The football season has arrived, and it is that time of year we gather at the break room and share stories of football seasons past.

We regale over “The Call” in last year’s Super Bowl, discuss great plays and argue over who is better, Tom Brady or Peyton Manning.

We also relive our own gridiron exploits — well, at least I do.

Earlier this week, I received an email from photographer John Fisken with some shots of the recent youth football jamboree.

That tripped a memory of mine. I was in the center of a miraculous last-second play, one that rivals Doug Flutie’s Hail Mary; California’s seven-lateral, run over the trombone player touchdown; and Franco Harris’ Immaculate Reception.

YOU SEE, I was Beast Mode before Marshawn Lynch was born. And I was only 13.

When I was a youngster, Oak Harbor had its own youth football league of four teams for boys fifth through seventh grade.

As a seventh-grader, I was physically mature for my age, and I had to diet for a few days to make the league’s upper weight limit. So I was one of the league’s largest players; I was also one of the league’s fastest runners. That, mixed in with a few ounces of athleticism and bucketful of confidence, made me tough to tackle.

I played for the Trojans, the league’s best team. Late in the season we were undefeated and playing the Spartans, a team we thumped the first time through the schedule.

THIS SATURDAY, however, we were about the lose our first game. The Spartans had a six-point lead and the ball within our 10-yard line with only seconds remaining. We were out of timeouts, and a kneel-down would seal the win for the Spartans.

The Spartans, still stinging from the early beating we inflicted upon them, had other plans. They wanted to score again to rub it in, and they called timeout with five second left to play.

Our coach was irate at this breech of sports etiquette. Our coach was also an idiot. We wouldn’t have been in this mess had he let me carry the ball every play. He said our other backs, Randy Allen and Russ Fuller, were more than capable of helping us win.

Randy went on to become a collegiate golf champion. In high school, Russ was one of the state’s top distance runners. So, yes, they were good athletes, but I was a football stud.

He inexplicably gave my carries to a golfer and a miler!

So, as you can see, our coach was an idiot. He was also my older brother, Mike.

Back to the game.

AT THE TIMEOUT, Mike was furious at the Spartans for their lack of sportsmanship.  “We’ll show ’em,” he said. “We will beat them.”

Hello, Mike — we were down a touchdown, the ball was on our 5-yard line and they had the ball.

That didn’t stop him from coming up with a cockamamy scheme to pull off the miracle: “Jim, I want you to line up at nose guard (I was usually the middle linebacker). As soon as the center flinches, crush him and cause a fumble on the snap. Pick up the ball and run in for the score.”

Fat chance, I thought. I had a better chance of landing a date with Melodi Clark, the hottest girl in the seventh grade. She was so cool, she dated ninth-graders.

But, being the respectful player that I was, I did what my coach told me to do. (Also, Mike was much bigger than me.)

The Spartan center was William Betancourt. William was in my grade, a good student and nice guy. He was also 30 pounds lighter than me and not very athletic.

The last thing William expected to see was me, the monster of the league, lined up several inches from his face. I could tell he was scared.

The Spartan quarterback was Jeff Brown, one of my best friends.

ON THE SNAP, I pulverized William, blasting him into Jeff’s lap. The ball squirted out, I picked it up, ran over Jeff, plowed through the Spartan running back (Quake Mode) and saw nothing but 90 yards of green grass and glory in front of me.

At first I was startled — Mike’s plan worked. I quickly regained my senses and surmised it was successful because of my superior athleticism. I also thought, when this is over, Melodi Clark would surely be pining for a date.

The idiot (aka Mike) once told me to never look back when on a breakaway run because it would slow me down. I, of course, knew better. And, hey, how could one little peek hurt?

WHEN I glanced back about 30 yards from the end zone, I saw Jeff Brown just leaving his feet to tackle me. He clipped my ankle, I stumbled, but I, not surprisingly (remember, I’m in Quake Mode), regained my balance.

I was going to score. I was going to be the hero. If ESPN existed, this would be the play of the day, the play of the century. Heck, Melodi might even call me. Start dialing, Melodi…

The next thing I knew, my mask was plowing through the turf as I slid face-first across the chalk of the 5-yard line.

Stunned, I turned to see who tackled me just feet from eternal glory and dating bliss.

It seems William Betancourt wasn’t afraid or unathletic.