The beginning of May means the beginning of Little League play — and the return of memories of my own playing days.

Of course, we’re talking the late 1960’s, when Little League looked a lot different from the way it looks today.

For one, I played in a 24-team league in Bethel Park. There was a 12-team National League and a 12-team American League. And, just like the major leagues back then, National League teams never played American League teams except for the All-Star Game and the postseason.

Every team had its own home field, too. There were that many Little League fields in Bethel Park back then.

There are not that many Little League fields in any community these days.

Of course, I’m a baby boomer. That had a lot to do with it. Even with 24 teams in our league, kids still had “try out” for Little League. You show up at a field with more than 200 other kids. You sign in, they assign you a number, write it on a sheet of paper and tape it to your back.

I was No. 11-72, meaning I was the 72nd 11-year-old to show up for tryouts.

You field a few ground balls and fly balls, get about 10 swings at the plate and that’s it. The league’s coaches got together and had a draft. If a coach selected you, he called your home to inform you.

I was picked by Ben Franklin 5 & 10. I was on Cloud Nine. I was a Little Leaguer.

My buddy, David, who lived across the street, whose mother car-pooled with mine to get us to tryouts, was not picked.

That was weird.

I was 11. As bad as I felt for him, I was thrilled I was among the chosen.

My team finished 2-18 that year. We wore thick wool uniforms that had you sweating before you even left the house. Hillcrest Shopping Center finished 0-20.

We beat them twice.

We lost games 56-0, 42-0 and 40-4. There was no 10-run rule in 1968. The mercy rule was when it got dark. There were no lights at the fields.

As bad as we were, we lost one game 2-1. Our pitcher lost the game when a ground ball was hit to our second baseman, who was blowing a big bubble with his gum as the ball rolled through his legs, all the way to the fence for a four-base error.

The bubble popped all over his face. Our pitcher wanted to pop him in the face, too, but our coach intervened.

When I was 12, we finished 14-6 and made the playoffs. I hit a two-out bases-loaded triple to win a game in the last inning.

That’s my Little League memory. We all have one.

Parents, enjoy watching your kids on the ballfield. Those days don’t last forever.

But don’t worry.

The memories don’t exactly fade with time, either.

John Enrietto is sports editor of the Butler Eagle