In the early 1950s, I was a big Cleveland Indians fan. The Indians were a fine team, mind you, but they usually wound up second to the dreaded New York Yankees. On Sunday, June 14, 1953, my dad drove me from our home in Parkersburg, West Virginia, to Cleveland to see a doubleheader against the Yankees. I’d never seen a major league baseball game before, and I was in awe. The field seemed so green, almost magical, surreal. The outfield walls seemed so high, so far away, so impossible to reach. My heart pounded as I watched my heroes Al Rosen, Luke Easter and Larry Doby strut their stuff in batting practice. The stands were packed that day with 74,708 fans (Research on the web revealed the exact number). Hot dogs with mustard never tasted so good.

But … my Indians lost both games, 6-2 and 3-0.

I was sad that my Indians had lost yet again to those darn Yankees. But I was happy to have spent the day with my dad watching my favorite team. That night we saw “The Lemon Drop Kid” starring Bob Hope. That movie introduced to America the song “Silver Bells,” which later became a Christmas standard. I can’t recall, but I bet I ate Jujy Fruits, my favorite candy. That treat set my dad back a nickel. Or maybe it was a dime.

Looking back, that trip to Cleveland stands out as a “freeze-frame” moment, an experience I’ll never forget. I’ve had a few other major freeze-frame moments: There was that day in November 1966 when my first son David was born. I recall reading “Native Son” by Richard Wright in the waiting room of the Boston Lying-In Hospital. And I remember my first glimpse of the latest David Treadwell. “Is he mine? Did I help create that being?” I marveled, as I admired all 7 pounds, 14 ounces of him. Now I marvel that someone who had sprung from my loins is a technological wizard who’s ascended to the highest ranks of Microsoft. Sometimes the acorn falls a tad far from the tree.

And then there was the time my wife’s water broke in the middle of a night in May 1968, and I bundled up 18- month-old David and we took a taxi from our apartment on East 81st in Manhattan to a hospital in midtown. That was a bad freeze-frame moment, as my wife was RHnegative, and we knew there might be major complications. There were. Seven days, six blood transfusions and one hernia later, son Jonathan emerged from the hospital, a basically healthy baby boy who retains today the grit and determination that got him through that first week.

Other freeze-frames: The day my two adult sons guided me down the aisle in the Bowdoin Chapel when I married Tina in June 1989. The first client I landed after starting my own writing business that same year. Completing my first marathon (Boston) in 1991.The birth of my first grandchild (David Treadwell IV) in 1997. My surprise 70th birthday party two years ago. (Tina and my sister Martha really got me, a masterful get.)

As we move on down the road, those life-changing freeze-frames seem rare. We’ve already experienced so many big firsts, both the happy and the sad, that we become jaded We increasingly look to the next generation to experience those magical moments, and I’ve had my share: Seeing my grandson David score 19 points in a basketball game or watching a tape of my granddaughter Emma perform as concertmaster for the Vermont Youth Symphony Orchestra. And I’ll never forget when our Bowdoin host student Rai called to say she’d won a Fulbright Scholarship or when I learned that Erica, another host student, had earned Phi Beta Kappa laurels. I had a freeze-frame moment while playing Yahtzee, of all things, with my 10-year old granddaughter Sosie during our Christmas stay in Killington, Vermont. She grooves on that friendly Treadwell banter, just like I used to do with my dad or my son Jon while playing backgammon — not the most earthshaking legacy, but a legacy nonetheless.

Maybe that’s the trick. Savor the simple as well as the spectacular. Pan for the gold in the everyday.

Still and all, freeze-frames big and small aside, I do wish my Indians had won just one of those games against the Yankees on that June day in 1953.

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David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary as well as suggestions for topics for future “Just a Little Old” columns. dtreadw575@aol.com.