No. 184 – Outlaw Torn

Performer: Metallica

Songwriters: James Hetfield, Lars Ulrich

Original Release: Load

Year: 1996

Definitive Version: S&M, 1999.

As I intimated on several occasions, I grew up a pretty big fan of the Indianapolis 500. When I was a kid, Mom would listen to the radio broadcast and keep track of the race on a legal pad. It was fun to read through her notes before watching the race that night on tape delay.

I went for the first time in 1976 just before I was 12 and saw Johnny Rutherford win the Indy 255, because they got in only 102 laps before rain came and washed out the rest of the race. What a gyp. The next year was better. We got a full race, and I saw A.J. Foyt become the first four-time winner.

After that, I never went to another 500 without Scott. He had enjoyed listening to the races with Mom—a rare good memory—and got the bug in 1982 with The Finish of the Century when Gordon Johncock edged Rick Mears. I took him the next year, sitting in the last row in the Paddock Pavilion close to the start-finish line with our Uncle Carl and Aunt Nan, and Scott was hooked.

He went almost every year after that until Tony George, whose family owned the Speedway, decided to destroy open-wheel racing in a fit of xenophobic-fueled greed in 1996. With all the best drivers effectively barred from racing the 500, Scott saw no point in going to watch a bunch of ham-and-eggers.

A thaw in 2000 helped, and Scott went the next year to see for himself how things were different. When one of the CART drivers Scott rooted for dominated the race, Scott felt vindication … and a renewal of his love for what used to be called The Greatest Spectacle in Racing.

So 2002 was the return of normalcy as more CART drivers committed to the 500. Now newly free of any holiday commitments, I was persuaded to return to the race for the first time in seven years. Unfortunately, as much as Scott wanted it to happen, work and the fact that he no longer lived in Indiana made a 500 barbecue possible. Maybe next year …

Scott still had a good plan for the race, though: We’d be in the infield along the backstretch, but instead of being in a grandstand, we’d be in the grass on a hill where we’d have a decent vantage point.

All the usual suspects (John and Chris) were going, too, but we had a new guest in our crew this time—our brother Casey. He stayed with Scott, who took him to Indy for his first 500. I’d drive Casey home after the race.

Driving into the city that morning, it felt just like old times: Even though I hadn’t been in seven years and I required directions, as soon as I saw a few landmarks, I knew exactly how to get to our special parking spot. It was just the same—free of cars and free of fees. We met there, and we hiked the railroad tracks with our coolers to the Speedway.

The hike inside the Speedway was almost as long as that to the track itself, but although I doubted the practicality not having an actual seat for the race, I quickly saw that Scott’s plan was exemplary. From our perch we could see the entire back stretch and most of Turn 3, and I liked being not confined to a specific area, so we could spread out and move around a bit.

A good time was had by all through the pageantry and race until the finish when Paul Tracy, whom all of us were rooting on, got hosed on a ruling involving a wreck in the final laps of the race. It led to a confusing and somewhat irate finish that put a damper on the proceedings.

I don’t know whether it was the excitement of the ending or the fact that it had driven to and from Indianapolis on the same day, but on the drive home, I started to nod off, much to Casey’s consternation. He didn’t say anything, but I Knew he was a bit worried. OK, man, I said. I have to pull off.

Fortunately, there was a Dairy Queen at the next exit. We stopped to get gas and some fuel. It turned out all I needed was a chocolate-heavy Blizzard in my tummy, and I was fine the rest of the drive.

I wasn’t fine about the race though. Scott told me later that, yes, technically the correct driver won, but I wasn’t buying it. Tony George was tired of watching CART drivers come over and scrambling his ham-and-eggers, so when presented an opportunity, he made dang sure it wouldn’t happen a third time.

I’m not prone to pointy-tinfoil-hattism, but there are two things of which I’m absolutely certain. One is that at least two gunmen were in Dealey Plaza on Nov. 22, 1963, and the other is that Tony George rigged the ending of the 2002 Indianapolis 500.

A line had been crossed. I was in a state of such righteous indignation that I vowed to never attend another 500, and it turns out I haven’t.