Just outside the village of Pittsford in western New York State is what we called the stopgates, towering above the Erie Canal. In the 1950s and '60s kids loved to jump off the top. Daredevils. Not me, though. I suppose some of those kids thought I was chicken, but I would jump only from halfway up the metal ladder of that big black monstrosity that I vaguely understood could be lowered for flood control. The thing was out of proportion to its bucolic setting among fields, woods and the man-made waterway it hovered above like some archaic monolith deposited there by an alien race.

One summer day between eighth and ninth grade, a bunch of us were at various levels of the contraption — Ray Wallman, Mel Morgan, Fred Dehmler, Paul Selke, Tom Cook, Dave Nash, if memory serves. Suddenly one of them yells, “Hey, look at that snake!”

There slithering through the water was a huge black snake, at least eight feet long. Someone yells, “C’mon, let’s get it!” Everyone jumped in. Everyone but me. I wasn’t much for chasing snakes. It was quite a sight — a half-dozen boys swimming as fast as they could in pursuit of their prey. The snake didn’t break its leisurely pace. It just disappeared. I had a vision of it emerging from the dark water and squeezing a boy down into the depths. But nothing happened. There was some chatter like, “Hey, where’d it go?” The kids treaded water for a while and then swam back.

Whether it was swimming in the muddy waters of the canal or playing pick-up baseball, it didn’t occur to us that we needed adults around as lifeguards, coaches, umps, or spectators. It was fun, frolic and freedom. If there was an offsides, or unnecessary roughness in a pick-up football game, we’d work it out. There might be arguments, but it was part of the game to resolve disputes. No one looked to a coach about whether to run or pass on the next play.

It was pure exhilaration. Connecting on a forward pass to Jimmie Palmer over Mike Spiegel’s head was a sight to behold. The play, the disputes, the games themselves were just us kids. There was no man with a whistle starting a race when we swam in the canal. If a snake came along, you chased it, or not.

In baseball back then there was a universal ritual to get the games started called “toss the bat.” Usually the acknowledged best players were named opposing captains. One would take a bat – always a wooden bat – and toss it in vertical position to the other, who caught it with one hand in the middle of the bat. Then they would go hand over each others’ hand to the top of the bat. Whichever captain’s hand fit at the top of the handle, he got first pick of a player.

Once the game began, the opposing catchers called balls and strikes. If someone slid into second and it was a close play, we’d work it out. These games could go on all afternoon until it was time to go home for supper, or until dark if the game was after supper.

I’ve often wondered and written newspaper columns about what happens to children when they are constantly supervised by adults, never allowed to go out and just play, never allowed to work out disputes among themselves. What kind of adults will they grow up to be?

I came upon a column in The New York Times a few years ago headlined “On Sandlot Day, Children Call Their Own Shots.” It was by Mark Hyman, the author of “Until It Hurts: America’s Obsession With Youth Sports and How It Harms Our Kids.”

This piece was about a program called Sandlot Day developed by the Youth Sports Institute at the SUNY Cortland. The Institute director, Tim Donovan, was quoted saying: “The lessons learned from choosing up sides — negotiation, conflict resolution — they’re the building blocks of civilization.”

Sandlot Day was catching on in several communities — just one day, mind you, when the adults would disappear and let the kids play baseball. The Pittsford Little League liked the idea. But the organization couldn’t leave the kids alone, and league leaders planned to have a few parents hanging around.

“The Erie Canal runs by the outfield at two of our fields,” said the league president. “I’d like a few adults around so the kids don’t jump in.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I guess that guy never had the thrill of jumping off the stopgates.

James H. Smith is an author and retired journalist, having worked at several newspapers, including The Day. This is excerpted from “A Boy’s Life in the Baby Boom/True Tales from Small Town America.”