The sky is falling. I knew it.

The last time I looked, the Red Sox lead over the despised (ptui) New York Yankees was five games and falling. It could be less by now. It could be more.

I doubt it.

Since I was a lad in short pants (come to think of it, I am back in short pants) The immutable law of life was after death and taxes, the Yankees would beat the (whatever) out of the hometown Red Sox, whenever and wherever it mattered.

We didn’t like it, but we learned to live with it. We were freshmen and the Yankees were the strutting seniors.

I am a hopeless sports addict and even listen to Boston sports radio at least several hours a day. When the Red Sox were up by 141/2 games on May 29, both the hosts and the callers were debating who should start the opening game of the World Series. Not me.

I knew better.

I wasn’t around for the 1918 World Series. I am not that old. But I kept a scrapbook when Clyde Vollmer was hitting ninth-inning homeruns twice a week. I saw Ted Williams play and I am convinced that I saw his last home run.

Those were the good times.

I was watching at Pete Coffey’s house when Bucky Dent hit the home run in 1978 (and actually made money by betting on the Yankees). I was sitting, screaming in my living room in 1986 when Bill Buckner let that Mookie Wilson grounder skid by him. I screamed bloody murder when manager Grady Little (ptui!) let Pedro Martinez go back on the mound in the 2003 playoffs.

Those were the bad times.

Sure, they beat the Yankees and won the World Series in 2004. That was just to set you up for this year’s collapse. Like Brando said in “The Godfather,” every time I think I’m out, they pull me back in.

I always feel like Charlie Brown, trying to kick that football, once again believing that Lucy will not pull it away at the last second.

I hate to say it but when in doubt, bet against the Red Sox. My uncle Carl (a paratrooper who jumped at D-Day) was a New Yorker and made a fortune backing the Yankees for decades.

The Yankees stumbled through the spring, losing much more than they were winning. One pitcher pulled a muscle warming up. They couldn’t hit. They couldn’t catch. Their pitching was terrible. There was talk (a lot of it) of firing veteran manager Joe Torre.

Then they got hot. Red hot. They ran off a 21-7 record, gaining on the Red Sox, who were playing .500 ball, losing just as much as they won. The Yankees actually averaged 10 runs a game during their last home stand for the first time, ever.

And now there were five games.

I simply cannot stay up and watch the West Coast games, which start at 9 or 10 p.m. Maybe an inning or two. When I turned on the television Tuesday night and saw Tim Wakefield on the mound, I turned it off. I can’t stand to watch his games. He is one of the last knuckleball (slow pitch) pitchers around and his games seem to take forever. I believe that the fielders fall asleep, because the innings take so long.

Apparently I didn’t miss much.

Let the Boston Globe’s Gordon Edes describe the carnage:

“A line drive over Wily Mo Pena’s head. Coco Crisp throwing a rainbow to home plate. Tim Wakefield walking the leadoff man after being handed the lead. Julio Lugo stumbling over his own feet and botching a double-play ball for the second straight night. Manny Ramirez missing another cutoff man while a run scored. Kevin Youkilis bobbling a ball, losing a chance for a force at second. Manny Delcarmen undone by two balls, one that barely made it to the mound, the other a trickle in front of the plate. Third-base coach DeMarlo Hale waving Mike Lowell home with no outs and the Sox down by three. Crisp again, playing soccer in center and kicking away his club-record errorless streak.”

They lost, 10-4.

Does that sound like a World Series team to you? I’m glad I turned it off.

I believe I will now take to my (queen sized) bed, pull the covers up and pray for October.

The sky is falling.

Again.

Send complaints and compliments to Emmet Meara at emmetmeara@msn.com.