As the youngest in my household, I’m used to being blamed for every last thing that did, or… As the youngest in my household, I’m used to being blamed for every last thing that did, or had a remote chance of going, slightly wrong. It comes with the territory.

If anything was broken, lost, scratched, stained, torn, burnt, forgotten or anything else, the natural pecking-order reflex was to hold the little one responsible — regardless of any legitimate alibi I presented.

I’ve gotten used to this fact of my life. But still, I rarely accepted the fault of whatever accusation my family threw my way.

Granted, it is slightly harder to be the culprit when I haven’t lived at home in four yearsand go for months without visits to the nest. But here and there, I still get phone calls claiming that someone’s shirt is missing. Obviously, I must have it. Or maybe a video has gone missing, so it’s only natural to assume that I had to have teleported home from Pittsburgh, snatched the movie and cackled with glee as I sat in my room watching it, depriving my family of its cinematic delights.

I will deny to the death that it was I who left the gas tank on empty just before a large snowstorm was expected to hit. And I never, ever eat anyone else’s leftovers that happened to be stowed in the fridge.

But I cannot hide from the fact that there is definitely a pattern of grief for which I am entirely responsible. I carry with me a lifelong curse, and because of this, I am solely responsible for the poor performance of any sports team to which I am loyally devoted. A few examples are as follows:

Born and raised in the ‘burbs of the city of brotherly love, I naturally put my heart and soul into supporting the Philly squads. With the current exceptions of the Sixers, because of a personal vendetta against the thuggish behavior that has been displayed in the NBA, and the Flyers because, hey, no one’s watching the Flyers this year, I religiously watch and attend as many Philles and Eagles games as possible.

Ah, Philadelphia, the city that comes up just a bit short. But I don’t allow my beloved home city to bear the whole brunt of all my damnation. When I was a young child, my dad’s company transferred to Atlanta, Ga. He lived down there and commuted back home periodically while my mom, my sister and I remained in the freezing northern tundra. On our routine summertime visits to the land of peach trees, we were regulars at Fulton County Stadium, and, later, Turner Field.

After the Phills would blow it in the regular season, I’d adopt the Braves as my team to root for in the playoffs. The Braves’ track record in the World Series is up there with Susan Lucci’s efforts to win an Emmy. The Phills, well, they could use some work, but this is going to be their year. I can feel it. And Chase Utley, feel free to call me. The wounds left from the Eagles are still fresh, but redemption is on its way next season.

This summer, a few weeks before the Kentucky Derby, my dad was telling me about this great horse from a track in Philly that was doing really well in the racing world. Knowing this, I threw my love into the hometown horse, Smarty Jones, to take the Triple Crown. No damn dice.

Until my college career began, one could chalk all this up to mere bad luck. But to really test my theory, I decided to spread my doom across the state. ‘Burghers, you should be happy that I root only for Pitt teams and have yet to curse your entire city.

In my four years here, I have been damn lucky to play spectator to some of the best teams in Pitt history. Watching a Heisman Trophy candidate lead us to victory in the final seconds of a battle against Virginia Tech and having my ear drums nearly blown out as the Pete exploded when we sent UConn packing last year were a few highlights. But because I am the bearer of big-game failure, Pitt didn’t bring home the ‘W’ at the Fiesta Bowl or help out my finances by moving past the Sweet 16 in the March madness tourney.

If I really wanted to help the state of affairs of this country, I would have kept my damn mouth shut about who I supported in the Presidential race. Colleen “Black Plague” Bayus’ loyalty strikes again.

With that said, it’s not Jamie Dixon’s fault that we were up by 14 against WVU but ended up getting bamboozled. No, that was completely because of my victory-shattering presence at the contest. For this, and countless other defeats, I wholeheartedly apologize — but I can’t promise that it won’t happen again.

Colleen Bayus fully believes in the saying, “Win or lose, we still booze.” And she will never lose her loyalty to her Philly and Pitt teams. Sorry. E-mail her at [email protected].