Well, so much for “Hawk Love.”

After Saturday’s “epic fail” to Kansas, University of Colorado football coach Dan Hawkins was “Dead Dan Walking,” and by Tuesday, “Canned Dan.”

But don’t feel sorry for Hawkins. The man leaves with $1.8 million and a solid record of raising a stand-up son. Instead, feel sorry for the jock poodles who take the Buffaloes’ loss so personally.

Being a dedicated fan is one thing; it’s fun to follow a team you love. But when you start identifying with the game so much that you spout nonsense — like how the Buffaloes’ 52-45 loss has “demeaned” the university, “humiliated the state” and “left a stain on the reputation of my alma mater” — it’s time to step away, count to 10, breathe deeply and find something, as my mama might say, to really worry about.

It was, to be sure, a take-your- breath-away kind of game. In the last quarter, CU managed to squander, in less than half an hour, a 35-point lead, delivering a death blow to the Buffs’ season and to Hawkins’ tortured five-year career there.

The post-mortems were ugly. Hawkins’ inscrutable fourth-quarter strategy — a reckless air game — caused some to suggest his real motive was to boost chances that his quarterback son, Cody, would set a school passing record. I’m unqualified to render an opinion.

What I do know is that following CU’s defeat, many fans — and by that I mean mostly men — took the loss as a personal affront. Men are the calculating, rational, left-brained ones, and yet, curiously, when it comes to sports, so many invest so much, so incautiously, and leave their emotions at the complete and total mercy of a game over which they have absolutely no control.

At least when a guy hurls his club in the pond on the ninth hole, you can feel a little empathy. He’s playing poorly, he knows he can do better, and he’s mad at himself. That anger can spur him to improve his game down the road — by taking lessons, by practicing, or by so thoroughly embarrassing himself that he changes his behavior.

I’m not saying throwing your club is smart. But at least it involves a thread of rationality. Sports fanatics, on the other hand, operate under the illusion that their intense interest in the game can somehow influence the outcome. They don’t pick the players or the opponents; they don’t make the rules; they don’t enforce the rules; they don’t hire the coaches; and they can’t predict injuries.

And yet when the good guys lose, it’s somehow a poor reflection on them. They get depressed, their self-esteem suffers and sometimes they even start hitting things.

Apparently, they feel personally diminished in someone’s eyes. But in whose eyes would those be? A co- worker who went to the school that beat yours? Does this meaningless fact entitle him to special goodies, like the right to puff out his chest and feel superior to you when you ride up in the elevator together?

Something called the Social Identity Theory may help explain why identifying with a group, such as a sports team, gives some people such a strong sense of belonging and place. It’s a powerful force, allowing fans to bask in the reflected glory of a win, even though they did nothing directly to contribute to that win and, conversely, to feel great pain when the team loses.

Back in 1996, when the Avalanche won their first Stanley Cup, I wrote something for the Rocky Mountain News that began, “My name is Mary, and I am not cup crazy.” I wrote about failing to see the point of grown men fashioning tin-foil Stanley Cups to wear on their heads, which insulted a huge portion of the city.

The copy editor had only one question: This column is a joke, right?

It was my first lesson in how truly wide the gulf was between me and the hardened sports fan. Sad day. Now I’m 0 and 2.

Mary Winter (mwinte@ aol.com) of Denver, a former Rocky Mountain News writer, is a contributor to the op-ed page.