When I was very young, before I spent nights at my dads house, a good portion of our time together took place at Comiskey Park. My dad always had season tickets and, on the rare nights when neither my brothers nor I had soccer or baseball or gymnastics, we would make our way down to section 137, row 12.
Sox games were tons of fun for me. I got to spend time with my two older, cooler brothers and my dad usually bought me a Lemon Chill. I never had to brush my hair or walk much if I didn't want to. It was in those seats I learned to snap, swear, and ask questions. Surrounded by drunken men and crop-topped girls, baseball games always made me feel older.
Most of the maturity I feel in my childhood memories stems from going to the bathroom. These games were a time for my brothers and I to see my dad- not his girlfriend, fiancé, or wife. That, plus the fact that we only had 4 season tickets, meant that I was always the only girl in the pack. So, unlike trips to the mall or church where my mom would insist on enforcing the "buddy system," when the 5th inning became the 6th and I fought up the courage to ask my dad to make room for me in the aisle, I would climb the stairs alone, stick my ticket in my pocket, and walk straight into the women's bathroom.
I think the first couple of times my dad would walk me to the door and wait for me on the other side. Occasionally, he might have asked a friendly looking woman to look after me in line. But, for the most part, I felt alone in the sea of older and fatter legs. I would stand in line patiently. I never talked to anyone. I even tried to avoid eye contact. When a silver door would swing open, I would lock myself behind it and do what I had gone there to do. It was systematic and easy, but I figured it out on my own.
Even though those lines were always indescribably longer than the male counterparts, waiting in them was the first time I ever felt alone. I was 4 or 5 or 6, standing and listening to groups of adults- trying very hard not to disrupt the social norm which meant talking to no one. In that bathroom, I learned to be content within my own head; I didn't need anyone to talk to me or look at me to get done what I needed to. Without my mother or stepmother there to hurry me along, I could take my time washing my hands, watching older ladies brush their hair and fix their makeup. It was a very cool feeling knowing that no matter how long I stayed in there, no brother or father of mine could come in and force me out. I really loved the independence of Comiskey Park's bathrooms. On days the Sox weren't playing too hot, I would stay inside the bathroom for close to an hour. I would stand and watch the women do old things and enjoy the thoughts I could form for myself in my head, though I always was sure to make it out in time for the 7th inning stretch.
Now I am 18 and US Cellular had bought and renamed the stadium I grew up in. My family still goes to games, although work schedules are surprisingly harder to clear up than AYSO schedules. I am heading off to Wake Forest in less than a month where, for the second time, I will have to fend for myself. I will be alone, no father or friend to hold my hand in line or tell me to wash my hands. I only hope that I can learn to love that independence as much as I did in the bathroom.
