Sunday August 1, 2004. I experienced the first time a boy broke my heart.

Seven-year-old me walked downstairs half awake and laid down on the couch to wait for the rest my family to get up and go to church. My dad calmly approached me, put his hand on my back and said “Jackie, I’ve got some bad news for you.” I rolled over, wiped my tired eyes and muttered out a “What?” He took a deep breath, sighed and stabbed the knife in my heart, said the three words no one wants to hear: Nomar got traded.

Tears started flowing and soon, there were sobs. Nomar Garciaparra was my first love. His jersey was the first I ever picked out and I watched and listened to every Red Sox game religiously. But a team is more than just one player right? I couldn’t just let this get me down. So in that moment I doomed myself to be, as the movie "Fever Pitch" says, “One of God’s most pathetic creatures — A Red Sox fan.”

We all know what happened that season. Eighty-six years of disparity, all washed away in what felt like a dream when the Sox stunned the Yankees in the ALCS and said Bye Bye Birdie to the Cardinals for the Series. That’s all it took. I was hooked.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Boston and I love all Boston sports teams. I’m a die hard Pat’s, Bruins and Celtic’s fan and get no greater joy than watching a hometown victory.

But there’s something about the Sox. Something about Curt Schilling’s bloody sock. Something about The Curse Of The Bambino. Something about Fenway Park.

Something about that Dirty Water.

There’s no greater feeling than walking through the tunnel and seeing the field lit up for a 7:10 game, the smell of Fenway Franks and popcorn filling the air. Or, sitting in that hot Boston summer sun on a Sunday afternoon with the breeze coming off the water as you listen to the ball hit the bat, the fans cheer for the good guys and Sweet Caroline belted out as Boston’s own anthem.

My mom has been a Sox fan all her life. She said she remembers sneaking her radio into class in elementary school so she could secretly listen to the games. She grew up in the Yaz era. (Carl Yastrzemski if you are uncultured). Like mother like daughter, she idolized the team, and every win or loss was personal. She can attest, it is not always easy being in Red Sox Nation. She proudly declares that with all the excitement and all the heartbreak, she kept the faith. And it was worth it.

I was sitting on that same couch October 27, 2004, again half awake, when I was suddenly shaken by the thunderous rattle of cheers and screams from all over Red Sox Nation with those six words everyone wants to hear: The Boston Red Sox Are World Champions.

And again in 2007, and 2013. There are the Boston Globe front pages, the Duck Boat parades down Boylston Street and the coveted World Series Champs t-shirts (which was the dress code for our 2004 Christmas card). I guess you could say my generation of Sox fans has been pretty spoiled. Even in the face of adversity, during the 2013 Marathon bombings, the Red Sox united fans, reminding us “This is our f***ing city!”

Oh, and if you’re wondering if I moved on from Nomar, the answer is yes. Will I always love him? Of course. But as a mature seven-year-old, I found other loves (and heartbreaks). There was Caveman Damon, Captain Varitek, and of course Big Papi. Each made their impact on the Red Sox and the city of Boston and each left their mark on my heart (#33 for life).

When Nomar signed a one day contract with the Red Sox in 2010 so he could officially retire as one, I felt a twinge of pain where that old wound sat. But even more, I felt a feeling of reassurance. I am a Red Sox fan. Through the ups and downs, the scores and the scandals, I am a Fenway Faithful. And so are Nomar, Pesky, Wakefield and all the others that have come before and after. And when this season ceases, and when Big Papi does retire, I’m not worried. No matter how far you go or how long you are gone, when you are a part of Red Sox Nation, you will always find your way back home.