I WAS wrong. And it’s killing me.

Fifty-five days ago, Byron Scott, the coach of the Nets who also happens to be more opinionated than any 50 talk-radio callers put together, made a solemn vow in the presence of a room full of notebooks and klieg lights.

“I’m done making news for a while,” Scott said that day. “I’m going to have to watch what I say around you guys.”

Speaking on behalf of “us guys,” I set the line on Scott violating that holy commandment at one week. This was more of a hope than a dare, in truth. In Scott’s three years as Nets coach, he has perfected the art of filling notebooks and setting off fire alarms. Ask him a question, he answers the question. That’s Scott’s way. It sure made life around the Nets an awful lot of fun.

If, in the name of candor, he also happened to slam, say, Karl Malone, or Don Chaney, or Latrell Sprewell, or anyone else who’d been on his mind that day . . . well, that’s the cost of being honest, right? Never before had there been a dull day that couldn’t be spiced up with the innocent interrogatory, “Hey, Byron, you got a minute . . . ?”

Yep. It was wise to bring a spare pen when you did that.

Man. Those were the days.

Now, the length and width of trash talk tumbling from Scott’s mouth is limited to taunting cynical writers and skeptical fans for doubting how ready his team would be for the playoffs. This is an actual quote from Scott in the aftermath of the Nets’ 109-96 victory over Milwaukee in Game 1 of this Nets-Bucks first-round series, which resumes tonight:

“I told you we’d be focused! I told you we’d be ready!”

Focused? Ready? Golly, when did Art Howe start coaching the Nets? If we want milquetoast with our postgame analysis, we’ll go to a Devils game. What kind of world do we live in when Joe Torre opens his mouth and ignites an inferno and we can’t even get Byron Scott to make fun of certain Bucks opting to seek solace from the SARS scare outside a Toronto topless joint?

“I’m still me,” Scott said the other day, laughing, acknowledging his present commitment to Quipsters Anonymous. “I still have plenty of things to say. I just say them with the door closed. Or I say them to my wife. It’s easier to stay out of trouble that way.”

OK. Fine. But if you were inclined to comment on, say, just how thoroughly Jason Kidd outplayed Payton in Game 1 . . .

Another smile. Another empty notebook.

“My players, they still know when something’s bothering me,” Scott said. “That’s most important.”

His players can count on that, of course. It was during last year’s playoffs that Scott made his bones as a head coach, pushing every proper button, knowing when to pull back, knowing when to pile on. The verbal jousting was always just a bonus, something that dates back to his very first quote as a professional, in 1983, when he compared his game to Magic Johnson’s:

“Except,” young Byron said, “I’m quicker and can shoot better from the outside.”

Yes. Those really were the days. “I’m still me,” he said again, smiling again.

Fifty-five days. Going on 56. I was wrong. And it’s killing me.

Thing is, if you take a close look at Byron, wearing that invisible gag around his mouth, his neatly-tailored suit doubling as a strait jacket, you can tell something else.

It’s killing him, too.