My girlfriend recently asked me why I’d consider myself a Red Sox fan.

First and foremost, I’m a Phillies fan. Let’s get that out of the way. Most of my top baseball memories occurred while watching the Phillies either at Veterans Stadium, Citizens Bank Park or several road stadiums, including Turner Field last September.

When it’s not possible to watch the Phillies in person, however, I must make simple concessions and last Wednesday was one of those times. I had yet to attend a pro game and the Red Sox were in Atlanta to play the Braves, so we ventured west-ish.

I told my girlfriend that I spent nine summers of my life in New Hampshire at a great summer camp (William Lawrence Camp) and learned to like them through diffusion, but also went to three games at Fenway Park during that span. None of those trips compared to the first time I went to Fenway Park after my first summer at camp.

See, parents had the option of sending their boy(s) away for two weeks, four weeks or eight weeks. Until I moved up the ranks and became a counselor — which came with a mandatory 10-week tenure — my parents chose the four-week option. After all, it would be rather pointless and a lot of money to only spend two weeks there.

My first summer at William Lawrence Camp wasn’t the best as I battled a severe case of homesickness and bullying. Needless to say, I couldn’t wait to see my family when they came to pick me up from camp on July 20, 1996 (Yeah, I looked it up).

Once they rumbled up Federal Corner Road and plucked me and my belongings, we set out on a family trip to Boston, which was about a three-hour drive from camp.

The second day we were in Bean Town, my sister and mom went on an adventure while my dad and I set out on one of our own. Little did I know that when our walk ended, we’d end up in front of Fenway Park with the Red Sox facing the Orioles.

When we got inside the ballpark, my dad told me to follow him as we went to our seats. We kept getting closer and closer and closer and closer. I had to ask him a few times if we were allowed to be there. He said not to worry and sure enough, we sat in our seats — two rows behind home plate. As an 11-year-old, this was just insane.

I still remember the pitching matchup: Roger Clemens vs. Mike Mussina. Like most games I attend, I kept score — but have since lost that scorecard — so I had to look up if it was a pitching duel. Not so much. Clemens and Mussina went deep into the game (Clemens was lifted in the eighth; Mussina after seven), but weren’t as sharp as they could be (Clemens allowed five runs on eight hits; Mussina three on five).

I also remember there being a game-tying home run in the ninth inning (Jeff Manto hit it), but little else. Evidently Baltimore won 10-6 after scoring five in the 10th.

Everything about that day still make me smile to this day. I couldn’t see my face that day, but I am sure it broke through my face like a cartoon since it was that big.

My girlfriend also said something while we were sitting on the tailgate of her SUV before the game (and I’m paraphrasing) — “Don’t laugh at me, but there’s something magical about the ballpark. I don’t know what it is, but it’s just there.” I laughed like a boyfriend is supposed to, but deep down I couldn’t help but to agree with her.