I grew up in a small town in Western Massachusetts. To be more specific, I grew up about as far away from Boston as you can get before entering another state, but regardless of my location I was instilled with that Massachusetts sense of pride. I mean, how could you not love Massachusetts? The culture in itself is something to be talked about, as I am reminded every time I use the word "wicked" around my friends who are not from Massachusetts. There is so much history in every small town you go to. The state is chock full of little monuments and small memorials regarding events that led to the birth of our nation, as well as many that are just important to the state. We have Plymouth Rock, Fenway Park, the fact that basketball was invented in Massachusetts, Boston itself, the Trail of Tears, the birthplace of both John Adams and John Quincy Adams; the list goes on and on. Even though I grew up about two and a half hours away from Boston, making trips in was not unprecedented. Many times, school field trips went there to discuss all the historical landmarks in the city. Despite my going into Boston many times throughout my life, I had never been to Fenway. Two decades of life, and I had never been to see a Red Sox game besides from in front of a television screen...until July 19, 2016.

The ride seemed impossibly long, and if you have met a driver from Massachusetts you can only imagine how nerve-racking it was to sit in a car with a mother who tried to convince me she was an "aggressive" driver rather than a reckless one. The lack of blinkers, deteriorating roads, traffic, construction, rotaries (or traffic circles) and poor sense of direction really added to all of my anxiousness revolving around the game. But when the car was finally parked and I walked the short 0.4 miles and set foot onto Yawkey Way -- nothing else mattered. Live music, live broadcasting, a free pet rock, one hot pretzel and a Del's frozen lemonade later, I was standing in front of Gate D at Fenway ready to enter. The ascension to the field itself is goosebumps-worthy. The lights were blindingly bright and it seemed like a movie. I was staring at the field, within spitting distance, and even though I had watched the game on TV hundreds of times, being there was incomparable to that.

The Green Monster was the most unique green I had ever seen. No paint color will ever be able to quite match that color (sorry Benjamin Moore). I could see the announcers from my seat in vivid detail, and I was perched just above the Red Sox dugout -- if I paid close enough attention I am sure I would have been able to hear David Oritz. Speaking of which, my first ever Red Sox game was sadly during Big Papi's final year. No matter how well or poorly David Ortiz played I am sure I am his number-one fan. I religiously watched Big Papi, and started little league baseball -- not softball -- because I strived to play like him. Each time Big Papi got up to bat, every Red Sox fan rose to their feet and cheered. It was amazing to stand in Fenway and be able to personally cheer for Papi in a crowd he could hear (as opposed to me yelling at the television screen). I was elated when Papi hit a three-run home run, and I don't think I have ever yelled so loudly.

For those of you who either do not live in Massachusetts, happen to be a diehard Red Sox fan, or can slightly relate to the movie "Fever Pitch," I can't imagine how lost you feel reading this. But if I can ever encourage you to do something, go watch a Red Sox game. Purchase the overpriced hot dog, and a drink to go with it. Immerse yourself in the history surrounding just Fenway itself, because it is nothing short of magical.

I would like to thank my mother for affording me such an amazing first Red Sox game, as well as my brother and dear friend for accompanying me to the game -- it was unlike any other. I am glad I was able to experience this with you!