Yep. It always chaps my hide when I send the boys out to pick up the balls and I'm short 5 or 6 and have to go find them myself. In our day we took great care of the one baseball we had. Add to that the 1975 rookie George Brett card I always had in my spokes (probably ruined 10-12 of them that way).
However, if I was a kid again, I might prefer the bucket of balls, the expensive bag, the nice ride to the game and the attention of my dad, who, although a sports fan, probably never saw me play any sport more than a half dozen times.