister In-Between.

Don’t let it be too much of a good thing, though. In conclusion, wear your mask. Don’t bore me with your rights. Do it because you got some sense.

Then you can bore your grandkids.