I played little league, "major" league, and pony league there. In little league, the teams were named after elements associated with space (this was the heyday of the space program in Houston). I played for the "Polaris." We never knew what the fuck a Polaris was. The mosquito problem was insane and the fogger trucks would swing by throwing down some premium grade DDT. They would stop the games until you could see the field again. I attribute the excellent pesticides of the Houston area with my relatively good health today, but I digress.
Back to my first team, the unfortunately named Polaris. I was seven years old and this was before the days of coach pitch or T-ball, so it was live pitching. There was a kid on my team named, Sam Walton (not related to The Sam Walton) but rather from the wrong side of Hempstead Highway (there wasn't a right side). Sam was a terrible athlete and had no discernible baseball skill. I recall sitting next to him on the bench, waiting to hit and his old man came in behind us and leaned next to the chain link fence to tell Sam that if he didn't get a hit the next time up, he "would get the whipping of his life when he got back home." I never forgot that.