Game 64: White Sox (Clevinger) at Yankees (Vasquez) 7:35 EDT

Would make sense. Here's the inger poem it wrote if anyone missed it in the Misc BS thread :

In the land of Colorado, there lived a man named Inger,
Wearing a sombrero, his style was quite the stinger.
With pink pants, he strutted, his fashion was bold,
But his injury on his butt, a tale yet untold.

Inger, a man of peculiar taste,
No condiments on his food, never a trace.
He liked his steak well done, some may say overcooked,
But his preferences, to others, were simply overlooked.

But before his pink pants and culinary demands,
Young Inger stood tall, with a mitt in his hands.
A great baseball fielder, agile and quick,
He caught all the balls, with a nimble trick.

From the outfield to the infield, he would swiftly race,
Making diving catches with grace and good pace.
His teammates would cheer, his name on their lips,
As Inger's skills wowed them with each and every pitch.

But fate had its way, a mishap took its toll,
Inger injured his rear, an unlucky stroll.
With aches in his buttocks, he donned a brave face,
But his pink pants couldn't hide the discomfort's trace.

Though his baseball days ended, memories stayed strong,
Inger's love for the game, a melody in his song.
He wore his sombrero, a symbol of pride,
A reminder of days when he soared in his stride.

So next time you're in Colorado, keep an eye out,
For a man named Inger, without a doubt.
In his pink pants and sombrero, he'll make you smile,
A unique character, living life in his own style.