Who says you can’t make chicken salad out of chicken poop?

Many readers did. At least I think they did. You decide. Regardless, I provided the ingredients.

In last Sunday’s column I wrote that this Sunday’s Giants-Colts nearly coincides with the 60th anniversary of the Baltimore Colts-Giants sudden death OT NFL championship in Yankee Stadium. Won, 23-17, by the Colts on Dec. 28, 1958, it was watched by an estimated 45 million, a huge audience for its time, one that eventually turned the NFL into a product worth billions of TV dollars.

That part I had right.

But then I added that it was seen here on CBS. Although I was 6 at the time, growing up I’d heard Chris Schenkel’s voice over video of that game. And I recall that Schenkel called Giants games on WCBS-Channel 2 into the mid 1960s.

So I made two-plus-two … and rolled a seven. I wrote that Schenkel called the telecast to New Yorkers on CBS.

Wrong. The game, although sold out, was blacked out here as per NFL rules designed to protect home teams’ ticket sales. And Schenkel, that day, called it for NBC.

I blew it. And, not that I deserved it, I was rewarded. In came the e-mails and phone calls from older readers, scores of them, not just to tell me I was wrong, but how they vividly recall that day.

The memories came from those who were between 8 and 18 at the time, typically living in the five boroughs and urban Jersey — Paterson, Newark, Elizabeth.

And nearly all came attached to unforgettable, cherished father-and-son tales of heading out of town for the day — to Connecticut, South Jersey, Bucks County, Pa., the Catskills — to watch that game.

Among them:

Two brothers and their two young sons — first cousins — packing a cooler with soda and ice, stopping at a deli for hero sandwiches then driving to a motel near Bridgeport, Conn., to watch the game.

The fathers are gone, but the cousins still fondly — and together — recall that day as one that made a sustaining entry in their story-telling family albums.

Another told of how he and his father drove to near Philadelphia to watch while stretched out on side-by-side saggy motel beds — a memory so significant he told it when called to speak at his father’s funeral.

Most every story seized my error to recall a father-son story tethered to that game.

Another recalled his older brother, home for Christmas on leave from the Navy, holding the ladder while his father climbed to the roof of their hillside Staten Island home to readjust the TV antenna to the south, away from the Empire State Building.

That reader, just a kid then, was assigned to sit in front of their TV set and holler out the window to let them know whether they’d struck gold — the signal from Philadelphia’s Channel 3 NBC affiliate. Eureka!

All in warm recollection of how they spent Dec. 28, 1958, with their long-gone fathers. NFL in the 1950s — Bobby Layne, Night Train Lane, Memory Lane.

And to think if I hadn’t been wrong … Anyway, you want that chicken salad on white, whole wheat or rye?

With no relief anticipated or even publicly deemed needed, our sports continue to be institutionally devalued by modern excesses.

The final 1:10 of last Saturday’s Villanova-Kansas lasted a once-imponderable 19:48. What should have been the most exciting, compelling closing minute of a game again became nearly impossible to indulge, to care about. The rundown:

Foul, timeout, “instant” replay review, foul, foul, foul, turnover, refs huddle for a discussion, foul, foul, timeout, timeout, foul, ball out of bounds, replay review. Nearly 20 minutes to play a bit more than a minute.

Where the best-prepared team used to have an advantage, close games, in their final moments, are now coached a few game clock ticks at a time.

On ESPN, all-knowing, condescending Jay Bilas must’ve been good with it as he didn’t say a word about it.

The next day, Titans-Giants on CBS. On a cold, windy, rainy day — the kind that make PSL owners curse their foolishness — a second-quarter replay stoppage lasted six minutes. The booing from beneath rain parkas and triple layers of clothing grew.

The final 2:09 of the first half, replete with flags, timeouts, discussions among officials, a commercial with 2:09 left then more commercials at the two-minute warning — ran a staggering 15:45.

More booing from the cold, wet wretched. If only Roger “PSLs Are Good Investments” Goodell had been among them.

Last season the Nets’ D’Angelo Russell would celebrate himself after making a long shot by pointing to his imaginary wristwatch, as if it’s “D’Angelo time!” Those times were few as Russell played 48 games, was often benched in crunch time and the Nets finished 28-54.

Tuesday, as seen on YES, Russell hit a big shot late in the Nets’ home win versus the Lakers, then made a gesture as if he were shooting up, a needle into the underside of his forearm. Jarrett Allen, a 20-year-old teammate, delightfully mimicking Russell.

While we’re told that Russell’s all-about-me gesture is to demonstrate that he has ice water in his veins, one wonders if he — perhaps at the team’s and/or NBA’s insistence — might come up with an immodest gesture that wouldn’t so easily be misconstrued.

Perhaps Russell could simply call timeout then blow himself kisses.

The NFL Network on CBS was all over it, Saturday, near the end of Texans-Jets. With 2:04 left the Jets had the ball, first down, at their own 25. A sideline close-up of Jets place-kicker Jason Myers appeared. A graphic noted that Myers’ longest field goal was 58 yards. One small problem: The Jets trailed by four.

Reader Keith Murray: “What does high-point the ball mean again?” It means going vertical in a northerly direction. Before that it meant jumping for it.

Not 100 percent sure, but one sideline TV shot of Todd Bowles, Saturday, exposed the make of headphones he was wearing as Fisher-Price.

Diminished standards: The Saints have nominated RB Mark Ingram, suspended from the first four games this season for a failed drug test, for the prestigious Walter Payton NFL Man of the Year award.

After reading that “Long Island Medium” Theresa Caputo has finalized her divorce, reader Eric H. asks whether she saw it coming. Not fair. She’s just a medium, not the best, just a medium.