PITTSBURGH — There was muffled chatter among the grounds crew as the six of us stood on the steps waiting for our cue.

I was already hot. A sheen of sweat was building on my forehead, and I felt the heat in my face, arms and chest. Maybe these were those jitters the others had mentioned. Wait, were my shoes knotted tightly enough?

Two in-game entertainment crew members were poking around at my Spandex arm sleeves and comically large white gloves, ensuring every square inch of skin was concealed before the grand entrance.

Sliding around in the flimsy grip of my right mitt was some kind of inflatable stick horse. Country Weekend at PNC Park.

“Now you’re ready to go,” one of the entertainment squad members said. “Kill it. Run the fastest you’ve ever run.”

And so the cue arrived — the first powerful guitar strums in the Beastie Boys’ “Sabotage” — and we jogged from the stairs onto the field on the third-base side. It was warm, and slightly overcast. Attendance was a light 22,484. It was July 11, the first game of a doubleheader against the Milwaukee Brewers.

The starting line was up ahead, though I couldn’t tell quite how far. My face was growing hotter. By then I had confirmed, no, my shoes were not tied tightly enough. Oh, well.

The original plan was to chronicle the history of the race and its evolution over the last quarter century. But to understand the pierogies, their distinct and enduring role in the ballpark milieu, I’d decided I had to run with them.

And in a bizarre twist of fate, I was about to do it — run the 280-yard Great Pittsburgh Pierogy Race N’at, and do so in the bespectacled, red bowtie-wearing foam costume of Oliver Onion.

“Every time we’re standing on the stairs, I do get those little pre-race jitters,” one runner told me later on. “I have to remind myself that I’m standing in a giant pierogi, and it’s not that serious.”

A pierogi pipe dream

The text flashed across my phone screen at 10:47 a.m.

It was from Celine Halt, the Pirates’ manager of ballpark entertainment.

“Wanna get the full experience and run the Pierogy race today?” she messaged.

My memory is hazy, but somewhere in one of my college journalism courses was the lesson that if anyone in this business ever asks you to dress up as a giant pierogi and participate in a race at a major league ballpark, by God you do it.

I had spent the previous afternoon hanging around the likes of Cheese Chester, Potato Pete and Jalapeno Hannah to gain insight into their race preparation. I observed as they underwent extensive stretching routines in the tunnel outside the home clubhouse. Leg swings, arm crosses, butterflies.

The potential for a rain delay that day diverted the pierogies to a different field entrance, one far more visible to fans. Children hung over the railings clamoring for pictures, and one got a signature on his baseball from Sauerkraut Saul to complete his collection.

“These kids think that you just made Christmas in the middle of summer for them,” said Halt, who is in her fifth full-time season with the organization.

The Pirates are reluctant to let outsiders run the race. Liabilities, red tape.

They hold annual tryouts at PNC Park, where a select group — some returnees, some newbies — is first screened in an interview with Halt and then brought out to run the real thing.

According to the Pirates, the required threshold for the trial is 40 seconds.

My initial request to participate was met with laughter, then hesitancy, then something of a polite rejection. I could shadow a race, join the pierogies in their cozy mascot room tucked away in the bowels of the ballpark, but that had to suffice.

Then my phone buzzed the morning of July 11. I was seated in the second row of the press box in my beige polo and sipping on a fountain Diet Coke.

Apparently, doubleheaders are tricky. The Pirates were short a few runners for Game 1, and Halt knew I was interested and well-intentioned.

A few hours later, near the middle of the third inning, I surreptitiously slipped away and headed to the elevator, down to the service level and through the winding hallways leading to the room where a gallery of six pierogi costumes are staged like superhero personas.

‘People loved it instantly’

When Eric Wolff moved to Pittsburgh around 1995, taking a job with the Pirates as director of in-game entertainment, he had never eaten a pierogi.

But a few years prior, the Milwaukee Brewers had begun trotting out a live-action race featuring different sausages. Wolff was tasked with finding a similar novelty. Enter the Polish dumplings.

“I saw what a huge thing they were,” he said over the phone recently. “I ended up going down to McKees Rocks, at Pierogis Plus, and all the women in babushkas were making the pierogies. I was like, ‘This is awesome!’”

He pitched the idea of the race to some higher-ups and offered three initial names: Potato Pete, Sauerkraut Saul and Cheese Chester.

The corporate sales team was skeptical, Wolff said. In 1999, they implemented the first edition of the race, without a sponsor. It was initially an animation on the scoreboard at Three Rivers Stadium.

The following year, the Pirates finished 69-93 — but the pierogies were a hit.

Pitcher Scott Sauerbeck was nicknamed “Saul” by his teammates, and when Sauerkraut Saul was winless in the race by late June, the lefty hurler said, “I guarantee he’ll win the last [home] game because I’ll go out there and tackle the other two.”

Well, roughly a month later, Saul picked up his first victory. And as Wolff remembers, it was the comments from All-Star outfielder Brian Giles that dominated headlines.

“It bothers me that this club seems more interested in marketing a pierogi race than its players,” Giles said in late July 2000.

Wolff chuckled when reminded of that quote.

“It was a minute-and-40-second feature during an inning break,” he says now. “I don’t think it’s fair to say we weren’t focusing on baseball. It’s not like we diverted funds to sign free agents to make pierogi costumes.”

Mrs. T’s Pierogies — a product of Ateeco Inc. — sponsored the race in 2001, and then-executive Tim Twardzik (now a member of the Pennsylvania House of Representatives) said the initial contract was in the mid-six figures.

Though Giles scoffed at the promotion, the “lore behind it,” as current Pirates vice president of marketing Carey Cox says, has only grown over time.

Take the rivalry against the Washington Nationals and their Presidents Race.

In the eighth annual running in 2009 at PNC Park, Teddy Roosevelt was running the anchor leg of the relay for the presidents. He appeared to be on his way to sealing a victory. But he was waylaid and knocked to the dirt of the warning track by Potato Pete, who launched himself like a missile at poor Teddy.

Then there was the saga of June 2010.

Andrew Kurtz, a 24-year-old regular in the race, was fired abruptly after posting critical remarks on his personal Facebook page about the Pirates retaining general manager Neal Huntington and manager John Russell. The story erupted nationally, with outlets such as the ESPN and The Atlantic covering it.

Kurtz was rehired five days later, and a Pirates spokesperson said it was an “improper termination.”

And who could forget 2014?

Cheese Chester was en route to a victory in late July and went down in a heap, writhing in pain and receiving immediate medical attention. The Pirates ruled Cheese out for 6-8 weeks with a broken foot.

He later participated in the Double-A Altoona Curve’s Panera Bread Great American Bagel Race, an event believed to be the first MLB mascot rehab assignment.

Did Wolff ever think his brainchild would come to this, much less a part of weddings and baby showers and business meetings and other different enterprises around town?

“Pittsburghers love the stuff that’s synonymous with Pittsburgh,” he said. “That pierogi race was an odd thing, but people loved it instantly. You saw pretty quickly it was going to have legs.”

Real people, real races?

Inside the mascot dressing room at PNC Park, pizza boxes and water bottles and small portable stools are strewn about.

Taped to the back of the door is a sheet of paper listing the standings, including the current roster of Bacon Burt, Cheese Chester, Sauerkraut Saul, Jalapeno Hannah, Oliver Onion and Potato Pete. It’s updated after each race with a tally in black Sharpie.

Before my race, Oliver was tied for last with a measly six wins.

The six costumes are lined up side by side beneath a long metal pole and some exposed wiring connected to a mounted TV carrying the broadcast of the game.

In the back of the room, a black curtain demarcates a small corner of real estate. That’s where I was sent to change from my polo and khaki shorts into a long sleeve black Spandex shirt and pants — “innards” in pierogi parlance.

There is a roster of 18 runners, and the longest-tenured participant began in 2011. The Pirates requested I refrain from using names of the active runners.

One regular, a former track athlete at Rider University who works as a senior client support specialist, started racing with the pierogies last season.

“My first game was extremely overwhelming,” they said. “It was one of those games where the stands are full, people are screaming. It’s extremely hot out, and you walk out and ‘Sabotage’ starts playing.

“You just kind of have to take a second and look around at all these people screaming for you. Then the race starts, and everyone just goes. You just are hanging on for dear life. I was just in such a state of shock that everything happened so quickly.”

This particular runner, who ran as Sauerkraut Saul in our race but typically prefers Hannah and Pete, told me to look out of one eye in the costume — a helpful pointer as I plunged headfirst into the Oliver Onion suit, flipped it up straight and wriggled my arms through the holes on the sides.

Another runner, a University of Dayton graduate, started four years ago after seeing the application promoted on KDKA.

“I definitely think all of us still feel some sort of butterflies,” they said. “It’s a weird thing. They’re not here for you, but they are here for that pierogi.”

I removed my sneakers to slip into the oversized purple shoes, which needed to be tied around my ankles multiple times and knotted like hockey skates.

We went to warm up in the tunnel, and another participant confided that this was his first race, too. He offered a fist bump and we shared a mutual goal of staying upright. I did about 30 seconds of lazy calf stretches against the wall and a brief set of quad pulls. I was too anxious.

The black, mesh netting behind the eye slots makes walking around and navigating doorways an arduous endeavor — forget peripheral vision. One of the veteran runners had gotten tangled up entering a door to a stairwell the afternoon before.

We headed to our post on the steps, walking through a narrow path past the lively grounds crew members, and then waited for the top of the fifth inning to conclude.

I had asked the day prior how often there’s an element of theatrics or choreography to ensure a specific winner. Wolff said that was a constant under his tenure from 1999-2012. But surprisingly, as I was told by others, the bulk of this season’s races were run with no planned hijinks.

“People think we’re back there, kind of pulling the puppet strings, but it’s a race,” Cox said. “The score is real. They’re battling it out.”

Not Oliver Onion’s day

Alright, we’ve waited long enough.

I have no concept of the time spent in the costume that afternoon. From the moment we lined up at the start in left field, I blacked out. I know I felt hot. The initial pace was far quicker than I anticipated, and it was like I had been sucked into a maelstrom.

No more than 15 yards into the race, I was dusted. Wiped. I mean, it truly wasn’t close.

I’d chosen an unfavorable position in the back of the pack and on the outside, and in those fateful first 10 seconds, I watched Bacon Burt and Potato Pete cruise by me along the curve.

The shoes — I could feel how loose they were, my feet sliding around up and down, front and back. I heard an amalgam of boos and cheers as we approached center field.

The public address announcer started his roll call.

“... Oliver, not his day today.” I couldn’t hear it well, but I received the message.

Halfway through I was huffing, but there was a brief moment I thought I found an extra gear to catch Bacon Burt — I did not. Acknowledging all this in real time, I slowed as I neared right field and raised my left arm toward the crowd, hoping to invite some pity support.

Everything ahead looked small and gray. Small beads of sweat started to drip in front of my eyes, and the whole race I worried about dropping that inflatable black and white horse. Who would go pick it up? A Brewers outfielder?

What I could see toward the end was mildly humiliating. As I approached the final few yards, the Bucco Brigade members holding the checkered finish line had already started to walk away and guided me along with the others.

I limped to a disastrous last-place finish. My time was right around the 40-second mark. As we walked together into the lower bowl and paraded through an army of fans back to the tunnel, I heard words of encouragement.

“You’ll get ‘em next time, Ollie!” a father with two young children said. I offered a high five.

During that fan-engagement walk, I estimate I inadvertently bumped into five people, got stuck or nearly tripped three times, posed for a dozen pictures and tallied 47 high-fives and 31 fist bumps.

By now my face was covered in sweat. It was in my eyes, worsening an already obstructed view. We finally made it back to the tunnel entrance and trekked up multiple flights of stairs to the mascot room, where I emerged from Mr. Onion drenched and a bit haggard, my eyes wide like I’d just rediscovered the world I knew before the race.

“So, how’d it feel?” asked a Brigade member.

“Rough,” I said, still somewhat out of breath and running my hands through my sweat-soaked hair.

After removing my shoes and “innards,” returning them to be washed for the next runner, I couldn’t help but look around the room and laugh. One of the pierogies told me they “definitely like doing things for the plot,” and like creating unusual and quirky life stories.

That I could understand.

I gathered my things and caught up briefly with the other runners, who were about to crack into some ice pops stored in the freezer. On my stroll back to the press box, a clubhouse security guard shook his head and chuckled before he asked me what happened. I suppose word had traveled.

When I returned back to my seat in front of my laptop and Diet Coke, the game somewhere in the seventh inning, no one around was the wiser.

As I later watched the pierogies travel to race the Guardians’ hot dog condiments in Cleveland, and most recently cheer on contestants wolfing down the dumplings in a competition over the weekend for Yinzerpalooza, I felt a strange kinship.

And I think I always will.

“Once you’re a pierogi,” Halt said, “you’re a pierogi for life.”

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