Column: Youth baseball was part of my childhood. And now, through my grandson, I get to enjoy it even more.

I guess I’m officially one of those now. I guess I am one of those grandpas that will move heaven and hell to watch his grandchild play (choose one) baseball, soccer, golf ... or fill in the blank. And being one of those is making me as happy as a pig in slop.

The primary reason that my lovely wife, Lisa, and I dug up our deep, deep roots and moved our possessions and our very existence to this area four weeks ago was to be closer to most of our children and all of our grandchildren. And the move is already paying dividends. Our oldest grandson, Sir Henley the Adorable, lives a very active lifestyle, especially for a 6-year-old, and his infant cousin, Prince Walker the Precious, won’t be far behind.

The game of the season, for Henley, is fall ball. Youth baseball has come a long way since I played right field and batted ninth for the Porterdale Yankees of the Newton County Little League.

Back in the day — and that day would have been the late 1950s, if you can believe that — you had to try out for the team. Yes, there were people who were told, “Sorry. You’re not quite ready for prime time. Drink a lot of water and come back next year.”

I guess that shattered a few kids’ self-esteem. Or maybe it just made them try harder to get better. Or maybe it caused them to seek other endeavors. I don’t know. I’m not a psychologist. I’m barely a newspaper columnist. What I do know is that I was in hog heaven when I first got to put on that hand-me-down flannel uniform with YANKEES across the front, even though it was hot, itched like crazy and was two sizes too large for me. (The better players got the unis that fit.)

We wore our pants high, just below the knees, like the big leaguers did. Our hand-me-down stirrup socks were so stretched out of shape that we had to hold them up with rubber bands. Our caps were blue with red bills. We all shared equipment, which was provided by Bibb Manufacturing Co. There were five helmets in our equipment bag. None of them were small enough to fit my tiny head, and on those rare occasions that I actually hit the ball and got to run the bases, wind would whistle through the air holes on the sides, and if I ever slid, the helmet would invariable get turned around and I’d wind up looking out of the ear hole. We had three or four bats; catcher’s equipment, including a big stiff mitt; and a first basemen’s pad.

I wasn’t a very good player and knew it. But I loved the game and could do little harm in right field, and I was as good as my next-door neighbor, Craig Hertwig, who played beside me in the outfield. At least a ball never bounced off my head over the chain-link fence for a home run. One did bounce off Craig’s for a home run.

And I could do something none of my teammates could do. I could keep the scorebook. I knew all about 6-3, K, F-7 and the other shorthand that was used in scoring, so when I wasn’t standing in right field tracing patterns in the dirt with the toe of my sneaker, I would help the coach’s wife score the game. And I enjoyed riding in the back of the coach’s pickup and stopping at the Tastee Freeze after a win for an ice-cream cone as much as anybody.

Henley plays in a much different league. Make that a different world. He is a proud member of the Hot Rods and dresses like a major leaguer in his orange-trimmed uniform which, according the sponsor logo on the back, is provided by Heyward Allen Toyota.

He has his own bat bag, his own bat, his own helmet, red baseball shoes that cost more than the shoes I wear to church on Sunday and a bright blue leather baseball glove. Greg Maddux didn’t dress any better than Henley and his teammates.

Henley plays something called “coach pitch,” and it is really a great concept. Each player gets a turn at bat each inning. They get about five chances to hit a pitch thrown by the coach, and if they don’t make contact, they hit the ball off the tee. When they hit it, they run to first and stay there while the team in the field tries to hem up the ball and find somewhere to throw it.

When the next hitter hits, all the runners move up one. Whenever they run from third base, they slide into home.

It’s beautiful. Everybody plays, everybody runs the bases, everybody gets dirty and nobody gets yelled at or embarrassed. There’s plenty of time for that when the kids are older — like 7 or 8.

Henley Fairchild. No. 5 on your scorecard, No. 1 in his Papa’s heart. Play ball.