Once, for me, nobody came anywhere close to Mo Lewis. That’s right. Mo Lewis. Former hard-hitting outside linebacker for the New York Jets. Today Mo’s retired, but, in his prime, he sure could put a lickin’ on anything dumb enough to run in his direction.

I spent many a Sunday with Mo and the Jets as a kid, I witnessed his ascent to football greatness and his descent into its loathsome counterpart — the total obscurity of professional sports retirement. No matter, I was always in Mo’s corner. Fully and unquestioningly, I was in the tank for this guy big time.

I even met him once. As a summer ritual, I would ride my bike over to the Jets’ practice facility at Hofstra and wait, hoping to get a glimpse of my favorite stars. Memories are strong from that point in my life, I remember the surly LaMont Jordan coasting by on a golf cart, Curtis Martin stopping to chat in his SUV and kicker John Hall agreeing to let me come catch his field goals (Security had something else to say about that). From this vantage point, I also got a chance to see the great Mo.

I’ll spare you most of the details, but, from what I remember, I went up to him and told him — with a huge smile and slight trepidation — that he was my idol and role model. “Ok kid,” he replied, and then proceeded to sign my favorite piece of clothing, his number 57 jersey, directly across the chest.

I was a happy kid that day to say the least — the great Mo had put his hand on my shoulder and a sharpie on my jersey. I surmised that life would never be the same.

But, as with most things, my perspective shifted as I grew older. These days I’m less interested in the world of sports and more in the world of politics. I could probably tell you more about the NFL players’ collective bargaining agreement than I could about their stats and I certainly don’t view the members of the Jets as gods, or even demigods, anymore. Yet, for me, and I’d suppose for many Americans as well, sports holds a higher purpose.

In a world so flagrantly devoid of morals and principle, where the headlines tell us of Madoffs and Bin Ladens, of school shootings and senate seat sellings, many of us find respite in sport. Sports bring us back to the purity of life, not only to a time, as with me and Mo, where we didn’t know better, but, to the sacred ideas contained within the essence of sport itself.

The essence of sport is found in its possibilities. We live for the compelling storyline; the poor athlete who becomes a millionaire, the obscure wide receiver who wins the Super Bowl, the guy everyone gave up on who returns to star once more. These stories give us hope, they entertain us but they also remind us that the world isn’t as cruel as it sometimes may seem. Most importantly, we yearn to be brought together by the team, a powerful entity that can unite cities and nations in what feels like an instant.

And yes, in its essence, sport is pure. The games consist of teams, or sides, concentrating on nothing but victory. Concrete boundaries and rules exist, limits that cannot be passed or broken. Once you do, you’re penalized, plain and simple. As we watch, we can only imagine what life could be like should the same dynamics exist outside the game.

And so, for these reasons, sport has held a special place in the hearts of this nation. We follow the narratives compulsively, knowing in our hearts that the game contains more than just what occurs between the lines. In times of trouble we flip the front page for the back and look to our athletes for rays of hope.

They haven’t let us down. In the depression we had James Braddock, the Cinderella man. In the Cold war, the “Miracle on Ice.” And, although little remembered today, in the Second World War thousands of our athletes dropped their equipment and shipped off to serve the country, many even paid the ultimate price.

Today our nation once again finds itself in a time of peril. Our economy continues to decline and our wars in Afghanistan and Iraq proceed with seemingly no end. Now especially we need the magic of sports more than ever. Yet, today, that magic seems to be as far away as ever.

As punctuated by the shameful press conference of Alex Rodriguez this past Tuesday, the athletes of this generation have let us down. They have cheated sport in the most egregious way in their use of performance enhancing drugs. Now, with the purity and sanctity of sport destroyed, those responsible have come to us naked begging for forgiveness. We have been quick to forgive our athletes in the past for we know they are not perfect. This time it’s different. A-Rod said, “I’m here to say that I’m sorry.” This time, we cannot forgive.