Every year, my mom would get tickets through her job to go to a Phillies game. And because my parents were both so wonderful and supportive of my slight baseball obsession, we would go.

My first baseball memory is actually from the old Veterans Stadium. I don’t remember much, except seeing that bright green turf mixed with the white and red pinstripes of my beloved Phils.

That, and my dad pointing to a spot in the second deck in right field where he watched left-handed slugger Greg Luzinski, aka “The Bull,” hit a ball sometime in the ’70s.

Core memories.

But my mom would also get tickets every year to the Reading Phillies, the Phillies’ Double-A affiliate. And of course, we’d make the half-hour drive to “BaseballTown,” Pennsylvania.

For baseball-loving kids growing up in small-town America, the local minor league ballpark becomes home to countless childhood memories.

FirstEnergy Stadium is home to more than one of mine.

I remember the sights.

Walking out onto the concourse, new black-and-silver Mizuno glove in hand, and seeing this old-fashioned American baseball park. It was a minor league stadium, sure, but in my eyes, it was as big as Yellowstone.

The bright green grass, edged to perfection. The sharp, clean infield dirt. The bright white bases. Team mascot Screwball and his gang dancing and gallivanting around the stadium.

I remember the smells, too.

Hot dogs. Popcorn.

“ICE COLD BEER HERE!”

“GET YOUR PEANUTS! GET YOUR CRACKER JACKS!”

And then, the crack of a wooden bat.

I was going to be out on the field.

I was about to be a star.

Okay, I was just going to throw out the first pitch of the game. Me and a handful of other kids were being honored for our birthdays.

But you know what?

I was going to throw that pitch like it was the final game of the World Series.

My mom walked me to the side of the first-base dugout, and off I went, hustling out toward the mound.

Always hustling.

I started my windup and brought my hands over my head.

Then I fired a four-seam fastball right down the middle for a strike.

Surprisingly, the catcher managed to hang on to my seven-year-old heater.

I hustled off the field feeling like a champion.

That’s the magic of minor league baseball.

It arguably plays an even bigger role in “growing the game” than Major League Baseball does.

It’s a more family-friendly experience. Kids are more involved. You see boys and girls running around the stadium, sitting in the outfield stands or bleachers, glove in hand.

(Or hand in glove?)

And then there’s the price compared to a Major League game.

But that’s a story for another day.

So go out to your local minor league ballpark.

Because someday, they’ll be the ones pointing to a spot in the stands and telling their kids about the time they saw something they’ll never forget.

There’s no better way to connect generations than through baseball.

Reading, or the Reading Phillies, has dubbed itself “BaseballTown”