If it so please the court, I’d like to stick a toe outside the sports realm for today’s essay.

All everybody wants to talk about this week is the weather and, since I can’t do anything about it, I intend to write about it.

What descended upon our fair city this week was officially called a “blizzard” — the first in our history, they say — and if that is accurate then it’s just one more chance for the people up north to chuckle at us down here. This, mind you, after two frozen-tundra schools battled for the football national championship with no involvement from the Southeastern Conference.

Me, I thought we awoke Tuesday to what looked more like a tranquil Christmas card, missing only some one-horse open sleighs full of frolicking, bundled-up families dashing through the snow.

But, offhand, based on 947 or so posted pictures, I’d say we’re going to need to work on our snowman game.

Even my daughter Jennifer, the famous engineer, finally calculated that this snow was too fuzzy to be worthy of her talents, but she’s a perfectionist so … thanks to everybody for trying.

And there’s the downside — the next day didn’t look much like a postcard. Just a big, slushy mess.

So let’s go ahead and get this meltdown over with.

But, before thawing out, this does seem as good of a time as any to bring up my favorite snow story. I’ve been waiting many eons for an excuse to share it.

Actually, it’s not my snow story. However, I heard it often from the lips of the late Scott McPherson, who was probably this city’s funniest storyteller, certainly the most jovial. Gosh, we happy-hour friends sure miss sitting around at his ample knee, enthralled as he regaled us with one hilarious tale after another.

This is one we would beg to hear again and again. It never got old.

It wasn’t even his best story, mind you, but the statute of limitations may not have run out for surviving cohorts on that gem. Besides, this one is weather related.

He would tell it much better than me, but I’ll take a shot at it.

Scott, you see, worked for a well-known oilfield services company, and traveled both near and far, often extensively.

Just as often, it seemed, that meant going up north, way up north, way too far up north for anybody’s good. Up where it often got way, way colder than what we’ve gone through this week.

The job in question was, I believe, in North Dakota, although it may have been Wyoming or Montana or perhaps Ice Station Zebra.

Point is, there weren’t any palm trees around. It was one of those places that seems eternally frozen.

But it was also a resilient frontier where an especially bad blizzard meant maybe putting on long underdrawers, not shutting down the entire state. The kind of place where the elementary schools’ concession to winter was that when the temperature fell below 10 degrees, the kiddos had to stay inside for recess.

Anyway, for this job the bosses of the oil rig needing his expertise were putting him up for the trip’s duration in a small house in a fairly remote area just outside of the nearest small town.

Well, wouldn’t you know it — a week or so in, there came the winter version of a Cat 5 hurricane. It was weather you wouldn’t wish on the Buffalo Bills.

It was bad enough that the oil rig honchos told him not to risk trying to get out there that day.

So he was stranded alone at his humble dwelling, listening to strange, scary sounds, fearing the walls wouldn’t hold up against the snowmageddon waging war outside.

It lasted for hours, is what it did.

Scott said he got to thinking that even if those creaky walls held up, an avalanche might cover the whole place up.

Finally, there was a brief lull in the snowy squall — a downturn, at least, from the actual sideways snowfall, although the snow drifts seemed like mountains and were ever-changing as the wind was still whipping around pretty good out there.

It was then the oil rig company called him again.

They said they were going to send out a couple of guys to brave the icy roads, drop by to check on him, maybe bring some fresh supplies.

So Scott hunkered down, waiting on some welcome contact from the outside world to plow through with provisions.

He imagined, according to his version, that they might be trudging their way behind a dog sled team.

So he was surprised when it was only minutes later when there was a gentle knock on the door.

Well, that was fast, he thought.

It took a long minute or two for him to get the door open, as it was double bolted, an extra barricade to keep the elements at bay.

Finally, he braced his considerable bulk against the door and slowly creaked it open.

And what before his startled eyes should appear but … nothing. Until he looked down and …

It was two young girls selling Girl Scout cookies.

Their mother was waiting in the car at the curb.