God is talking to us. He is telling us to either move or forget about professional sports.

It’s not just the Red Sox, who are in the process of their worst-ever collapse (now, that is saying something). That annual event has become part of New England tradition, a modern version of whipping ourselves with birch branches.

If it’s September, then the Yankees are pounding the stuffing out of the Fenway pretenders, either in Boston or in New York. Doesn’t matter. The losses aren’t bad enough that we have to listen to the true scourges of the Earth, Yankees fans. Red Sox fans can’t shut up during April and May, when their team hits a few homers, wins a few games and flirts with first place. No, we have to call, e-mail and in person taunt the front-running New York fans.

Then comes September.

Yankees fans get their annual revenge and tremendous satisfaction as Pedro Martinez’s arm falls off, Nomar Garciaparra’s wrist develops an extra hinge, Carl Everett forgets he can’t hit the high, hard one, rookie sensation (“Dizzy”) Izzy Alcantara thinks he is playing T-ball and forgets to run after he hits the ball and closer Derrick Lowe tries to see how far batters can hit his “fast” ball.

Everyone agrees that old manager Jimy Williams, who apparently can’t spell his own name, has to go. A new manager is named, Joe Kerrigan, and the team actually gets WORSE. At one point they won exactly one out of 14 games.

So Sports Nation turns its lonely eyes toward the New England Patriots. They have funneled about 11,000 players through preseason workouts and they tell us they are “rebuilding.” That is sports talk for, “We really stink this year.”

For once in my life, I avoided the season opener for the Patriots. It was a beautiful September Sunday and the leaking sailboat Daybreak had to be ferried from its jail in Bayside to the wonder that is Rockland Harbor. It was true that the Pats were playing the worst team in football, the lowly Cincinnati Bengals, who finished 1-15 the year before, the worst record in the league. It was practically a guaranteed win, right?

Not only did I boycott the game, but I took no radio aboard. (It could have been the hunting knife in the delicate hands of my blue-eyed first mate that contributed to my decision to sail radio-free.)

As soon as my smelly Nikes reached shore, the first thought was for the truck radio and a Patriots update. Sometimes you don’t need a score. Sometimes you just have to listen to the tone of the announcer. If it is high-pitched, energetic and excited, then you are in business. But if it is low-pitched, funereal and tired, then you know the (Red Sox, Patriots, Celtics or Bruins, pick one) have lost or are in the process of losing another one.

The first thing I heard was that quarterback Drew Bledsoe was sacked four times. I knew what that meant. I didn’t need the score. Then I heard Bengals running back Corey Dillon topped 100 yards for the day.

Bingo.

The score was just a formality, ending mercifully at 23-17, Cincinnati.

They were even more feeble in their next game, losing their quarterback and the game by 10-7 to the New York Jets. With games against Indianapolis Colts and the resurgent San Diego Chargers next, the Patriots could easily go 0-4 to start the season.

If the Patriots cannot beat the worst team in football, that makes them, I believe, the real worst team in football. They could go winless.

But at least they don’t wait till the last month of the season to collapse.

They did it on opening day.

I am looking in the real estate section of The New York Times for a new place to live. Or maybe the Baltimore Sun. Perhaps the St. Louis Post Dispatch.

God is talking to us. Don’t you believe in God?