Standing Shoulder to Shoulder

There’s a rite of passage that many Chicagoans—fathers, sons, Cubs fans, and unsuspecting tourists—go through that no guidebook dares to cover: using the Wrigley Field troughs.

If you’ve never been, let me explain. The men’s restrooms at Wrigley aren’t outfitted with sleek, private urinals or fancy partitions. No. What you’ll find instead is a long, shared metal basin—the infamous trough—where the brave line up shoulder-to-shoulder like cattle at a watering hole. There’s a certain choreography to it. You enter, scan left and right, and perform the mental calculus: “Who looks like they’re about to finish? Is there a corner I can claim? Can I stand just wide enough that no one wants to stand next to me?” It’s an unspoken game of spacing, timing, and surrender.

Last week, I found myself mid-game. I had to go—urgently. I’m not precious about placement. I don’t care what you’ve got or what you’re doing, as long as you’re not doing anything weird. Let’s just complete the mission, wash hands like gentlemen, and move along.

But this time, as I approached the silver stream of communal awkwardness, I saw a father gently coaching his young son through his very first encounter with a Cubs trough. It was oddly tender.

The kid looked nervous. The trough, just a bit too high. The flow of men behind him, moving fast. The dad tried his best: explaining why this wasn’t like the bathroom at home, why there were no walls, why everything smelled like wet hope and old beer. He was calm but clearly embarrassed, quietly trying to guide his boy through a uniquely male moment that generations have stumbled into with little warning.

And then it hit me—the silence.

Wrigley Field is loud. But the second you walk into the restroom, everything changes. It’s like stepping into a monastery of awkward vulnerability. Boisterous fans who moments ago were shouting “Let’s go, Cubbies!” suddenly hush. No talking. No humming. Just The Nod. It’s as if we all agreed, decades ago, that whatever happens in there is private, sacred, and definitely not worth mentioning ever again.

This stands in sharp contrast to what I’ve learned about women’s restrooms—from my wife and daughters, of course. Their bathrooms? Full-blown TED Talks. Emotional support. Crisis management. Makeup consultations. Under-stall toilet paper handoffs. “You’re too good for him.” “You look amazing.” “Where are we going next?” It’s like a pop-up community center.

And here we are, standing six inches from strangers, pretending none of us exist.

Why is that? Why is the men's room a place of deep internal monologue and tight-lipped procedure, while women can talk through life’s hardest problems while applying mascara?

Maybe it’s just conditioning. Maybe we’ve been taught that vulnerability and public restrooms don’t mix. Maybe the thought of chatting while, well, relieving yourself  just feels...wrong.

But I also think it speaks to something else.

As men, we do feel things deeply—we just save the sharing for later. We tend to talk, well, more silently. Maybe we don’t want to unpack our emotions while peeing into a steel trough—but get us outside, with a cold beer in hand and a game in front of us, and the silence starts to lift.

We might not pass tissues under the stall, but we’ll show up when it counts. We’ll listen. We’ll give advice, even if it's laced with sarcasm. We’ll stand with each other—even if sometimes, it’s just unspoken.

So the next time you’re at Wrigley—or anywhere, really—and you find yourself in that odd, silent procession of men doing what men have always done, just remember: it’s not that we don’t have things to say. We just tend to carry them a little longer, waiting for the right place to let them out.

Maybe not next to each other at the trough. But maybe later, with a beer in hand, a game on, and enough space to breathe—and speak—without needing to explain why.

We don’t need stalls to separate us. Just moments that connect us. And maybe, a little more permission to be human—even if we’re still going to keep the restroom weirdly silent.