They’re as New York as New York can get.

One is a firefighter who works in Harlem in the heart of New York City. He carries a deep New Yawkah’s accent and proudly wears an FDNY T-shirt dedicated to a brother-in-arms he lost on 9/11.

The other is a beer rep for the largest distributor in the Northeast. He’s tall with a booming voice fitted perfectly for his second job, refereeing high school football.

Both are longtime friends, spending childhoods blocks apart in suburban New York City. We get together once a year.

Last Saturday, they sat 20 rows up in M.M. Roberts Stadium in Hattiesburg, watching the University of Southern Mississippi get taken to the woodshed by Boise State.

Their seats were perfect, right on the 50-yard line. “We were looking for tickets and a guy asked how many we needed,” the referee said. “We said two and he just handed us these great tickets. I tried to give him money, but he said, ‘ah, just take ’em. I’m sitting on the other side.’”

Southern hospitality, indeed.

We met up — me late — in the 20th row, one row in front of the man who led me on the first day of college orientation. The first person I ever met in Hattiesburg, one row back, 20 years later.

Small world.

By halftime, the game no longer in doubt and the sun unrelenting, we left for a tailgate party thrown by those behind us.

We were offered beer, or wine, or food. “Someone’s got to help us eat this stuff. Eat up,” they told us.

Southern hospitality has greeted me for the last 20 years. It’s an underappreciated trait that should make us all feel proud. At a Southern tailgate party, what’s mine is yours and you better eat.

I passed on the moonshine; the New York City fireman did not. “This is from the Kill,” said the most Southern-sounding of the tailgate hosts said. I know the Kill is where Brett Favre is from, but the fireman had to be thinking that the kill was what the host went for, his weapon of choice a half-glass of homemade hooch.

The fireman got it down, wobbled a bit away from the table and smiled oddly. He had a bit more homemade hooch, making his mouth work overtime.

They loved the way he talked; he loved the way they talked.

A few minutes passed. The most Southern of ’em all called out to the fireman. “Hey, Yankee boy, get over here and eat some shrimp and grits.”

The Yankee boy did. And he’ll never be the same.