Just a week after his team’s glorious Little League summer finally ended, we find out that Danny Almonte was not the gifted 12-year-old we thought he was. Instead, he was a gifted 14-year-old who was playing against gifted 12-year-olds.

Danny Almonte is a loser.

Almonte did not rewrite his birth certificate. He did not author this scam. Adults did that. Danny Almonte is just the loser.

Here’s what he lost: The sweet, adolescent memories that many associate with our Little League days, even if it’s been 25 years since we took our last cut at a baseball with a faded silver, 29-inch aluminum bat.

I remember that bat. Not too heavy. Not too light. Just the right heft. Little League memories are like that, you know. No matter how much time elapses, they’re still there. … With just the right heft.

Those little things are exactly what Almonte lost. His Little League memories will be bitter. They won’t be like yours, or mine.

Like the smell of a brand-new double-knit uniform after it’s been washed in Biz, then hung to dry on a backyard clothesline.

And buying as many wads of Bazooka Joe as you could afford, sticking them all in your mouth so you looked like Don Zimmer … and finding out that all that gum juice was actually pretty gross.

Like being told by your coach that it was against team rules to swim on game days. And spending the entire afternoon swimming with your eyes closed, just so you wouldn’t show up at the field with the telltale chlorine-red eyes. Especially if you were pitching.

Like fighting back the tears when you square to bunt, foul off Tommy Glaster’s fastball (with the middle finger of your right hand), and look down to see a cracked, bleeding mess.

Or like rolling around in the dirt after a lively Rick Chapman fastball caroms off your left kneecap.

And the sounds. They’re all so clear. Still. Twenty-five years later.

Like playing pepper against the outfield fence, and hearing the dreaded thunk of the ball as it makes contact with the plywood sponsor’s sign behind you … the sound that signals your automatic elimination from the game.

Or like watching a foul ball sail into the IGA parking lot as 30 kids on two teams crane their necks and wait … wait … wait … for the unmistakable leather-on-metal whomp that means somebody’s dad parked the Ford in the wrong spot.

And the sound of the cheers that noise always seemed to elicit from the same group of kids. (Call us callous … but it sounded cool … and the guy who hit the ball? He got high-fives for the effort).

The metallic ding after missing your first career home run by inches, and watching it ricochet off the top bar of the chain-link fence.

Back in the pre-ESPN days, there was no such thing as “going yard.”

You were either one of the kids who had hit one out or you weren’t.

And you remember when you made the transition from one group to the other.

You can picture the ball, sailing toward a group of parents who always parked their cars beyond the outfield fence.

The people scatter. And the ball lands with an entirely satisfying hollow pop, right in the middle of Mr. Doble’s windshield.

Adults? We knew they were there, of course. But they were there to coach. To ump. To tell you that you weren’t as bad as you thought you were after you let three groundballs through the wickets in one game.

And to feign interest as you recounted (to every relative you had) the incredible story of Mr. Doble’s exploding windshield.

I’m sure you have more stories. Most of us do. This year’s most famous Little Leaguer doesn’t.

But do me a favor. Blame the adults, not him. Danny Almonte? He’s just the loser.

John Holyoke is a NEWS sportswriter. His e-mail address is jholyoke@bangordailynews.net