I'm a Red Sox fan. That's just the way I was born. As a baby, when all the other drooling newborns wore generic visors and hats, I proudly wore my faded blue hat with the red "B" on it. When all the other toddlers stumbled around their backyards, tripping over their toys, I was romping through Fenway Stadium. At age seven, when all the other kids were arguing over the last Oreo, I was debating with my teacher that the Red Sox were better than the Yankees.

I had that team in my blood. I had Boston in my blood. So when I moved to New York, you can imagine the chaos I had to deal with. People expected me to convert to a Yankees fan. But hey, since when can you change your blood type? Right. You can't.

No one seemed to understand that. They saw me as an idiot for wearing my hat while I strolled through SoHo. They saw me as a loser as I cheered "LET'S GO RED SOX!" while watching a game with my friends. They saw me as a loner. A single drop of B blood in an ocean full of Yankees.

But then Mush showed up. You know how they say that a shark can smell a single drop of blood in an entire ocean? That's what Mush was. He was the shark who swam against the current to find me. Mush liked the Red Sox, too. That was the year they won the World Series. I knew that things were finally going to change.

I remember that night better than anything else in my life. The two of us sprinted through Central Park screaming: "THEY BROKE THE CURSE! THEY BROKE THE CURSE!" Sure, people stared at us and sneered: "Go back to Boston!" We didn't care. We were happy that we finally had a reason to annoy all the Yankees fans.

"I can't believe they actually won!" Mush gasped.

"You'd better believe it!" I panted as we slowed our pace.

"This means Jack and Racetrack can't tease us anymore!"

"I know! This is brilliant!"

We stopped running and bent over, our heads parallel to our knees as we caught our breath. I could barely get any oxygen into my system; I was too ecstatic. Finally, after five minutes of sputtering and coughing, we continued our conversation.

"When we go to school tomorrow, what should we to bug everyone about this? Want to shave a "B" on the back of your head?"

"No way!" I said in disbelief. "I am not shaving my head! Besides, they'll probably cancel school after a miracle like this!"

Mush laughed. I smiled and fell to the ground, exhausted and thrilled. Mush collapsed next to me.

"This has to be the best thing that's ever happened to me," I sighed contently.

"Yeah…I don't know how my dad will feel about it though."

"Hmmm?"

"My dad hates the Red Sox."

I sat up, concerned.

"So what? Everyone hates them here in Manhattan. I mean, everyone but you and me."

"Blink. He really hates them."

Mush sat up too, and I could sense urgency in his movements. I frowned and cocked my head slightly to the side. Mush and his dad had always been hostile towards each other. I never considered what would happen if his least favorite team won the World Series and his son was happy about it.

"Is that why you like them, Mush?" I asked. "Did you get into the Red Sox to rebel against your dad?"

Mush nodded.

"Oh."

"I should probably get going, too, actually. I shouldn't be celebrating."

He stood up, took his Red Sox hat off, and turned away.

"But…Look…Wait a second."

"What?"

"Mush, do you have AIDS?"

"What the hell? No!"

"Good. Me neither. Come here."

"What are you gonna do?"

"God, I'm not gonna rape you or anything. What's your blood type?"

"Huh?"

"Blood type. You know, A, O, B-"

"B. I have B blood."

"Even better."

Mush raised an eyebrow at me. I grabbed his arm and yanked him back onto the ground.

"You are raping me, aren't you?"

"No!"

I chuckled and dug through my pocket. I scooped out clumps of lint, nickels, and scraps of paper until I found what I was looking for.

"A needle?" Mush inquired. "What's the needle for?"

"Gimme your finger."

"Huh?"

"Do it."

He reluctantly extended his pointer finger, hesitation painted across his face. I smirked and pricked him with the needle, not hard, but just enough to draw blood.

"OW! Why did you do that?" Mush shrieked.

I rolled my eyes and did the same to myself. A drop of blood gleamed against my pale skin.

"We're not doing that 'blood brothers' thing, are we?" Mush groaned.

"Nah," I said, touching the tip of my finger against his. "We're going that 'Boston brothers' thing."

"You're mad, you know that?"

"Shut up. Let the blood mix."

"Christ."

A moment later, I lifted my finger and pressed it against my thumb so none of the blood would leak out.

"What was the point of that?"

"You can't go home and celebrate because of your father, but you can still have the Red Sox in your blood."

"I guess…Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Ever since that night, Mush and I don't care about looking like idiots or losers of loners. We're fans together, we're two drops of blood in a ocean full of Yankees. And although another shark hasn't come along (or a World Series win), it's okay, because we both have Boston in our blood. We both have B blood.