Two Shiksas Walk into a Baseball Game

Before I begin the ridiculous tale, two key points of context for y'all:

1. Two years ago, I started dating my lovely beau, who (when it comes to dance moves at least) is self-proclaimed "half white, half Jewish." Since his mom is Jewish, he is technically Jewish, even though neither of them practice - it's more a tradition and heritage thing than religious fervor. Since I'm a sucker for tradition, I've tried to of course pick up as many things as possible. These days, I can make a mean matzoh ball soup, throw out a handful of Yiddish terms, and host a killer Passover Seder. Also, it's easier to pick up on small little things related to Judaism that I'd never noticed before... sometimes.
2. Yesterday, an old friend (Marjo) from France came into town. We hosted her in high school and she and I have since visited one another several times (in Europe or in Wisco). Haven't seen her in eight years, and shenanigans have ensued.

Cue yesterday, when I decided to take her to the most American thing possible: a baseball game. 

After forcing her into a "take me out to the ballgame" t-shirt and some US flag sunglasses (#yaskween), we hit up a local bar to grab a drink (yes, at 1:00pm on a Thursday) and a shuttle to the game. Arriving sans tickets after the shuttle, we quickly had a shady exchange with a blue-haired woman who had a few extra tickets. Some negotiation, cash palming, and a fond "see you in there!" later, and we were headed into the stadium.

Now, while I've seldom made it into a game before the second or third inning, Marjo was like, "We're late! Hurry!" So I barely had time to grab margaritas before we were rushing to our seats up in the nosebleed section. Marjo lead the charge as we pushed past several people to get to our spot, which was dead center of the section by both row and seat number. We arrive and two teenage boys are in the seats, Marjo asks them to move, trying to explain in broken English that these are "our places" and I intervened with a boozy, "Sorry, these ones are our seats." Confused and apologetic, the boys frantically scrambled to nearby open seats and we plopped down.

After a frazzled discussion on the "rules" of baseball, we settled into casual chitchat about the game and watched and cheered and went about our sporting. Slowly though, I began to realize something. 

I looked all around us. No blue-haired woman in sight. And there wasn't just those teenage boys we had made move, there was like, nothing but teenage boys.

And they all were wearing yamakas.

And t-shrits in Hebrew.

And... we were in the wrong section number...

I turned to Marjo and told her we needed to leave. Confused, she said she didn't understand, we had only just gotten there. Hissing under my breath I said, "Marjo, these are not our seats, we're in the wrong section. This entire section is a Jewish summer camp for boys, and we just plopped down in the middle of it, and I think we're making a scene and their supervisor/teacher is bound to notice." She looked wildly around at our surrounding area and came to the calm conclusion, "Bof, they let us sit 'ere, they clearly do not mind. We stay." 

It was at this point that the full realization sunk in that they indeed did NOT mind that a couple of young shiksas, wearing short shorts and waving about margaritas had sat in the middle of their group. We had literally kicked two boys out of their own seats, and they had willing gone along - we could've asked them to get us popcorn and they probably would've, for that matter. So we stayed. For a few very uncomfortable innings (on my part, as I awkwardly tried to show less skin), before I totally panicked and made us leave to go to the bathroom before relocating to our actual seats. 

But hey, at least the delightful awkwardness now makes for a good story...