I grew up in part of Western Massachusetts where many people rooted for New York teams. 1986 was the first year I started to follow sports. I was in first grade. My best friend was a Mets fan.

Naturally, I became a New York Mets fan too; I didn’t know any better. Keith Hernandez was my favorite player, because he had the same name and played the same position as me. At the time, I didn’t know he was a cokehead, so I made him my role model.

The 1986 World Series was my first glimpse into Boston sports. I laughed as Buckner made his infamous error. As the years passed, my disdain for Boston sports teams grew. I hated Larry Bird more than anybody. At the time, "Small Town" by John Mellencamp was a popular song. My buddy and I changed the words. Whenever Bird was on television we sang, "Well, I was born with a big nose. And I live with a big nose. Probably die with a big nose. Oh, those big nose communities."

My hatred for Boston sports teams lasted for seventeen years -- until last year -- when I moved to Boston. It started innocuously enough. I’d watch an inning or two of a Sox game with my roommate because I had nothing better to do. He introduced me to the irrational mind of the Boston sports fan. When Theo traded for Jeff Suppan and Scott Sauerbeck, I was convinced that this was a championship caliber team. I was starting to lose my mind. Before long, I was sneaking a few innings in when my roommate wasn’t home. Eventually, I was watching entire games by myself.

When the playoffs began, I went out to watch the games, so I could be with the fans. I went to The Good Time Emporium to watch game five of the ALDS. Located in Somerville’s underbelly, The Good Time Emporium was the largest sports bar I’ve ever been to -- cops at the door, television screens everywhere, frozen pizza, hot dogs, and cheap beer at every table. These were the true fans -- the kind that would sever a limb if it meant the Sox would win a championship. These were the people I wanted to be. Despite having their hearts stomped on year after year, they remained optimistic and full of pride. I respected that. I pretended to care as much as they did, but I couldn’t. I’d complain about Manny’s whimsical nature, Grady’s poor decisions, Nomah’s slump. But when I went home at night, I knew I was a fraud. I didn’t really care as much as they did.

During game seven of the ALCS, I realized I cared. Sandwiched between a horde of drunk Red Sox fans, who’s livelihood rested on every pitch, I started to feel a lump in my chest. When the score was tied in the eighth inning, I went out to have a cigarette. I remember telling my friend, "I feel like I’m about to cry." I wasn’t lying.

I woke up the next morning and I felt sick. I turned on sports radio and that only made things worse. The loss wasn’t the only thing on my mind. Could I possibly be a Red Sox fan after hating the franchise for seventeen years?

Yes. I may have jumped on the bandwagon, but let’s not forget it’s a losing bandwagon. This is not like suddenly cheering for a franchise with a history of winning championships like the Yankees or Cowboys. I know I’m a Red Sox fan now; I’ve made the decision to willingly inflict intense and unnecessary emotional pain upon myself on an annual basis.