I walk into the section with a gang of fans who seem to be around my age. They all sport the standard "All Lives Matter Junior League" weekend-wear starter pack uniform: reverse printed Bass Pro Shop shirts, chino shorts, backward two-toned caps, and slouched Nike socks complementing a rustic pair of low-top Vans. As I approach my section some fans stare at me with a guilty conscience, knowing damn well they are sitting in my seat. They hop over to their row careful enough not to scuff their sneakers, complaining to each other about the new view. I don't stand for the national anthem. I sit down equipped with a water sip and french fry dip. I notice an older woman staring at me in disgust out of the corner of my eye. Her face, beet red, makes her patriotism seem a little more historically accurate to me. She's upset because I'm not standing for a song, flag, and country that is inherently racist. She doesn't know that upward social mobility for men and women who look like me is at a premium; that each day, each experience, this baseball game is a challenge on the psyche. She's probably out grilling a bratwurst over a burning Colin Kaepernick jersey somewhere right now.