It’s been 13 years since The Sandlot, and yet there isn’t a day that my publicist doesn’t remind me to remember it. I was 14 when I starred as Hamilton “Ham” Porter, a role that helped gross $32 million domestically, and untold millions more in the Far East and other international markets (it’s still unclear what it pulled in outside the US and in DVD — my lawyers are sorting that out as we speak).

But more important than the white slavery paycheck and getting to say some great lines (“Count on it, pee-drinking crap-face!” and “You know, if my dog were as ugly as you, I’d shave his butt and tell him to walk backwards,” which is a line that I improv-ed on the spot) was that The Sandlot launched my career — and told baseball’s beautiful, naïve tale as well. Naïve really is the right word, because those of us who made The Sandlot were completely clueless, not knowing the difference between pre-net points and Battleship. Mark Burg, the executive producer, took us for all we were worth.

So here’s my advice for all of you Little Leaguers inspiring us with your hopes and dreams in Pennsylvania this week: don’t sell your story rights easily. You need to hold out. There will always be another offer, and a cautious negotiating strategy will always net you more in the long run. You will need to keep that fresh-faced look so that the tabs don’t turn on you (man, summer of ’97 was rough), so hire a real monster as an agent. A “butt sniffer,” as that loveable lug Ham might have said. Let your agent handle all dealings with the studios and producers, and you just keep smiling for the cameras and let those dimples do the talking. Trust Ham on this one.

You’ll notice that I am not participating in The Sandlot sequel. You’ll also notice that you didn’t realize that there was a sequel to The Sandlot. This is not a coincidence. The producers began rounding us up again after the original became the My Big Fat Greek Wedding of 1993, and I was the only cast member who wanted to renegotiate. I might have been young and husky, but I wasn’t dumb. I knew that the studio was getting rich off of my burps and farts, and I also knew that the sequel was bound to disappoint. (I read Easy Riders, Raging Bulls that year, and it made me reconsider my role in filmmaking.) The producers could care less, because who was I but some fat kid?

The joke was on them. The project fell apart back in ’94, and David M. Evans — a hack if I’ve ever seen one; the guy needs more coverage than a Doppler Radar — was left working on Beethoven movies while I was raking it in with Son in Law, Johnny Mysto: Boy Wizard, The Big Green and P.U.N.K.S..

I’ll admit that these movies didn’t exactly ignite the box offices — my agent at the time was a real sack of you-know-what — but they did put some jangle in the ol’ piggy bank, which was the goal at that time.

This time of year we all like to gaze out on the Little League World Series’ sandlot and imagine our skinned-kneed selves kicking the dust out of our cleats and squinting into the late afternoon sun for that final fly ball. It’s a powerful image for anyone who has outgrown their first baseball glove. And for those of you still swinging for the fences in Williamsport this week, it can be a very profitable one as well.

Patrick Renna teamed up with friend and fellow actor Andrew Keegan for the 1997 independent short “Everyday” about three boys’ reaction to the death of Buddy Holly.