No one asked for proof of friendship
Reclaiming public life on my own terms.
The first time I went to a baseball game by myself, I carried a string backpack. I filled it with my digital camera and my scorebook, hoping one or the other would distract me during a sport famous for its downtime. I stepped confidently out of my Midwestern apartment, but I felt some lingering social unease: were people allowed to go to baseball games by themselves? I hadn’t made friends yet where I lived. Was I even allowed to exist in the stadium?
Without really trying, I turned it into an adventure. I found a map of commuter trains that ran to the stadium, followed them outward and picked a route that appeared to have a parking lot in an outlying neighborhood. When I showed up a few hours later, there was indeed parking, but it wasn’t clear the trains were running. I wasn’t confident enough to ask anyone, but I watched the other riders closely and eventually crossed to the opposite platform. Next stop: stadium. And no one asked for proof of friendship!
The game was uneventful so I took my photos and penned my scorebook. On the ride back, I tallied up the stats from the game. I was fortunate to be seated downstairs in an open gallery car comfortably filled with other fans. I found no errors summing up the runs, hits, and errors, and contentedly closed the book on my baseball game. With a brain that doesn’t always make social participation easy, what a privilege it was to feel alive in the presence of others. I didn’t know yet that this kind of solo outing would become a ritual, something I return to when I’m feeling adrift.
A decade later, I found myself on a different train to a different stadium in a different city. No longer visiting, I wore the cap of the home team and had tickets in my digital wallet to return many times that season. The rest was the same. Somewhere between the first stadium and the last, I realized I wasn’t going to baseball games alone out of desperation, but out of comfort.
Of course, I didn’t always go alone. In between, I went to some games with friends. Some of them were even fun! There’s a ballpark photo I hold dear because it represents my inner and outer worlds being in alignment, attending a game I planned with three others who I felt genuinely enjoyed my company. What about the seasons of life when there’s only one person, or no one, who enjoys my company? I don’t stop having the urge to go sit in a stadium.
I routinely observe people in friend groups exchanging agency for a collective identity and permission to exist in the world. Having already cracked the latter, I just needed to embrace my identity as a season ticket holder to the solo season. That would be identity enough, even if those around me didn’t recognize it as a desirable option for them.
I like existing between the systemic and the interpersonal. It’s not just baseball stadiums, either. While sitting in Liverpool Lime Street Station recently, I marveled at the wrought-iron train shed, wondered about the private operator that built it nearly two centuries ago, and silently thanked public Network Rail for maintaining it today—after a brief (and costly) stint under private infrastructure ownership in the 1990s.
Only then did I notice a family of three, each carrying a roller bag. I guess I’m describing a more-pretentious version of people watching. One where I first admire the public space that brought everyone together, then try to reverse-engineer the economic and cultural systems that made it possible.
For nearly a decade, I tried to recreate these forces through my work in public transit. If these spaces made me feel more alive, it felt like a no-brainer to dedicate my career to building more of them. That didn’t quite work out, but I didn’t stop spending time in public.
I don’t sit there compressing time and space to stroke my own ego. This is just how my brain keeps me company, digging for understanding. I’m looking for a connection to the larger human story, in a way I rarely feel during a casual conversation.
I stopped going to baseball games alone shortly after my autism diagnosis. It just wasn’t fun anymore. I’d sit there for a few innings, feel angry, and take the train home early.
I must’ve carried some hope that if I kept showing up I would meet people. And my diagnosis was like, lol nah, there’s a reason you are here alone. I wasn’t ashamed or embarrassed, being there just felt pointless.
The physical environment still felt familiar. The train I rode, the stadium itself, the dense housing beyond right field. The urban sights still resonated with me. But I understood the social architecture better now, particularly my place outside of it. I didn’t finish nine innings of my scorebook once that season and eventually canceled my tickets. I stayed home most of that year.
Leading up to my recent trip to Liverpool, I told my therapist I didn’t know what to do outside anymore. Many of my adult memories were solo outings and not only wasn’t I doing them, but I didn’t even remember what I liked about them. That I managed to buy a plane ticket while feeling this way still baffles me. My hope peeked through just long enough to care for future-me. Psst, I think you’ll like this.
Two years had passed since my last pointless baseball game, and this attempt at re-entry went smoother. Baseball season hadn’t started, so I sat in Starbucks instead. (I may have asked ChatGPT for permission beforehand.) I even joined a sandwich tour because it seemed silly. These weren’t grand returns to the world, but they reminded me that I still liked existing in it.
Since returning to the US, I’ve felt less friction. I sit at Starbucks more often. I rode the bus to a new coffee shop just to see how it felt. I’m doing things! And enjoying them! I’m writing this from a Starbucks where I’m the only person seated. I ordered at the counter because that may be the only interaction I have today. That small exchange helps me feel grounded.
Maybe I’ll open SeatGeek or StubHub or BilletFillet and look for baseball tickets. If the stadium’ll have me again, I’m ready to come home.
I used to wonder how long I’d attend games by myself.
Clearly, it was resourceful/brave/something that I went to baseball games alone, but that was a temporary solution, right? It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a solo man in possession of the ability to go to baseball games, must be in want of people to go with him.
My diagnosis freed me from this thinking. I’m never going to be wired the same as everyone else. If sitting there feels good, makes me feel more connected to society, I should keep doing it. Period. People may come and go, but my public ritual has meaning on its own.
Now, if you ask me if I’ll still be sitting at the stadium alone in 20 years, I’ll say: I hope so.