I felt the existential thud while driving home Friday evening from a few glorious, sun-filled days of fishing up in Greenville.

“And the Red Sox season has ended,” Joe Castiglione said glumly over the car radio after Boston was swept out of the playoffs by the Chicago White Sox.

Before I even had time to digest the reality of that statement, the disappointing finality of it, another Red Sox summer was abruptly shoved aside on the radio for the wintry feel of a University of Maine hockey game.

Then the cold rains began, as if on cue, washing out the entire weekend and casting the world in a miserable gray funk.

Then my car battery died Sunday evening, just like that, leaving me stranded and helpless in a parking lot at the mall as the deluge lashed at my windshield.

How very fitting it all seemed at the moment.

Later that evening, in a moment of painful acquiescence, I finally turned up the thermostat in the chilly living room for the first time. The initial whoosh of the furnace was the seasonal signal I’d tried so hard to ignore until then, but could no longer.

As long as the Red Sox were playing baseball, you see, and still had an outside chance of winning another World Series championship, summer had not officially ended.

Not here in Red Sox Nation, at least.

This desperate seasonal illusion, common to fans throughout New England, was a convenient way to forget what the calendar said and to cling just a while longer to the lingering warmth of a fraudulent late summer while holding the approaching dark season at bay.

Until, the final out of the final Red Sox postseason game, in fact, we could all make believe that the sun was still high in the sky at 7 p.m., that the crisp fall breezes indicated nothing more than a cool front that would soon pass, and that those dried red and yellow leaves drifting through the streets were a mirage rather than the indisputable evidence of yet another sweet summer passing from memory.

As long as the Red Sox were still playing baseball, in fact, we still had plenty of time to finish those outdoor projects around the house before the snowflakes began to fly.

Extending that seasonal self-delusion this time around required, of course, that the Red Sox pull off the kind of miracles they produced in abundance last year, when they proved to their delirious fans that anything was possible if you just kept the faith.

But they had no more miracles to conjure, no more late-inning heroics to lift them, no curses left to undo, no more opportune breaks that might have turned one playoff game around and given them the momentum to win the next, like that lovable bunch of idiots managed to do so surprisingly well last year. There were no noble bloody socks this time, either, no exhilarating “cowboy up” comebacks, no Big Papi to the rescue. Even Manny being Manny couldn’t overcome the team’s flawed pitching staff and turn things around this time.

And so, summer ended officially Friday night, leaving disappointed Red Sox fans to find out through the fall and into the winter whether there really is sufficient solace in having been part of one world championship in 87 years.

Besides, there’s always last year to remember and next year to look forward to all over again.

According to my calendar, it’s only about five months away.