From left field, up they line, setting sights on Center field, a slapstick quagmire, ready for running, dashing, leaping, flailing, tripping, blow-throwing, pushing. & who we bet on, that trickster, Bacon Burt, will fail again — dastardly, mustached, Teddy?

And what do they race for?

Twilight of perspiring I.C. Lights & Peanuts lobbed o’er doe-eyed tourists, we’re wretched with sunburn, we shout ‘til hoarse, cheering that sprinter, relishing the summer, Jalapeño Hannah’s not truly a ‘rogi flavor. an eccentric, a bumbler: Jefferson.

And what do they race toward?

The lights, the glimmer, the spires of Construction cranes, a pearlescent house, PPG & steel towers ‘cross the river,developer’s rubble, the announcer’s gleeful commentary on Oliver Onion a feverpitch, & shit! Abe won again.

And what about the race do we adore?

A stretch before another half, innings ‘Til a winner is known, we jump, clap, & catch wondering over stolen bases, counting the pop flies from T-Shirt cannons, & wave hands in supplication: for Sauerkraut Saul, for glory. It’s George, & a pastime well-spent.