This is a post about nudity. I have been covering pro sports for three decades so I’m used to male athletes getting undressed in front of me or getting dressed in front of me. It’s part of the landscape like wallpaper.

But Tuesday night I took my son Grant to the A’s game — I was writing a Brandon Morrow column — and I’m showing my son what my business is like. After the game we went to the Blue Jays’ clubhouse and, along with half a dozen writers, waited for Morrow at his locker. It occurred to me at that moment that Grant would get initiated into the dressing rite of baseball.

Morrow, who seems like a terrific guy, came over in a towel. He dropped it to the floor as most ballplayers do. Now he was naked with his back to us. All the writers looked away — at the ceiling, the floor, their shoelaces. When he was dressed, Morrow turned around and faced us which indicated he was ready to talk. He acted perfectly given the circumstances.

Later, Grant told me he found the whole situation unusual — to say the least. I mean, does an opera critic go into Placido Domingo’s dressing room after a performance and stand there while the great Domingo gets naked in front of him?

On Tuesday night there were no women waiting for Morrow. There could have been. I wonder how it feels for a woman in that circumstance. They all are professional and when a guy is nude they study their notebooks or look away. But the whole situation is weird. I would add, for women’s sports, writers do not go in the locker room. They wait in another room for fully clothed women athletes to meet them and talk with them. That’s highly civilized.

I am not complaining. I am not asking for changes. I am saying this postgame ritual is unusual and strange and I thought about it because Tuesday night I saw it through my son’s eyes, the eyes of a beginner.