I'm coming up on the 50th anniversary of my first MLB games on August 28, 1966.
My father and I rode the Greyhound bus from a neighboring state to Chicago to see a doubleheader between the White Sox and my Minnesota Twins at old Comiskey Park. We had lunch at a Trader Vic's in downtown Chicago before taking the L to the stadium on the South Side. As we took out seats I remember being in awe of the green expanses and the smells of the grass, hot dogs and pipe tobacco.
The White Sox swept the Twins in a marathon, winning the first game 4-3 in 15 innings and the nightcap 7-6 in 11 innings:
http://www.baseball-reference.com/boxes/CHA/CHA196608281.shtml
http://www.baseball-reference.com/boxes/CHA/CHA196608282.shtml
... although my childhood hero, Harmon Killebrew, homered in each game.
In about the seventh inning of the second game my father said we needed to leave to catch the Greyhound bus home. Defiant six weeks shy of my 11th birthday, I told my father he was free to go and that I would find my way back to Iowa on my own. We ended up staying until the final out, catching a later bus home, arriving around 7 am when my father needed to report to work at 8 am. My father never complained, nor did my mother, who saw little of her husband on that memorable day, their 17th wedding anniversary.