Of the many universals you come across when speaking to your friends about childhoood, one of my favorites will always be the snack shack.

Is it just Southern California or did all Little League fields have a snack shack? The padlocked, fold-up metal window covers would open to reveal your third-baseman's older brother standing before a smorgasbord of sweet treats and heavy-on-the-syrup soda fountains.

Get me a strawberry Big League Chew, a Charleston Chew, and run that cup under all but the diet for a solid suicide. After the game, I generally opted for a Red Rope and Dino-sour eggs.

Then as you reached some milestone in years, probably 12 or 13, you were enlisted to work the shack. This inevitably led to all sorts of early embezzlement training and the more mature snacks like pretzels and hot dogs. This is around the time that you realize that Mr. Pibb is getting harder and harder to find in the supermarkets. I digress.....

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