SEVENTH-INNING STENCH: A NIGHT AT THE BALLPARK

Twelve thousand people spent six innings drinking domestic beer at $11 a cup, and then, during the seventh-inning stretch, every man in the ballpark remembered he had a body. The restroom they all arrived at was built in 1987 to serve roughly four hundred.
The line ran out the door, past the nacho stand and down the concourse, where it became a kind of civic event. Strangers talked about the bullpen. A man in a vintage jersey explained the infield fly rule to his nephew, who did not ask. Inside, the trough urinal runs forty feet along the far wall and has become an institution in its own right, a place where men stand shoulder to shoulder in perfect democratic silence.
The floor is a wetland. The ventilation is a rumor. There is one paper towel dispenser in the room, and judging by the dust inside it, it has been empty since the national anthem was sung in a previous season. The only sink that works sprays sideways, so that every man leaves looking as though he has fought the dispenser and lost.
Meanwhile, the gift shop sells a $14 souvenir cup shaped like a catcher's mitt and a $38 bobblehead of a mascot named Rusty. A franchise that can afford a bobblehead can afford a mop, a second sink and a teenager with a clipboard.
SCORE: 2 plungers. The trough is democracy in action, and that is not a compliment.