One of the cable channels recently ran the 1993 film "The Sandlot," which not surprisingly brought me back to my youth, and all the summers the neighborhood kids and I spent playing baseball, organized and otherwise.

The film centers around the new kid in town, Scotty Smalls, who, in an effort to make friends, wants to learn to play baseball at the local sandlot.

With his long-billed fisherman's hat, Smalls has a hard time fitting in, especially since the ways of the nation's pastime eluded him. Fortunately for him, plenty of the other kids fill in the blanks and nutter him into a ballplayer.

I started playing pee-wee baseball in central Montana in the late 1960s and I was a big Detroit Tigers fan, mostly because Denny McLain and the rest of the gang from the Motor City had won the 1968 series, beating Bob Gibson and the St. Louis Cardinals.

I remember my first hit: A low, fastball (if there is such a thing in pee-wees) that I literally golfed into center field. I can't remember how many games it took to get that first hit, but from then on I really tried to buckle down in practice and learn a proper swing, and some discipline at the plate.

By the time I got to Little League, we had a squad that could best be described as a Murderer's Row, after the great Yankees teams of the 1920s.

My cousin Mike was the shortstop, and we had three pitchers that were basically unhittable. Most teams might have one guy that was tough to reach base on, but with the lineup we had, the other teams didn't stand a chance.

As for me, I spent my time in right field, trying desperately not to gum up the works. The coach made my job very clear: "Don't let anything get behind you." For the most part, I obliged, except for a few errors in judgment, as I broke in on fly balls that were hit hard and screamed past me like the low-flying B-52s that were often overhead (We lived near Malmstrom Air Force Base, and the Cold-War era bombers practiced staying below radar near our town.)

All told, I believe we lost one game that year, and went on to win a league title. Back then, unless you came from a large town, you didn't move on to challenge any of the big-city teams for a right to represent the state in the Little League playoffs, so we had to settle for the title and the near-perfect season (lucky for the big-city teams).

I moved to first base the next season, mostly because I was left handed. I didn't mind so much - the game moved a lot quicker nearer the action. I hit pretty well that season, but we didn't have the big stud arms that we possessed the previous season, and our record was nowhere near as stellar.

After Little League, our town didn't have any organized ball, so if you wanted to play, you went down to the softball field next to the city swimming pool and played "work up" or, if we managed to have enough bodies, we'd pick sides and talk all the smack we could all afternoon.

It was during this time that I had an unfortunate accident (at least I think it was an accident).

I was leading off a game, and was getting set in the batter's box while the other team's pitcher was still warming up. I was talking to someone behind the backstop when his eyes widened. I sensed something was wrong and turned to face the pitcher, only to see the seams of a weathered baseball much too close for comfort.

I took it right on the left side of the nose, and went down in a heap. My nose swelled, and I had to have someone keep turning my head to the side, to allow the blood that was pooling up in my left eye socket to drain away.

A few guys lifted me up and shoved me in a car and drove me the few blocks to my house and explained what happened to my mom. My nose stayed swollen for awhile, but nothing appeared to be broken. Still today, my nose is crooked, and it makes for interesting show-and-tell.

To this day I am not sure of two things. First, what in the heck was I doing warming up in the batter's box and not watching the pitches? Secondly, did the pitch get away from the pitcher, or did he take exception to my presence in the batter's box?

The story does have a happy ending. On my return to the game about a week later, I lined the first pitch I saw down the right field line for my first inside-the-park home run. I beat the throw to the plate easily and stopped myself by clutching the chain link in the backstop. I remember thinking, "Man, maybe I should get beaned more often."

I hit no more home runs until I started playing adult-league softball a number of years later. And after 20 years of playing tournaments in Montana, Canada, Idaho, California and Colorado, I hung up my cleats and my glove.

Now I find myself in the media, just like Scotty Smalls' character, minus the long billed fisherman's cap.

Enjoy the summer - on the field or off.

Jerry Hitchcock lost track of his prized Al Kaline Little League bat decades ago, but is always looking for one at garage sales or the Internet. If you have one, he can be reached at 664-8176, Ext. 2017, or via email at [email protected].