Summertime nostalgia for the carefree days of yore, when friendship, mischief and baseball was the extent of a young boy's concern. And actually, those first two points are ancillary. Baseball is where it all begins and ends.

I didn't grow up in 1960s California like these kids, but their experiences are eerily familiar. As, I'll wager, is the case with most men beyond a certain age. We're products of a day when parents would send their children out, unsupervised, to find their own way in the world until a certain designated supper time. That open sense of freedom, and the alternating feelings of fear and discovery that accompany it, is key to understanding why _The Sandlot_ is so well-loved. Either you lived it and you see it, right there on the screen, or you didn't, and it misses you.

It's got shortcomings - lots of shortcomings, actually - but that warm overriding sentimentality smooths over a lot of the rough spots. The effects work on that big, scary junkyard dog might be laughable, but hey, such threats really do seem exaggerated and scary when you're twelve years old. Did the city actually light enough Independence Day fireworks to illuminate the neighborhood baseball diamond for a once-a-year night game? Probably not, but I'll bet it seems that way through the fog of a few decades' unreliable memory.

Simple and predictable, with an overdose of "for the love of the game" axioms, but also good-natured and playful; it's nice to visit this world, to recall your own similar childhood adventures, even if you can't completely overlook its schmaltzier limitations.