From John Kass in the Chicago Tribune – Opening day at the ballpark. Father and child. The special memories will last a lifetime. Unfortunately, so will the memory related to me by a fellow lifelong White Sox fan, Dr. Paul Nemeth. He took his 6-year-old son to Sox Park on Opening Day to see Mark Buehrle pitch and defeat the Cleveland Indians. This was an Opening Day that Nemeth and his son will never forget. Ever. “I guess I’m just an old-fashioned kind of guy,” said Nemeth, who at 45 isn’t exactly a geezer… On Monday, Nemeth’s son had to go, and his father took him to the nearest restroom. They stood in line for the first urinal next to a row of stalls. As they waited, Nemeth said, he noticed noises coming from the last stall. A man’s legs — clad in blue jeans and sneakers — were sticking out from under the stall door. “The toes were pointing up,” said Nemeth. “The legs were shaking and quivering…” As a trained physician, he had an idea what was happening in there, but he worried it might have been something else. “It was bizarre. It caught the attention of a lot of people. I tried to turn my boy’s attention away from it, then I thought, ‘Is someone having a seizure?’ “So I kicked the door, just to get a reaction. I just wanted to make sure nobody was dying in there. That’s when I heard a woman’s voice yell, ‘HEY, STOP!’ Something was going on and I had interrupted.” Moments later, the stall door opened, and a tall, thin, blond man exited. The tall man held his arms up in triumph. “His arms were straight up, like in victory,” Nemeth said. “Everybody was hooting and hollering and giving high-fives.” Then a second person left the stall, someone Nemeth described as apparently female, “scurrying” out of the restroom with a shirt or coat over her head. “It was disgusting. Probably the most disgusting thing was the encouragement this guy received from the other guys in the bathroom. You can’t even go to a baseball game anymore without being subjected to this?”

I’ve got one thing to say to the good Dr. Nemeth: Lighten up, Francis.  You’ve been reading you’re dog eared copy of “Fathers Playing Catch With Sons” and George F. Will books too much.  You’ve got your head too full of this pathetic, antiquated notion that baseball is a game of timelessness and bonding between between the generations, blah, blah, blah.  Look, I used to get caught up in that stuff too.  I used to dream of having sons some day and taking them to their first ball game and we’d bond like Ray and his dad at the end of “Field of Dreams.”  Then I had a son, shelled out a couple of hundred bucks to take him to Fenway.  They filled the park, made us sit through a light drizzle for two full hours, then cancelled the game.  When I had second son and took him to his first game, they crammed me like a veal calf into a grandstand seat next to a 450 lb fat guy who’s armpit flab hung over my seat (with my son on my lap) the whole game.  You made out way better than I did.   At least you got to witness some slut riding a guy.  I didn’t even get that.  As bonding experiences with your son go, that’s one at least you’ll always be able to share.  Look on the bright side, someday li’l Paul Jr. will forget all about Mark Buhrele, but he’ll never forget that.