With Napa schools out, I’m spending more time these days with my two best pals and grandsons, Robbie, nearing 13, and Phil, who’ll be 9 tomorrow. I thank God for the time I’ve been given to share some of their adventures and maybe teach them something of value along the way.

Like all grandfathers, I’m proud of “my boys,” and prouder still that Phil has turned into a scholar like his big brother Robbie, thanks to the help of his mom and dad — and his fine teachers: Mrs. Krupp, Mrs. Wilson and most recently Mrs. O’Toole at Alta Heights Elementary School.

The boys are close to each other, close as any pair of brothers ever were and that’s the greatest gift of all. So what’s left for a grandpa to teach?

In my case, I talk to the boys about life and love and honor and, as the old Kenny Rogers hit “The Gambler” goes, I try to teach them along the lines of “You gotta know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em, know when to walk away and know when to run!”

Recently, Phil asked me if I was ever scared. I told him and Robbie that everyone at one time or another is scared, but the trick is not to show it. It’s not easy, but it can be done because it must be done.

On a recent walk past the Red Hen Cantina, the Evans bus depot and the beautiful grounds of Justin-Siena High School, “we guys” made a right turn by the firehouse and headed toward one of the school’s baseball diamonds. Memories of my early days in Napa returned at a time when my time in Queens, N.Y., seemed a million miles away.

Back a few years ago, I was pushing baby Robbie in his stroller on a Sunday walk and kids in baseball uniforms were playing a game on that diamond. I’m a sucker for a baseball game. With Robbie dozing, I stopped for just a little while.

The bases were loaded with two out and a kid maybe 10 or 11 years old took an inside pitch, and an umpire called “Strike three, yer out!” Tears were in the boy’s eyes and I knew the shame he felt. However, what got to me was the actions of his coach, a guy in his 40s in a kids uniform, hands on his hips, glaring at the poor kid, a wounded warrior.

Robbie and I continued our stroll that day, but my thoughts were far away in miles and years to another sandlot ball game in Queens.

Another kid was batting in a time when Joe DiMaggio and Mel Ott owned my town. Our team was down by one run with two outs and the bases full. The count went to three balls no strikes and it looked like we’d tie the game. So I took a strike for the team, then let a high inside pitch go by, which the umpire called “Strike two!” Then the last pitch was high and so close I backed up, yet the ump shouted “Strike three, yer out!” The game ended and I never swung the bat.

Unlike the Napa coach, my coach knew the game and took his case to the umpire with a “Whatta yuh blind, ump?”

Then to me, a pat on the back and “We’ll get ’em the next time around!”

One of my older brothers, Georgie, a fine left-handed hitter and outfielder, was at that game. We walked home in silence until I said “Georgie, that last pitch was no strike. It almost hit me.”

I was expecting consolation, but got none! My brother said, “If you walked, the game would have been tied and that umpire didn’t want to hang around for a possible extra innings game.”

Georgie was a man of few words, I listened and never forgot what he said: “When things get tough, you gotta take your swing!”

As a New York City cop those words were always with me, and they remain with me to this very day. When tough times came, and of course they did, I took my swing.

I told my story to Robbie and Phil. The boys listened and I’m sure that someday when the going gets tough they’ll remember what grandpa told them and when they have to do something, they’ll take their swings!

Ev Parker can be reached at evjenpar@mailbug.com or 224-9956.