Up to the time I was 12 years old, I lived in a neighborhood in Jacksonville, FL called Arlington. The street I lived on ended in a 'T' intersection. That intersection was our baseball diamond.
First base...up the hill to your right in the Zimmerman's front yard.
Second Base...middle of the street.
Third base...a little out of place because you had to avoid the sticker patch in Aunt Myra's front yard.
Back to home plate in the middle of the street.
In 1966, at the age of 6, I was deemed too young to play. I was too small and I'd get hurt if they let me play. "Why don't you sit next to the fire hydrant in the Hilsenrads' yard.? That's outside the foul line on the 3rd base side and you'll be safe." I was hit by a line drive foul ball on something like the third pitch and knocked out cold. It was the Sixties, so I'm not allowed to claim any deficiency as a result, but I sure as hell was thankful for everyone looking out for me and keeping my little 6 year old self safe.
Yeah! Us Sixties kids didn't get sealed in bubble-wrap.
On second thought, I'm totally scarred by this experience and somebody owes me a lot of money. Yeah, lots!