Playing for the Boston Red Sox, he’s about 4 feet tall, give or take a few dirt clods. He’s the one with the Scooby-Doo snacks stuck in his teeth. Rather than spend time at Fenway, he naps in a bed where Buzz Lightyear communes with Thomas the Train. 

A little voice zings one at me before I can even load the camera. “Hi, YAYA! Heyyyyyyy, Yaya. Hey . . . Yaya . . . hi!”

Well, hello you adorable creature. Is that you with your mitt on your head and your hat in your hand? Uh-oh. Yes . . . it is you. Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing ever?

“Hi, Huddy! Hey . . . keep your eye on the ball!”  I don’t think my grandson knows the difference between left or right, first base or third. He’s 4 years old and who cares?

He’s down with the game. He’s number 11. I’m his Yaya and he’s playing T-ball. First season. Go, Hudson, Go.

Since every relative within 700 miles is here at Fiore Fields to catch opening day for the Peanut League, I had to park my buggy in Cucamonga. But to watch the Conejo Valley Little League, it doesn’t matter. So this old broad has to walk a bit.

As far as I’m concerned, you can have MLB, the dreadlocks, the chewing tobacco, the $12 hot dogs and the pouting prima donnas.

I’ll take the innocent joy electrifying this park any day.

The joint fills with a bunch of gimpy spectators. Grandparents. Can’t miss ’em. It’s a balmy 70 degrees and we’re loaded like pack mules with enough gear to survive on a desert island for a decade: blankets, chairs, umbrellas, coolers, binoculars, a good book or four, Advil, Altoids, sunblock, grapes, gargantuan visors and, of course, the all-sacred camera equipment. If it gets cold, a little B&B. You never know.

“Hey, Yaya . . . you watching my game?” Of course I’m watching your game, you marvelous creature. As long as you don’t spit or scratch. Save that for the dirtbags in the big leagues, please.

Again, a voice punches me from right field. “Hey, Yaya . . . can we go for ice cream after the game?”

“Sure . . . just put your hand in your mitt and your hat on your head.”

“Okay, Yaya.” Gotta start the game with equipment in place. Where’s that coach?

With the sun beating on my mug and a tad of dust in my schnozola, I’m smiling inside. This is the season when a big field of red dirt fosters a lifetime of memories for kids, parents and old poops. I can’t remember squat, but this moment will be etched in the old brain like the first kiss from Greg Jones in the back seat of my cousin’s Mustang.

Sure, I won’t find my car after the game and will be exhausted by the time I lug all this crapola home. But my memory will sizzle with the sensation of utter joy as I remember when Hudson hopped on deck . . . marched up to the T . . . swung ferociously . . . missed by a mile. And loved every minute of it.

Again from the outfield, “Hey, Yaya . . . my socks are too big and my pants are too tight. And I don’t want to wear my hat.”

Always equipment issues. Enough from the Peanut Gallery. What do they say . . . it’s not the rod, it’s the fisherman? It’s not the sword, it’s the soldier?

Look at these cuties. With pigtails, overbites, underbites, big ears, bad haircuts, dirty fingernails, pink bats, blue bats and glow-in-the-dark helmets . . . they all know that whether the mitts are on their heads or the hats fall to their hands, today will be a day that serves up a 10 on the Richter scale of wonderfulness. No harm no foul.

The voice. Again. “Hey, Yaya . . . where’s Grumps, Auntie Courtney and Kiki?”

I holler back like Billy Martin. “They went to get hot dogs and sodas, Hudson.” Pretty soon I’m gonna start kicking dirt. I reassure the little tyke, who is supposed to be watching the game. “They’ll be right back, I promise.” Too bad he’s missing all the action while he’s taking attendance in his own personal cheering section.

Gosh . . . you know, it’s a good occasion for this word “gosh,” so . . . gosh . . . this is the purest, most perfect moment you can imagine. The little peanuts aren’t thinking about bonus babies or steroids. They don’t know about Lou Gehrig’s disease or Bud Selig or the McCourts’ divorce or what T.J. Simers dumped in the newspaper.

Look at these adorable babes. Check out number 3 with the long pigtails. Who will she be someday? Will she take a seat on the Supreme Court? What about number 12 with the long legs, will he tackle hurdles in the Olympics, and how will he fair in the hurdles of life? And number 7 with the chubby cheeks . . . will he sing the same lullaby to his kids that his dad sings to him?

Watching that game took me to places I haven’t been for a while. Sometimes, it’s good to be taken.

Take me out to the ballgame . . . take me out, baby . . . take me out.

You can reach Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com or visit her blog at http://open.salon.com/ blog/elizabethkirby.