Back in the days of my youth, the town I lived in used to hold Little League tryouts in the first floor of this old white building. In one of the exercises, one of the coaches — my dad — used to hit ground balls to us. All of us wannabe players would stand in a single-file line near the front door and front windows, with the line wrapping along the windows on the right side. My dad would stand at the back of the building with a bat and hit these rubber-coated baseballs at us. We had to field them and then throw them to another coach who stood at the back of the building.
I don’t know why, but every time it was my turn to take a ground ball, my dad would hit it significantly harder than he would for the other kids. Boy, that used to piss me off, and it’s pretty much the only memory I have of this building.
I haven’t been back there in many years now, but it looks like the Little League baseball park is still behind this building.