Every kid deserves an enjoyable childhood. Due in large part to sports, I have a pretty good one to look back on.

I grew up in Dawson, a borough six miles down river from Connellsville in Fayette County.

Dawson is a town of about 400 people, but within its small confines was everything a sports-crazed kid like myself needed to stay occupied.

There was an open lot down the alley from my house just big enough for pick-up baseball and football games. From the heat of July to the cold and snow of December, my friends and I spent many hours deciding bragging rights for that particular day.

We could also be found on the basketball court when that sport was in season. When it wasn't, the court was easily turned into a venue for street hockey.

If and when we tired of the traditional sports — which wasn't often — we'd find a way to turn any activity into a competition.

On the banks of the Youghiogheny River, skipping and throwing stones always turned into a contest. We'd also hold bike races from one end of the town to the other. As the crow flies, this is only about 800 yards, but we would designate a course, with certain streets making up part of the route.

Across the railroad tracks from my grandparents' house was a small store. It had all the necessities — milk, bread, eggs — even a lunch counter and grill that produced some really good food. The Italian hoagie was my personal favorite.

But of all the money I spent in that store, well over half went toward my hobby of collecting sports cards.

Ok, it was more like an addiction.

My grandmother would send me to the store to pick up a few things and of course, she'd give me a couple dollars for myself.

“No problem, grandma. No problem,” I'd say as I sprinted across the tracks to find my gold for the day.

Just inside the door to the left was the checkout counter. To the right was an entire shelf filled with candy. I received my share of sugar rushes after glaring into that glass case, but most of the time, I didn't want to waste my money on a quick chocolate and caramel fix.

I was there on business and would brush past the candy bars and bubble gum to get to the real prize. Just beyond the far end of the shelf full of sweets lay the baseball and football cards.

If I was really unlucky, the box was empty and I'd have to wait a few days until the next batch came in. More often than not, though, there was at least a few packs left.

This was the 1980s when $2 would buy four packs of cards. With 15 cards — and a stick of gum — in each pack, a couple of bucks would get me 60 cards.

I wasn't a collector who was looking just for the big names like Marino, Rice and Dickerson in football and Mattingly, Canseco and Clemens in baseball.

Back then, every card told a story. You could look on the back of a Tony Gwynn card and see what he batted in his rookie year, how many yards Walter Payton rushed for in 1984.

I soaked all of that stuff up and therefore, saw each and every card as valuable.

As we all know, times change. The store is long gone.

That lot where touchdowns were thrown and home runs were hit is still there. But it has been years, I'm guessing about 15, since I last saw kids playing on it.

The basketball court is cracked with weeds growing and taking over where fierce 3-on-3 games once took place.

I have more important things to spend money on these days than sports cards, but I feel bad for kids who pick up the hobby. Now, you need $3 or $4 to buy one pack and many of those include just five or six cards.

Small towns are often referred to as dots on the map.

Dawson was my dot and I'm grateful for it.

I'll hold onto the memories, maybe tell a few stories to my 4-year old son when he gets a little older.

And see how long it takes him to roll his eyes!

Derek Pyda is a staff writer for the Butler Eagle