My name is Doug and I am a Buccoholic.

Born and raised in Pittsburgh Pirate Land, I suppose I was genetically predisposed, with Cody/Powell brothers and nephews Buc-addicted. Admitting the problem is the first step in getting help, but I don’t want help, especially not this year.

It’s undoubtedly the year of the Buc, and I’m no longer ashamed of who I am and who I love. In fact, I want to shout it from the rooftops, and actually occasionally do.

While shingling, I can be heard shouting to passersby: “Hey, I’m a Pirates fan; how do ya like that? I’m here, I’m sincere; get used to it!” (One elderly lady walking a dog called the cops).

Seriously though, I’m suddenly not hearing the derisive jeers anymore. Dave Beemer has been pretty mum on his sarcastic “Parrot” jokes these days. I guess it doesn’t matter how my Eastern accent mispronounces it when the Parrots have the second-best record in baseball. Move along, folks; nothing to laugh at here.

I also haven’t forgotten next-door neighbor Dana’s rude dig last summer when she invited me over for drinks with another couple. When I said, “No thanks, my Pittsburgh Pirates are on TV,” she cracked, “Did you say your Piss-Poor Pirates?”

Oh, how they all four cackled as I feigned a grin and went back inside to watch my Bucs fall to another shutout loss. But now it’s us pitching shutouts at a record pace. The experts didn’t even project the Pirates as pre-season long-shots, and now it’s Pedro Alvarez hitting long shots — 26 tape-measure, monumental blasts to be exact.

I’m out of the closet and I’m loving every minute of it. Pirate fans are long-suffering. Our people have wandered the desert for 20 years — the losingest stretch in all of sports.

There have been breathtaking starts followed by heartbreaking finishes, like the last two seasons when they inexplicably collapsed into a bad joke following the All-Star break they had entered as baseball’s “Cinderella story.” The Promised Land was a million miles away for us Pirastinians.

But through it all, we Bloughs have never forsaken our Bucs nor lost faith. Root for who you want, but as for me and my house, we will serve the Bucs.

I began this column a week after the All-Star Game, when they again started slowly, but I’m fully confident when this goes to press, we will have overtaken first place again.

I lost $80 betting on Alvarez to win the Home Run Derby, but I hold no grudge. The Pirastinians are a forgiving people.

And why not? We could never repay all the magical memories Pirates have brought Bloughs. Back in the days of the greatest ever, Roberto Clemente, and Bill “Maz” Mazeroski, I listened to every game on the same old, stove-sized radio in our hornet-infested, ungodly-hot attic that my older brothers Jess and Paul did.

We didn’t need no stinking TV — hearing golden-throated announcer Bob Prince’s electric play-by-play lacked nothing.

Paul tells of one close game when another radio station kept bleeding into KDKA-Pittsburgh, and it was opera no less. Prince would shriek, “Gene Alley hits it a mile! Going, going, and …” when suddenly the female opera singer — most likely a fat woman — would begin bellowing nonsense.

Super-fan Jess could stand it no longer. He began punching the radio and screaming, “Shut up, lady. Shut UP! I’ll kill you!”

That’s right — we Pirate fans would kill for our Bucs.

I was 15 that summer when Jess and family were home visiting from a faraway place called Wyoming and he took us to Pittsburgh to watch the Pirates beat Hank Aaron and the Milwaukee Braves. Jay was wearing his trademark little blue shorts as Jess held his hand crossing a busy street on the way to old Forbes Field.

Walking a few steps ahead, I heard Jess say with a hint of urgency, “Jay, can’t you hold it? Jaaay …?”

I turned to see the tyke stopped dead in the middle of the street, legs spread and a blank, yet contented look on his face. The growing puddle below him finished the story.

You better believe it. We Pirate fans would pee our pants for our Bucs. In fact, if the Pirates do win the World Series, I vow to literally stand in the middle of Powell’s Main Street wearing blue shorts and reenact Jay’s public gaffe.

I will not cut my hair though. I would do anything for love … but I won’t do that.