At the time, he said it confidently, as would be expected of anyone who traveled all the way into a REM sleep pattern to deliver his message. But sadly, the 20th Century Fox reincarnation of Babe Ruth, sent dutifully into the dreams of Benny ‘The Jet’ Rodriguez, must have been ignoring the obvious when he professed that ‘Heroes get remembered, but legends never die.’

Because even today, just a decade removed from ‘The Sandlot’ movie premiere, the film’s mantra already sounds like hogwash. Not that sports legends never die. It’s just that such talk should be put on hold until they’re old enough to rent a golf cart or view an R-rated movie.

Today’s sports stars are young. In many cases, younger than we are, and I find that depressing as can be. Forget about obtaining immortality. So long as our modern legends are too young to drink alcohol, they should focus on avoiding illegality.

As I pen this sentence – just typing the words that follow ought to come with a free Prozac subscription – I am older than the nation’s most famous female golfer (Michelle Wie), the world’s best male tennis player (Andy Roddick), and the country’s most prolific soccer player (Freddy Adu).

I am one year and 293 days older than Carmelo Anthony, now a rookie on the Denver Nuggets, who returned to the Carrier Dome two days ago, received a legend’s welcome and then issued a legend’s decree.

‘I’ll never be forgotten in this town,’ Anthony said, mimicking the Babe, 89 years his senior.

Even the youngest Syracuse student looks like a cup of Ensure compared to Temba Tshiri, who climbed Everest just a week after turning 16. Or Martina Hingis, who won Wimbledon at 15. Or Kobe Bryant, who first suited up for the Lakers at 18.

Terrell Suggs, the leading sacker on the Baltimore Ravens, can probably be your little brother. Same for Pittsburgh Penguins goaltender Marc-Andre Fleury, young enough to know ‘peeps’ better as buddies than Easter candy, or Los Angeles Dodgers hurler Edwin Jackson, who marked his 20th birthday last month by defeating Randy Johnson.

Let’s face it: this is depressing and sobering stuff. Collectively, it’s a sign that we’ve missed our chance at athletic greatness – unless, 20-odd years down the road, one of us still has the arm to fling a football through a front yard rope-‘n-tire setup, in which case it becomes possible to appear in a Levitra commercial.

But as we’re becoming history, people younger than us are making history. Once, we actually looked up to athletes? Now, chronologically, we must look down to them.

It’s time to face the cold, flaccid fact. We, as college-age sports fans, are past our primes.

Maybe you recall, as I do, a more hopeful time. It’s kind of a preserved dream world, where Macaulay Culkin is forever shrink-wrapped as a 10-year-old and MC Hammer is fossilized atop the Billboard charts. No matter that I was only the third-or fourth-best ballplayer in my elementary school. Alex and Tanner and Danny were gonna make it to the big leagues, too. And we’d all be on same team.

As a child, I lived for sports, and more specifically, for my future as a pro. I’d stop by the drug store on my way to elementary school, somehow able to rationalize that by spending my lunch money on enough Topps cards, I might just have enough gum to amend for a meal. I knew an entire rainbow of ballplayers – from Bud Black to Frank White; from Kevin Brown to Vida Blue – and best of all, I figured I’d soon be one of them, inscribed forever in a Beckett price guide.

Instead, as Carmelo reminded me this weekend, I missed my chance. The legends of our generation have already been determined. The rest of us are simply deigned to chase ordinary lives and, occasionally, write bitter columns lamenting the occurrence.

As college students, we should take an oath. Let’s stop soliciting autographs or wearing jerseys. Let’s stop tacking sports posters to our walls. Let’s stop with the Game 7, ball-in-your-hand fantasies.

Let’s just move on with our lives, and realize the next step. No longer can we pretend we’ll someday be legends. Now, as groupies, we’ll just pretend we’re their friends.

Chico Harlan is a staff writer at The Daily Orange, where his column finally appeared on a Tuesday. E-mail him at apharlan@syr.edu.

Published on October 20, 2003 at 12:00 pm