The month of September has been one of the worst in recent memories for the Boston sports fan. The Red Sox are on the verge of what might end up being the worst late-season implosion in baseball history. The Patriots blew a 21-0 lead in Buffalo. And even while they were going 2-0, the Pats showed a defense so soft it should have a sponsorship deal with memory foam pillows. The kind of defense that might have already cost them Super Bowl titles four through seven and is a recipe for disaster if they don’t fix it soon.

And after a lot of soul searching over the last few days, I’ve come to the conclusion that I, for one, had it coming. I’d gotten too arrogant, too overconfident, and I deserved a month this bad as a cold slap in the face to snap me back to reality.

Because I’d gotten cocky. During 10 years of unprecedented success, I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to lose -- and to lose in a humiliating fashion. After all, it’s been ... what? Three months since our last championship? So you can forgive me if I watched the Sox' American League East lead -- and then wild card cushion -- shrink, and thought nothing of it. Or if I saw the Patriots make wholesale changes on defense and decided not to sweat it. Or if read there’s a good chance the Celtics might not have a season and chose to ignore it. Because I just figured things will work out for us. They always do. Because after all, our teams are invincible.

Well, this past weekend was my wakeup call. In a 24-hour stretch the Sox’ playoff lead evaporated altogether. John Lackey had a ridiculous public meltdown that embarrassed the whole organization. And Tom Brady threw a game away by tossing as many interceptions as he had all last year. For me, it was swallowing a giant horse pill of reality.

But it was even more. It was an epiphany. I’d been taking success for granted. The Boston pro sports scene has been an embarrassment of riches and I didn’t appreciate it with the proper reverence. And this was the comeuppance I deserved. It’s the classic example of what happens when you get everything you could ever want. Human nature says when you get your heart’s desire, you stop appreciating it. You forget where you come from.

It’s a story as old as mankind itself. Mathew 16:26 says, “For what is a man profited if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?” In “The Prince and the Pauper,” Mark Twain tells of Edward VI, son of Henry VIII, who switches places with poor little Tom Canty of Pudding Lane because he’s so dissatisfied with his own life of privilege and the prospect of marrying hot rich girls with nice butts.

And then there’s the classic story on the topic, 1983’s “Trading Places.” I admit, I’ve been Dan Aykroyd’s Louis Winthorpe III -- wealthy beyond my wildest dreams, and taking it for granted until I saw it being taken away from me. This weekend it was I, not Louis, who had the most absurd nightmare. I was poor and no one liked me. I lost my job, I lost my house, and I lost my leads in the American League wild card and the AFC East. And I didn’t know how to take it. Because like Eddie Murphy’s Billy Ray Valentine tells Louis, “The best way you hurt rich people is by turning them into poor people.” And I was hurt.

Now, back to my epiphany. Monday night I was dragged by my kids to watch the new Fox show “Terra Nova.” If you’ll pardon me Sheldon Cooper-ing it up here for a second, the show is basically “Lost” meets “Jurassic Park” plus “Avatar” with a jigger of “Stargaze: SG 1,” shake and pour. (And if you’re wondering why I’m watching a dinosaur nerd fest when “Monday Night Football” is on ... if you have boys of your own, no answer is necessary. If you don’t, none will suffice.)

Anyway, the premise of “Terra Nova” is that in a dystopian future, with the world a wasteland of toxic air and barren soil, they find a way to send people back through time to start over again. The only catch being that it’s a hole in the space/time continuum that can only send you back 85 million years, when dinosaurs ruled the Earth. It’s not a time machine that can take you back to the “Enchantment Under the Sea Dance” to meet your parents or anything. It’s an express bus that only stops at a time/place when caterpillars are the size of the Subway $5 footlong and you’re the bottom of the food chain for every other living thing.

And watching this, it hit me that this is what these last few weeks have been like for us. A portal back through Boston sports time. A primitive, savage time before we evolved into the species of winner we are today. It’s been like stepping back into the late 1990s. It seems like millennia ago, but there was a time when this is exactly how the world was for us. That time between say, the Patriots’ Super Bowl XXXI run and them winning XXXVI. So, the period between 1997-2000. When nothing seemed possible except failure. A time when we feared the worst and were usually right. When we put our faith in false hopes like Jimy Williams, Rick Pitino, Mike O’Connell and Pete Carroll. When the newcomers we hoped would deliver us never did. Guys like Joe Thornton, Nomar Garciaparra, Chauncey Billups, Ron Mercer and Chris Canty. (Little did we know the only new face brought in in 1997 who’d enjoy any long term success would be Wally the Green Monster.)

So, the last month or so has been a taste of those bad old days that I really needed. A reminder of those times when the stench of failure affected everyone and everything around us. When every player looked like he’d quit and every GM sounded like he was in over his head and every head coach seemed like he’d lost his team. It was the days of Dan Duquette’s infamous “Most days in first place” speech and Pitino’s “Larry Bird’s not walking through that door” diatribe. It was a horrible, demoralizing time. And one I don’t ever want to relive any more than I want to go back to a time before the DVR, free Internet porn, WEEI on FM or Sam Adams Noble Pils.

I confess I’d been taking all the success for granted. But no more. Not after having this horrible stretch remind me how bad things used to be all the time around here. If I’d stopped appreciating the success, I no longer will. Until things go back to the way they were in the summer, I’m in all-out “Please, Clarence, send me back” mode.

Fortunately, the Sox aren’t out of it yet and there’s plenty of time for the Pats defense to jell and make a run at this thing. Because I’m not ready to wait til next spring for the next title. That kind of thinking is way too 1997.

Follow Jerry on Twitter @JerryThornton1.