An American Game

Monday evening, my sister's entire family and I went to watch my cousin play baseball. It's about an hour's drive away. We took a friend with us who is very good with all of the children, and whom they all love to have around.

The game starts at 7:05pm. We arrive at about 7:30pm, at the beginning of the second inning. It's great. We are handed plastic seat cushions on the way into the park with the team's name and colors on it (which we get to keep!). The announcer calls out the name of each player and the school he is from as he goes up to bat. It's very exciting to hear my cousin's name (with my last name!) called out with pumping music to get us all cheering. The Mascot is a close presence for all of the kids, and it seems like there's a fun little spectacle planned between each inning. Still, my nieces and nephews become restless after they finish their slushies and are familiar with which baseball player is their cousin.

My sister took the two youngest "for a walk" almost as soon as we all sat down--they were eager to explore the place and climb what they could find!
In the middle of the 4th inning, the older boys ask their Papa if he'll play catch with them for a while.
Around the beginning of the 5th inning, my 5 year-old niece informs me that she needs to use the facilities. I excuse her and myself, and leave our dear friend to sit with 8 seats of water bottles, snacks, car keys, purses, and free seat cushions--"Enjoy the game!" I joke with him.

We pass by my sister walking the other way in the space underneath the bleachers. It seems like we haven't seen her in a while; her five year-old runs toward her, arms waving like the doggie paddle, shouting excitedly, "Mama, Mama! I have to go to the bathroom, and Auntie is taking me there!!!"

We receive directions from "Mama" and quickly find the door "with the girl on it." We push it open, and are soon successfully inside.

The bathroom is impressively clean, for a ball park. There are tile floors, shiny mirrors, working sinks, full soap dispensers, and latches that latch. The long corridor of open stall doors show that the place is, for the most part, empty. The larger, handicap-accessible stalls are immediately to our left as we enter, and these doors are closed over. My niece decides to check and see if these are empty, as well. She squats and bends her little body so that her rear is almost touching the floor on the back side and her head between her legs is almost touching the floor on the front side. "Is --uh-- there --anyone? --uh-- in this --one?"

I point out all of the other wide open doors, and tell her to just choose one of those. But by that time, she has discovered that the first stall is empty. She enters, closes the door over, and I hear the "click" of the metal latch. I strolled over to the sink and started washing my hands while I wait.

"Oh no!! I can't go to the bathroom in here!" I hear her shriek from the first stall. There's a rustling and bustling and little feet scurrying.
"Why not?" I ask, preparing for a complaint such as "no toilet paper" or "the toilet is clogged." I am immediately in front of the latched door.

"Because there is a Lith-al,..Dead,..Baby..Crock-Roach in here!!"
"A little what?" I stand waiting for her to unlatch the door.
She does, and as the door opens, my niece is standing there, pointing to a corner of the large stall. Sure enough, a tiny, dry cockroach is lying on its back, legs up and curled over, very still. Yup, definitely dead. It's very small, but my niece was unlucky enough to notice it, and I understand her not wanting to stare at it--especially when there are so many other open stalls.

So we move down a few doors to one of the narrower stalls. "How about this one?" I suggest, automatically scanning the toilet for cleanliness and the metal fixture for toilet paper."

"Okay!" she cheerfully marches in. She almost has the door closed over again when she pauses, "Uhp! Nope, not this one, either! There's another dead baby crockroach in here!"

And so there was. Some pesticide must have been working really well that day! On the next attempt, I went into the empty stall first--to do recon. When I am sure that there are no crockroaches, dead, baby, or otherwise, I back out and sent her in. Of course, she still has to confirm the choice of stall with her authoritative report: "Okay, there are no crockroaches in this one. {sigh}"

At this point, I decide to avail myself of the facilities.
"Sweetie," I call, "I'm in the stall right next to you."
"Whaaat?" she says.
"I'm going to the bathroom next to you."
"Next to me?"
"Well, I'm in the room next to you--the one with the baby cockroach in it."
"There's a crockroach in there?!!"
I can tell that she is concentrating on talking to me, and hasn't even touched her clothing yet.
"Honey, just go to the bathroom, okay? I'll wait for you."
"But where are you?"
"I'll wait for you by the sink."
"Um, okay."

The sink is another adventure. She does not quite understand the concept of sensors; I watch as she pushes the black dot on the faux marble to make the water shoot out. It's like magic when I hold my hand there and allow her a full rinse. "Oh!" she exclaims, delighted.
After soaping and a full rinse, my niece looks around for a towel.
"Come here. This is nifty," I lead her to the hand-sensor towel dispenser, having only figured out where the sensor is myself immediately before the first cockroach discovery.
"Put your hand in front of this black square here," I tell her.
She moves her index finger toward the indicated shape, as if to press it, but the towel dispenses before she makes contact. "Whoa!" she squeels, "Lemme get another one." She points again, looking comically like an amateur magician, commanding the box on the wall to obey.
Again, a paper towel rolls out. "Awwwe-some! That's so awwwe-some!" she breathes, yanking the seond towel down and rolling it into the first.

I follow her lead out of the restroom. The sun has set almost completely and the resulting dimness gives the huge ballfield lights an exciting importance. My niece sees the rest of her family on a patch of grass behind our cousin's dugout. She runs for them, calling her youngest sister's name. I return to the bleachers, where our dear friend still sits alone.
"Sorry," I feel bad that he gave up his evening to watch a college baseball game--and now by himself. "Are you ok?"
"Oh, yeah!" he says, unphased.
Then he points down toward the dugout entrance. There is my five year-old niece looking up, obviously scanning the seats--presumably for me. We start shouting her name and waving our arms, but it's getting darker. And she has her pink-rimmed sunglasses on. After a few more seconds, she turns around and rejoins her family below.

Soon the boys return and recruit our friend for a game of catch.

Now it's my turn to watch the seat cushions--er--I mean, the game.