In all my life, I think my dad has picked out and bought me one T-shirt.

He got it last summer while we were in Rhode Island. It's navy blue with the words “Real Women Don’t Date Red Sox Fans” written across it.

My dad refers to it as “the most important shirt you own.” I break it out whenever the Yanks play the Red Sox, or if I feel the Yankees could use a little extra love.

So, you now know where my loyalties lie. I grew up in an ardent Yankees family; both sides of my family love the Bronx Bombers. During the ALCS, it’s not unusual for my dad to start referring to the Yankees in the first person.

I vividly remember in 2003, the morning after Aaron Boone hit that home run to send the Yanks to the World Series, my dad saying, “The idea of us losing to the Red Sox, it just makes me sick. We can’t lose to them.”

When I was little, going to Diamond Dog games was one of my favorite summer traditions, so baseball has always been a part of my life. In fact, we’re celebrating my parents’ anniversary next week at one of the last games at the current Yankee Stadium.

A lot of my friends look at my love of baseball as a personality quirk, something a little strange and amusing, but overall harmless. They don’t get the adrenaline rush I get from watching a 3-2 count, bases loaded, bottom of the 9th scenario. Instead, they give me a look that indicates they think I’m weird.

My summer project has been to drag my friends out to a Valley Cats game. If you haven’t been to the Joe, check it out. It’s a nice stadium and, like they advertise, it has seats with real backs. I’m hoping if my friends sit in the bleachers with a hot dog, cotton candy or lemonade, they’ll get why millions of Americans consider baseball our national pastime.