During the early days of September 1999, my first few days in Cambridge, the Red Sox and the Yankees were heatedly engaged in the playoffs. I was innocently sauntering along Mass. Ave. wearing my tattered Yankee hat when a man actually jumped out of his truck, mid-traffic, to teach me a crucial Boston lesson.

“You no good. Take that hat off, whatsa matter with you?” he yelled in a thick Southie accent.

One of my history professors, an avowed Yankees fan, discreetly encouraged me to retain the faith as a native New Yorker, regardless of my dislocation. Nonetheless, he reluctantly acknowledged that a game in Fenway Park is a required Boston experience. The summer after my sophomore year was filled with trips to the park at the height of recent Sox glory. Pedro wasn’t just a knockout pitcher, but Dominican Royalty to the bleacher creatures. And Nomar and Manny just fed more fire to the fervor.

Still, the Yankees make it easy to be a fan. And I wasn’t ready to give up being on the side of the winners. But after this year’s arrogance led to a banal post-season, I became a little more hesitant about feeling the Bronx Bomber love. Then George Steinbrenner made it clear that he would be back to boss Joe Torre around in the bullpen, which has historically meant the demise of the Yankees. The corporate nature of the team was becoming even more sickening, especially after the multi-million dollar cablevision deal and the brief the Yankees submitted to the Supreme Court in favor of affirmative action.

Still, it took a fateful bad hair day and an unclaimed Red Sox hat hanging in the Crimson newsroom to truly cement my conversion to the Red Sox faith. I put the hat on, announcing to any of its potential owners on the Crimson list-serve that it was only because of a bad case of the frizzies, not Red Sox love, that I would be forced to wear the colors of this godforsaken team.

But stepping onto the streets of Cambridge with a Sox hat made me belong to Massachusetts more than anything else I’ve done in the four years I’ve been here. I got compliments from the grumpy homeless man in front of 7-11 and nods, even half smiles, from people I passed on the sidewalk. And the countless Sox hats I see each day speak to a brand of people united by faith that the losers will one day triumph. The hat fit perfectly, and seemed like it was meant to be worn on my head. I decided it was time to become a convert. I’ve lived here for four years, I’ve watched summers become fall inside Fenway Park, and I’ve become disgusted with the Yankees’ snobbery.

I took up the burden of being a Sox fan because the collective emotion fosters a real sense of identity, of belonging to a community that takes pride in its repeatedly dour fate. Being a Red Sox fan is like joining a city-wide support group, with sympathetic well-wishers in constant attendance. But since the hat fits, I’m happy to wear it, especially now that the team is ruled by a triumvirate of stars and believes in closing by committee. To all you Yankees fans out there, try a Sox hat on for size. You might just like it.

—Nikki B. Usher was a senior editor in 2002.