Sports fans have been pre-occupied lately.

The NFL season is under way, and New York Jets quarterback Mark Sanchez is in the midst of what will certainly be 43 consecutive victories, multiple Super Bowl triumphs and enshrinement — during his second season — in the Hall of Fame.

Simultaneously, baseball is rushing headlong toward the postseason, with the arch-rival Red Sox and Yankees prepping for their inevitable showdown on the way to another Boston World Series win.

While that is going on, however, I've had my eyes trained on professional basketball. Under the cover of no one really paying any attention, the National Basketball Association is locking out its officials and plans to begin its season with replacement referees.

It has always been my dream to be an NBA ref, and I plan on being one of those replacements.

Well, technically it was first my dream to play in the NBA, but slowness, shortness and an inability to dribble a basketball conspired against me.

Then it was my dream to write about the NBA, but several promising attempts in the '80s led nowhere, and my (self-published) book "Rejected: How Wilt Chamberlain's Freakish Height Forced Him to Live a Lonely Life of Celibacy" was ill-received.

From that point on, however, it was always my dream to be an NBA referee.

To most people, refereeing is a horrible, dead-end, nightmarish job. The referee spends half his year living out of suitcases, being despised by thousands of people in every city he visits. Every night, he is screamed at, spit at and disrespected by hulking children who have barely graduated high school. His every mistake is freeze-framed, dissected and held up for everyone to see in loving high definition.

It's no wonder that the NBA is desperately recruiting anyone they can find to fill these putrid jobs — with the added detriment that the replacements are temporary and subject to a Mob hit called in by one or more of the well-connected regular referees.

The league is looking everywhere. High school, college, YMCA referees. The guy who lets his pants get pulled down by the Harlem Globetrotters every night. They're discussing ways of springing Tim Donaghy from prison.

My curriculum vitae will soon begin to look enticing.

I had two seasons of experience refereeing JV basketball not more than two decades ago. I own my own whistle. I don't mind being called "scab" — it was actually an endearing high-school nickname. I look shockingly good in stripes.

I've seen thousands of NBA games and have never once, from the comfort of my couch, made a wrong call. Literally millions of times I've screamed, "How could that idiot not see that!"

Now, I could be that idiot.

What could possibly be in this for me — besides more in meal money than a struggling newspaper columnist makes in salary?

I'd get to travel to exotic locations every night: New York, Los Angeles, Milwaukee, Oklahoma City, Piscataway. I'd get to hang out with Lebron James and bend him to my will. I'd get to be on national television without having to go on a degrading reality show. And after the real refs come back, I might have a better chance of getting on a degrading reality show.

When given the opportunity, I'm certainly not going to waste it.

As a temp with nothing to lose, I won't be afraid to shake things up, break the mold, do things other referees are afraid of — calling a foul on Kobe Bryant or a palming violation on Allen Iverson or awarding five free throws for a particularly stupid foul.

On opening night, I will immediately make a statement, showing the players that they won't be able to push me around. "You!" I will say to Ron Artest. "Dance for me. Dance! Dance like a chicken or feel the wrath of my technical foul!"

I will wield my technical fouls — one of the coolest powers in all of officiating — with little regard for race, stature, player salary or common sense. It will keep the players and coaches honest — and someone should finally tell those coaches that no, not just any necktie will do.

I won't be afraid to adopt the best things from officials of other sports. Football's yellow flag for violations; soccer's red card for fighting; baseball's chest protector and face mask for protection; Australian rules football's top hat, for style.

I know that it will be short-lived, but I'm pursuing my dream. And when I know that it's coming to an end, well, what's the harm in shaving a few points and putting down a wager or two?

E-mail Steve Ouellette at: ouellette1918@gmail.com