Backyard ball, the way it was meant to be.

Sandlot League runs on a patch of dirt behind Memorial Park — two divisions, ten teams, no clock but a summer one. Coaches who learned the game from their grandpas. Cleats stuffed in the back of a station wagon. Outfielders who can name every dog on the block.

We're not training pros. We're chasing fly balls into a chain-link fence at dusk and arguing whether the Babe Ruth ball is still in there. Show up, bring a glove, play because it's summer.