We just can't control people's experiences

Baseball, expectations, reality

A couple weeks ago, I took our autistic son to his first Major League Baseball game.

(The timing was fitting, coming on the heels of RFK Jr.’s comments: "Autism destroys families…These are children who should not be suffering like this…These are kids who will never pay taxes. They'll never hold a job. They'll never play baseball. They'll never write a poem. They'll never go out on a date..." Let us all hold a nation-wide moment of silence to consider the reality of an American Male NEVER PLAYING BASEBALL!!!)

The Cardinals were in town to play the Rangers. I grew up a Cardinals fan because I’m from Memphis—where everyone’s a Cardinals fan, unless you’re a Braves fan—and also because my wife and I went to seminary in St. Louis. The game was on a Saturday afternoon game and my dad graciously bought us tickets behind the Cardinals dugout.

“Taking your son to his first baseball game” is an event worthy of quotations. It’s supposed to be one of those seminal events in a father’s life, up there with all the other events worthy of quotations, like “taking son to deer stand” or “teaching son to fish.” It felt like the right time for “first game” because Sam has been playing tee ball, and also he likes watching baseball on TV.

So we went.

On the drive out to Arlington, Sam fell asleep in the car. We parked and then zigzagged our way through sauna-parking-lots to the stadium. When we entered the ballpark, he was visibly overwhelmed by its size. On the way to our seats, we ordered a bucket (shaped like a “cowboy boot” bc Texas) of bottomless popcorn. The Cardinals took the lead for good in the second inning. During the third, we ordered processed meats—for him, hot dog; for me, bratwurst. He was excited about the hot dog but then ate three bites. Throughout the game, I tried to explain to him “baseball things” like how many fielders there are, or what a catcher does, or why there’s a mound for the pitcher to stand on. It’s very hard to say what he absorbed. At one point, the fan sitting next to Sam asked him if it this was his first “ball game” (he said it like that) and he didn’t respond. At one point, Sam asked to “go home,” but I said “ice cream” instead—which bought us a few more innings. At a few different points, whether out of stimulation or boredom I don’t know, Sam began stimming, and so of course (of course) I said “Sam, we don’t stim at the baseball game” bc seriously how ridiculous is it to stim at a baseball game…God. In the fifth inning, I asked the Gen Z girls sitting behind us to take our picture with the field in the background. This was, of course the moment which would redeem and make real all the other moments. Picture: dad and son at first baseball game, etc. But Sam was nervous to have strangers staring at him while being told repeatedly to look at a phone and to smile. He didn’t look at the phone or smile. We tried a second time to get a better picture. Here is that picture:

“the picture”

Honestly, I have no idea if Sam had fun at the game. He can’t really say and so I can’t really say. When you imagine these moments with your son, you imagine them going a certain way: your son beaming, and thanking you more than once for taking him to his first game; you pointing out at the field and explaining some finer point of the game and him saying, “Ah, yes, Father” and by the time the ninth inning rolls around exhibiting an intermediate-to-advanced understanding of our national pastime. As it was/is, I have no idea whether Sam processed any of my lessons about the mechanics of baseball. I don’t know if the game will be a core memory for him or not; I don’t know if he’ll remember the game at all. I know he liked eating ice cream out of the mini batting helmet. I know we went back twice for more popcorn.

We cannot control people’s experiences. We just can’t. We can’t control people’s experiences of us. We can’t control people’s experiences of life. We can’t force connection. We can’t make people connect with us in the way we want to connect. We can’t force people to like the things that we like. This is especially true of our children, but it is of course true of all humans.

Add this to the list of things Sam has taught me. Stop controlling me. Just stop. Please. If I want to stim when there are 40,000 fans and loud music and players running around and throwing and hitting balls, for God’s sake, let me. If I can’t tell you whether I had fun, why does that matter? If I care more about the snacks than the game, why do you care?

It’s a good question.

Why do we care?

the cardinals won 2-0