Not to be morbid, but I often consider what should be written on my tombstone. Lately, I’ve been leaning toward, “Here lies Mikey D. He just could never figure out how to watch his teams play.”

Seriously. There’s always some kind of “yeah, but” attached to cable agreement, streaming company, this plan, that package. Neatly wrapped in enough arcane details to make us reasonably reasonable people pull a Peter Finch in “Network” and start yelling out the window.

Channel 3, our local, if not obtuse, CBS affiliate, decided once again to forgo airing the Giants in favor of the Patriots on Sunday. Kids playing with a television station. I could make the argument that the Giants existed 35 years before the Patriots and that history must prevail over the flavor of the month. I could make the argument that picking the Pats over the Giants is like taking a Five Dollar Foot Long over Nonna’s lasagna. But then, why bother?

Normally, I remedy such a crisis by going to the Birdseye. Its multiple TVs and enough, you know, Diet Cokes mitigate most impending disasters. Somehow, though, I reckoned that taking my 11-year-old son to a gin mill for three hours on a Sunday wouldn’t make DCF very happy. But then just as life was about to give me lemons again, I made limoncello.

I dug out the trusty, old transistor radio — AM only — and brought it to my parents’ house. Sonny got some grandparent time and I went old school. I listened to the game. I’d forgotten sports on the radio create these bygone, but almost transcendent rhythms of childhood innocence that add to the experience.

It helps that the Giants have the best radio broadcast team in the NFL. Bob Papa and Carl Banks are like two friends watching with you in your living room, except that they both know way more about football than you do.

Papa: Anybody who ever wants to broadcast football should listen to him. He gives the time and score frequently. Every snap is complete with personnel packages and formation. Half the fun of sports on the radio is allowing your imagination to draw the picture. Papa does it for you. He is technically perfect. He gets appropriately excited. And there’s nothing better than when Graham Gano’s kicks are “true blue.”

Banks: An all-time Giant, sure. But former jocks are often insufferable, big on homerism and bigger on one-syllable words. Banks is an easy listen and refreshingly honest. (Someone ought to conduct the investigation as to why he’s not doing color for network television.) Banks had his fastball Sunday.

“James Bradberry doesn’t seem like he’s interested in tackling anybody today,” Banks said, prompting me to laugh out loud. This just in: It takes a lot to get me to laugh out loud watching the Giants, what with all the accompanying chest pain.

Earlier in the game, Papa’s play-by-play call included a missed interception by the Giants. “Through the hands of Adoree’ Jackson!” Papa said. Banks, on cue, goes, “where have we heard THAT before?”

(Jackson blew the Atlanta game earlier this year dropping an interception in the end zone).

Kudos to the Giants, too, for allowing their broadcast team to air their opinions. I’m guessing it’s not that way with Generalissimo Kraft up there in Foxboro.

Anyway, the larger point: Radio used to be the only way to follow your team. Sure, there were perils. Sometimes, reception wasn’t so hot. But you made the effort to stand on one leg up on the roof with tin foil wrapped around the antenna because you loved your team. And the announcers became family members. My great grandmother I never met couldn’t speak a word of English, but understood everything Mel Allen said.

So thank you to Channel 3. Your negligence gave me a wonderful, throwback Sunday. So you keep showing the Pats over the Giants when they’re both on CBS simultaneously. Enjoy your Five Dollar Foot Long. I got Nonna’s lasagna in a place I never saw coming Sunday. Sports on the radio. What a novel concept.

This is the opinion of Day sports columnist Mike DiMauro