Five years ago, who could talk about a "recession" in the sports entertainment industry? Now, in addition to the aforementioned "disasters"--and if you're like me, no matter what the players and owners say on ESPN, somebody not collecting part of a $500,000 salary for playing the game he loves is hardly a disaster--you've got the countless ushers, ticket-takers and vendors of the service trade who have no place to go.

This is the real tragedy of the concurrent sports strikes: we recognize and miss the faces in uniform; we don't even take note (nor have we ever) of the guy in the blue uniform who can yell "Ice cream, here! Brigham's!" across five aisles in Boston Garden and be heard loud and clear. He has got to be hurting more than anybody else by baseball's and hockey's absences.

That is, financially. Spiritually, all of America mourns the (temporary?) loss of our heroes. No NLCS and ALCS means no cheering for the Yankees or the Cinderella Indians, no indignant fury at discovering that because of The Baseball Network, we in Boston (as an American League town) would have no access to the NLCS this year save on satellite.

No hockey season means no debating the merits of Lacher and Ryabchikov in the Bruins' goal, no evaluations of the Penguins' iineup without Mario (and with Farrell?), no wondering how Minnesota can not have an NHL, team and how Texas and California can have four between them.

Instead, we worry. A little indignation is an essential part of the sports experience, as any good Red Sox fan could tell you. But right now, we don't get to worry about injuries, poor television coverage and road trips to Alberta.

We wonder if there will be an NHL, season, and if so, how long might it be? Will baseball lose its antitrust exemption? And can we keep our sanity until the whole nightmare ends?

I guess the NFL likes its newlyfound monopoly of air-time. And I guess the NBA is soon to follow, its own labor turmoil wisely closeted for at least this year.

But actually, I find myself breath-lessly anticipating the college hockey season. Granted, this is always a big thing at Harvard, and I more than many have enjoyed its charms in my first two-and-a-quarter years here.

But the other day, while debating with a friend the merits of a Martins-Gustafson-Cohagan first-line offensive partnership, I caught myself unawares, thinking. "I don't do this much anymore, do I?"

I guess you can catch me in Potsdam, New York, and Burlington. Vermont, negative-15 wind-chills and two foot snowdrifts included. Winter is here early, and I can only see a long, white nightmare on a dark northern skyline.

In winter, antifreeze and a good shovel come first, hopes of human kindness a distant second.