Step outside your comfort zone, Sox sympathizers.

Sure, it’s tough for any of us pledging allegiance to the long-suffering franchise on Yawkey Way to tip our collective cap to anyone dressed in pinstriped finery.

When the opportunity presents itself in the coming days, however, do your best to give it up for Roger Clemens.

Friday night’s no-decision against the Rangers notwithstanding, Clemens, the preeminent power pitcher of his generation, is two wins away from becoming the 21st hurler in history to hit the round, magic No. 300.

Barring rain in the interim, Clemens’ first crack at No. 299 should come Wednesday night at Fenway. His ensuing start would come on the other side of Memorial Day weekend, also against the Sox, at the House That Ruth Built.

Not that it matters where. Clemens could cut himself another slice of immortality at Yankee Stadium, Jacobs Field, Camden Yards or Pettengill Park. Whatever the locale, all of us who appreciate baseball should be tripping over ourselves to borrow the words hollered by the late Jack Buck after Mark McGwire smashed the now-defunct single-season home run record:

“Pardon me while I stand and applaud.”

It won’t be easy, but try not to let Clemens’ acrimonious fall from Boston fandom’s grace cloud your judgment of a two-decade volume of work.

Keep the fat jokes in cold storage. Most of the people who persist in telling them couldn’t hang with Clemens in a game of dueling treadmills, anyhow.

Time to leave behind the righteous indignation directed at Clemens when he deemed himself too bright a superstar to carry his own luggage. That was umpteen years ago. Let’s assume we’ve all grown up a mite in that time frame, Clemens included.

You could make a semblance of a case that Clemens trivialized his greatness in more recent times by firing a fastball at Mike Piazza’s earhole, and later, the splinter of a broken bat at his shoetops. Even that needless episode was a tribute to Clemens’ volatile, throwback persona.

The mold used to form Clemens from the dust of a pitcher’s mound was made in a day when it was acceptable for a pitcher to claim his half of home plate. God bless Roger for doing his part, however admittedly inappropriate, to restore balance to a game that has gravitated closer to the hitters’ control in every year of his lifetime.

Clemens is speeding toward one of baseball’s few statistical milestones that hasn’t been cheapened by technology, medicine or over-regulation.

Consider that we’re having this discussion merely one week after Rafael Palmeiro cranked career home run No. 500, yet there is strong debate that Raffy doesn’t merit consideration for the Hall of Fame. Fred McGriff could join him, and the Crime Dog appears an even longer shot for the Hall than Palmeiro on that milestone’s strength alone.

Nothing against Palmeiro or McGriff, but throw nutritional supplements, a lowly elevated pitcher’s mound, juiced baseballs and the expansion-diluted talent pool in a bowl and you’ll cook up numbers that defy historical comparison to any previous era.

While hitting is increasingly science, pitching remains an art form.

Clemens matched role model Nolan Ryan’s bulldog intensity, longevity and propensity for improving with age, and he trumped his fellow Texan in many other categories. Never merely a power pitcher, free from the erratic performance that typically accompanies that label, Clemens has been a consistent winner since his breakthrough 24-4 campaign of 1986. Attribute his two sub-.500 seasons to his dedication to pitching through pain.

When Clemens finally elects to shut it down (something he never did before the end of a season, Pedro), he will take more than 4,000 strikeouts, a winning percentage of nearly .667 and an ERA just above 3.00 to Cooperstown.

Beat that.

Anyone whining about Clemens’ supposed inability to win the big game would probably commit a crime for the honor of wearing one of his three World Series rings. OK, so he had to sell his soul to George Steinbrenner to accomplish that. Greg Maddux, who’s spent the second half of his career toiling for the embarrassment of riches that is the Atlanta Braves, claims only one piece of championship jewelry. Same goes for Tom Glavine. Ditto the Diamondbacks duo, Randy Johnson and Curt Schilling, the only other two relics of the 1980s to sniff Clemens’ success and staying power.

So put away the mean-spirited T-shirts and bury the hatchet for a week, maybe two.

It’s not merely OK to set aside parochialism and appreciate greatness. If you’re a true baseball fan, it’s essential.

Kalle Oakes is sports editor. He may be reached by e-mail at [email protected].