Uniforms should be uniform. Period.

The Red Sox will wear these day-glo shirts on the Patriots Day weekend.

When I was a youngster growing up, I idolized the Red Sox -- even though, for most of my early fandom, they were among the worst teams in baseball.

It wasn't until I was 13 years old, in 1967, when the Red Sox renounced their stumbling ways and became winners of a sort. Yes, they won the American League in dramatic fashion and went to their first World Series since 1946, what we all came to call the "Impossible Dream" season before the St. Louis Cardinals ended the dream in Game Seven of the Fall Classic. It would be until 2004 before New Englanders would finally be able to celebrate a World Series championship.

But if there was one constant throughout my life, as well of those much older, it was the Red Sox home uniform.

Current uniforms worn by the Boston Red Sox.

The uniform worn by Xander Bogaerts on Opening Day 2021 has, in fact, been relatively unchanged since 1933. Just do a Google search of "Red Sox uniforms," and you will see that the current style can be traced all the way back to that very uniform. Yes, there have been several changes to the road uniform over the years (the current one is the best) and some tweaks to the home attire -- who can forget the double-knits of the mid-1970s with no front buttons, no piping, and the three-color elastic waistlines on the pants? -- but for the last 43 years, the home shirts have been absolutely the same with just a few exceptions.

The John Henry ownership has inserted its own touches, such as getting rid of the blue undershirt sleeves for red and making the stirrup socks all red before the pants legs touched the ground. Their premise was that the team was the "Red Sox," and thus the primary color should be red. They even went as far as creating an all-red game jersey for Friday nights at home (I despise it) as well as an all-blue road shirt (which isn't as bad).

But now, they've gone too far.

This coming Patriots Day weekend, the Red Sox will wear shirts of yellow with light blue letters that will say "Boston" across the front. They are said to be commemorative of the Boston Marathon (which is enduring another pandemic cancellation this year) and they adopt the colors of Boston's city flag as a means of celebrating the "Boston Strong" ideal that grew out of the bombing near the marathon's finish line in 2013.

At least that's what the folks at Nike are saying. They are the ones that designed these atrocities, and they are responsible for turning team uniforms in practically every sport into a cottage industry.

Ted Williams (left) and Joe DiMaggio are wearing
uniforms similar to what the teams wear today.

Back in the days of my youth, a major-league sports uniform was something special. It was something that was unattainable to everyone except those who had been talented enough to earn it. The pro uniform was the ultimate expression of accomplishment, not to be sullied by the likes of mere mortals.

But at some point, the leagues figured out that people would pay anything for replica uniforms. At first, they marketed knockoffs that were not exact copies of the real things -- maybe different fonts for the numbers or players' names, the sort of thing not everyone would immediately notice. But gradually, the demand rose for the real thing. So, for a premium price, the exact uniforms were marketed to the masses.

I took a quick look at the Patriots Pro Shop web site, and while there are still plenty of inexpensive knockoff shirts available, the most desirable are those marketed as "real game jerseys." (Aside: Having spent the better part of 43 years in the Patriots' locker room, I can tell you that "real" game jerseys for many players are specifically tailored for their position, with added elastic or cut-out areas to accommodate their movement and flexibility needs. But the ones you buy online are close.) And they aren't cheap.

A blue Cam Newton shirt, for instance, will set you back $119.99. If you want it customized with your own name and number, you have to pay $149.99. And if you're really foolish, you can buy one of their leftover Tom Brady game jerseys, complete with autograph, for $2,399.99.

Over on the Red Sox official shopping site, a customized replica jersey will set you back $149.99, and a specific player's numbered shirt is $139.99 -- but note, the white shirts come with that player's name in red letters on the back, and as we all know, the authentic home shirt does not have names on the back. And if you want an authentic, non-numbered version of the yellow "City Connect" shirt, it will set you back $439.99. A replica version goes for just $134.99.

And that wasn't enough for Nike, which now owns exclusive rights to the manufacture of uniforms in the NFL, Major League Baseball and the NBA (Adidas holds the rights to manufacture the NHL's uniforms).

Seriously, what the hell was this?

Over the past decade or so, Nike has been very persuasive in the effort to convince the leagues to introduce multiple uniform styles for its member teams. The NBA has embraced this to a fault, in that there are so many uniforms being used by its member teams, it's hard to tell from first glance whether it's a home or away game, or even what team is playing. Last night, in fact, I had to look several times at the uniforms worn by the team the Celtics were playing to see who it was. I finally figured out that the Liberty Bell with a number in it represented the Philadelphia 76ers.

The purpose of all this, of course, is to make you spend your money.

There are way too many people in the world that absolutely have to wear replica jerseys. There haven't been 68,000 people in Gillette Stadium for a while, but when there were crowds of that sort, there were games in which I'd see almost 40 percent of the crowd wearing replica jerseys.

And these weren't young kids that were idolizing their gridiron heroes. These were people old enough to know better -- mostly overweight white men in their 40s and 50s, stretching Tom Brady's No. 12 across their bloated bellies in a manner perilously close to bursting the fabric. Or there would be the occasional soul with a personalized jersey (usually with the number 69, ha ha), his own name or a nickname on the back, as if he somehow "earned" the right to wear that jersey.

In my book, uniforms are supposed to be something special. Something unique. Something that represents a level of excellence that can't be matched by just any random person. That's how I always regarded the uniforms of the Red Sox, Patriots, Celtics and Bruins. But that ship has sailed, and it's too far out of port to return.

I've heard the argument that claims colorful alternate jerseys is one way to get young people involved in the sport. Hey, MLB? If you want to get young people involved, stop playing four-hour World Series games that start at 9 p.m. Hey, Red Sox? Stop charging an average of $283 to get into the ballpark. Otherwise, if the kids haven't already left their Playstations to pick up a glove and head into the field, they're not going to do so just because you're wearing a hideous uniform that makes one think that they'd look good on a fellow scooping out a quart of Del's Frozen Lemonade for you on a hot summer day.

I have to give the Sox some credit for bucking the trend, at least for as long as they had. Some major league teams change their uniforms faster than members of their fan base change their underwear. Only the New York Yankees appear willing to reject alternate uniforms, although that doesn't mean you can't get an authentic game jersey for your very own for $150.

It's all about the marketing. And in today's sports culture, it's impossible to resist -- by the companies looking to get big contracts, the teams looking for new revenue streams, and the fans that feel the intense need to identify with the players.

I have never owned a replica jersey. I own one "game-worn" uniform, a Providence College basketball jersey worn briefly by a former local athlete which I purchased as a joke. I tried it on once. It didn't fit. It hangs quietly in a closet, awaiting the next time I can pull it out for a good laugh.

Otherwise, as a sportswriter, I had no reason whatsoever to identify with the people I covered. I couldn't do what they do, so I felt no need to act as if I could. I don't want to be the Pope, either, so you're not going to see me walking around wearing the replica vestments of Pope Francis.

I guess I have always lived by some wise words once uttered by my friend Ron Hobson, the former Patriots beat writer for The Patriot Ledger of Quincy. "Never wear a jersey of anyone younger than you are," he said.

I'd take it one step further. "Never wear the uniform of a team for which you didn't play," has been my credo. Unfortunately, the almighty dollar dictates otherwise these days. It's just too bad I don't fit into my old No. 19 shirt from the Foxboro American Legion Post 93 baseball team any more, but let's face it, at age 67, I'd look pretty damned silly to be wearing it at all.