Vroom. Crunch. Crash. Crinkle. Scream.
This is either Scottie Pippen fighting through a Pacers pick or a day at the races.
“Attention. Attention. Update on the condition of Jim Guthrie.”
The voice appears, like Zeus clearing his throat, from an unseen station, intoned from above or below, spreading the happy news.
“Guthrie’s condition is good. He has a fractured right arm. He is in surgery now repairing that fractured right arm.”
And all Pippen got was a bruised hip.
Yes, it is auto racing, loud, pointless and always to the left, kind of like James Carville.
Auto racing is not seen as much as glimpsed. It is downhill skiing in a circle. Whoooosh. There goes an Unser, and none of the important Unsers.
Auto racing is best followed by ear, even if it is the only sport that scalps earplugs on the street.
“Further update on Guthrie. He also has a small laceration on his right leg.”
A small laceration is a laceration that is on someone else.
Guthrie was the only significant injury of the day at the Indy 500, not counting the mangled machinery in his seven-car blend and bend, as well as eight or so other cars hauled off as scrap.
In that regard, it was the best of all possible auto races. Lots of crashes and no one died.
“Oh, no. Oh, no. Luyendyk has lost power. It looks like Luyendyk has lost power. It’s a tow-in for Luyendyk.”
That would be Arie Luyendyk, the only racer in the field with any significant reputation. All the best drivers, most of the owners with all the big money are, and have been for the last three years, driving better cars some place other than at “The Greatest Race Course in the World.”
In spite of this serious split among those who drive cars without fenders, Indy has gone on, now in its 82nd year, but clearly with the inferior players, trying to use its reputation and tradition to authenticate small-timers.
“Eddie Cheever is in the lead. He’s one of the most popular drivers in racing. Eddie Cheever is in the lead.”
For the last 76 laps it is Cheever, who not only drives but owns his car, to win, at age 40, only the second race of his life. He got sponsored by a potato chip company only a week before qualifying.
Did a little guy win the big race or did the big race get smaller because a little guy won it?
“The first time I came here, this place terrorized me,” Cheever would confess later. “I wanted to go home.”
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This is still the place where most folks look to see loud, fast cars, if not as many as used to. Two hours before the race, you could pick up a ticket on 16th Street for the change in your pocket.
Attendance is never announced, not when it was a half-million or now when it is somewhere around half that. What has not changed are the tattoos and tank tops in the infield, and beer coolers on wheels.
“It’s going to be Cheever crossing the brick strip first. Eddie Cheever. No victory is more richly deserved. A great sportsman, an outstanding gentleman, a great representative of this sport. This guy is absolutely super. He’s tops.”
Race witnesses file out, some still sober, some who have actually seen some of the race, these endorsements for Cheever ringing in their ears.
Who knows? Who will remember? Who will care if the best aren’t running with the best? This is Jan Kodes at Wimbledon without Borg. This is Jimmy Ellis assuming Ali’s vacant title. This is Roger Maris with a dozen more games to catch Ruth.
My winner of the 500 was a mutt of mixed heritage who caused more excitement before “The Greatest Spectacle in Racing” than anyone in a race car during the race. Unlike every driver but Cheever, no one caught him.
The dog went through the deceleration lane, down pit lane, chased by firefighters and pit crew. It ran through the Purdue University band, out to Turn 1, through Turn 2, left the track on the backstretch, and was last seen dashing across the golf course.
My guess is it would have beaten half the field by half a lap.
“Further word on Jim Guthrie. He also suffered cracked right ribs and a fractured left tibia. He will stay overnight in the hospital.”
Lucky dog.