It is the mark of the truly bereft that they measure their highs and lows not in days or weeks, but in years.

Toronto FC entered Wednesday’s game against the Montreal Impact having gone nearly a full year without a league win at BMO Field.

If this team put out commemorative DVDs, they’d have to include a montage showing the seasons changing against a softly lit background between celebrations.

Photos:Toronto FC vs. Montreal Impact

In Montreal they faced a team that, when last they’d met, had turned them over its collective knee and slapped them scarlet. That 6-0 defeat in May ranks near to the bottom of their all-time performances.

And then this. Another lead squandered. Another win turned into a draw. Another blithe post-game press conference that hit all the same hallucinatory talking points that have run through this franchise like the trots since 2007.

“I have to look at it as a (glass) half-full game for 65 or 70 minutes,” coach Ryan Nelsen said afterward.

Guess when the two goals, a minute apart, that drew it even at 3-3 were scored?

“Those mistakes happen. That’s life,” Nelsen said.

Guess who made the mistakes?

“That’s the beauty of this game. It doesn’t go to script,” Nelsen said.

Guess who blew the script in the third act?

“We’re getting some reinforcements,” Nelsen said.

You know who should run this team? General Custer. At least his troops only had to listen to that line once.

It began with the usual omens.

Team mascot Bitchy the Hawk (Yes, that’s right. ‘Bitchy.’ This is where online polls will get you.) seemed glazed and apathetic. It isn’t the heat. It’s the trauma of having to bear witness.

They surprised the crowd with a pair of flag-trailing paragliders. The first two floated in and hit the ‘X.’ The third arrived late and caused a momentary panic amongst the team captains and officials when it appeared he might crashland into the coin toss.

Toronto put out a starting XI that, between them, had scored only one goal this season. Eleven guys. One goal. That only (sort of) works in the Bible.

The whistle blew. Montreal scored.

Even by the abysmal local standard, the first goal was a shambles. It was a shantytown worth of shambles.

The ball came bounding toward captain Darren O’Dea. The Irishman disastrously misjudged the bounce, heading it backward toward his own net. Unfortunate, since he was the last man back.

Montreal’s Andres Romero streaked in, tipped the ball past the panicked rush of goalkeeper Joe Bendik and curled it into the empty Toronto goal. Twenty-three seconds had passed.

One question begged answering at this point — If we left now, do you think they’d refund our parking?

And then, something changed.

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You spend enough time around this team, and it prepares you for disappointment. You acclimate yourself to the idea that no good will ever come of anything. Watching Toronto FC will sap your will to live, but supporting Toronto FC is good training for prison.

What happened next was so contrary to expectations it amounted to post-facto cruelty.

Six minutes after what should have been Romero’s backbreaker, Bobby Convey flubbed a shot that landed at Jeremy Brockie’s feet. He danced left and scored.

On the 21st minute, Brockie chased a ball into the corner, turned, and fired it toward goal. Steven Caldwell broke through the Montreal’s backline and speared it in.

O’Dea followed three minutes later with a charging run through the backpedalling Impact and scored a third.

In 18 minutes, this Toronto line-up had trebled their output over the previous 16 games. The three goals represented the highest total scored by FC against league opposition in nearly a full year. The last time they’d managed it was July 11, 2012 – a 3-2 win over Vancouver.

For each of the scorers, it was their first goal of the season.

All the negatives that had been piling up for months – even years – seemed sure to fall away in the face of this lead. We were enjoying an honest-to-God romp.

The half was fun. During those 15 minutes, hope wandered in for a rest. Nobody noticed it leave.

Before anyone had had a chance to paint it, the bandwagon blew a tire in the 69th minute. Neither Caldwell nor Ryan Richter could locate a ball lofted in, and it fell to Hassoun Camara. 2-1.

No more than 60 seconds later, Richter was again to blame, outletting from his own end to a Montreal player. After a half-hearted scramble in the area, Marco Di Vaio planted it.

It could’ve (and probably should’ve) ended worse. That it didn’t hardly matters. If this team is progressing, it’s only because it’s walking in circles. Every year feels like Groundhog Day around here, and every day feels like a year.

But they can’t help themselves. While the roster is constantly turning over, each new man must be learning his lines from someone who’s just left.

“We can’t keep saying we’ve been the better team,” O’Dea said afterward.

Exactly. So stop saying it.