The little girl might have been five.

She was wearing a shiny pair of cleats and a pink hat she had turned backwards. On her left hand was a pink glove. It was probably the smallest one her dad could find, but it still looked about three sizes too big for her.

The dad was down on one knee rolling softballs to the little girl. I only watched for a few minutes, but if she got a glove on one of the balls as it rolled past her I didn’t see it.

I’m also not sure how long they had been playing catch – or miss – when I pulled into my driveway that sits across from a small city league field, but at least 50 softballs were scattered on the dirt behind the little girl.

After each slow roller went past her, the little girl giggled.

I don’t know their story, but I can picture the dad putting in a 50-hour week at his job, waking up early that Saturday morning, doing a few chores around the house and then settling into his favorite recliner for a much-deserved nap.

His daughter was having none of that, and all she had to do was put on those cleats and hat, grab that pink glove and look at dad with those eyes he knows will one day melt someone else’s heart, and they were off to the ballpark.

It seems like a lifetime ago, but I’ve been there and done that with a little boy.

I kept waiting for the dad to get frustrated as softball after softball rolled past the little girl, bringing on another giggle fit, but the only time I heard him raise his voice was to say “Hey! You almost got that one. Good job!”

Later that evening, a 12-year-old Facebook memory popped up from when my then 9-year-old son Kyle decided he wanted to play baseball.

As a sports writer at three East Texas newspapers for almost four decades, I’ve seen too many parents ruin what should be an enjoyable day at the ballpark for their child and other children by forgetting the kids are there to learn and have fun – not to see their parents hauled away in a police car.

To make sure I didn’t become that parent, I made myself some simple rules to follow.

I will remember my child is nine and isn’t earning or losing a scholarship if he hits a home run or gets struck out by another 9-year-old.

I will not to yell at my child if he strikes out or misses a fly ball.

I will not to have a black-eye discussion with a fellow parent the first time he yells at my child for striking out or missing a fly ball. I make no promises about the second time he yells at my child.

I will not ride the umpire like he has a saddle, and instead will try to remember he is probably making almost enough money at this game to purchase gas to get him home.

I will not tell the coach how to coach. The league asked for volunteers to coach teams, and he stepped up to the plate. I had the same chance and chose to be a fan instead.

I will make sure my child respects the game, his opponents, the coaches and the umpires. I’ll do this by showing him how it’s done, not just talking about it.

I will clap when any player comes through with a clutch hit or makes a spectacular play in the field, even if the child plays for the other team and especially if the child is wearing shiny cleats and is wearing a glove that’s easily three sizes too big.

I will give my child a hug when he gets his first hit, drives in his first run or makes his first big play in the field.

I will give my child a bigger hug when he strikes out, forgets what base he’s supposed to run to or drops an easy fly ball.

That was the original list, but after Saturday, allow me to add one more.

I’m 57 and not as spry as I was when we practiced across the street 12 years ago. But, if my now 21-year-old son ever stumbles across his old glove and wants to play some catch, I won’t hesitate.

I can almost hear him now saying “Hey! You almost got that one. Good job!”