To reiterate my position here, I am most certainly not a racing aficionado. In fact, I’m whatever the direct opposite of that is. A defficiondo, probably. At any given point during any given race, I have little idea of what’s going on. Quadrupley so for the Indy 500, where I can only see a mere fraction of the track.
Along those same lines, I’m not one of these Indianapolis natives who speak of the 500 in hushed, reverent tones. I enjoy it, sure. I look forward to it. But I’m not religious about it. I’m not denouncing the non-believers.
And I want all of that on the table before I say what I’m about to say:
I’ve been to the Masters, the Final Four, the NBA Finals, what have you. I’ve been around the sports-spectating block, so to speak. And nothing — and I mean NOTHING — compares to that first full-throttle lap at Indy. Nothing. Because nothing else in sports physiologically forces spectators into a reactionary, completely involuntary “HOLY SHIT!!!” Because nothing else in sports gives your goosebumps goosebumps. And most notably, because nothing else in sports can do all that to a person who isn’t a fan.
And therein lies the majesty of that first green-flag lap.
Peruvian medicine men … mute Eskimos … my mom (aka, The Biggest Racing Cynic Alive) … North Korean river people … catty, petulant teenage girls … it doesn’t matter. You stick any of them anywhere on the track for that first lap, and the reactions remain the same:
“HOLY SHIT!!!” (Or their personal variation thereof.)
And that’s just not true of the Masters. Or the Final Four. Or any other sporting event I know of. It’s probably only true of shuttle launches. Or public stonings. And this is the one time I’m not exaggerating, not blowing this out of proportion. Because really, it’s the one tradition that can’t be.
Let’s recap the action from the 92nd running of the Indianapolis 500. Five Pagodas for that which was decidedly awesome … one Pagoda for that which was uncomfortably pathetic and/or Jack-Arute-ish. My call. Good luck to all our participants.
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Driving to the track — 1 Pagoda
Never a pleasant experience, for sure. But this one seemed more beastly than usual. Far more congested. And it resulted in far more profanity and seething anger and the need for the sweet, soothing calm that only large amounts of opium can deliver.
(And while we’re here, a quick word to all you bastards blazing by in your fancy police-escorted motorcades: f–k you. Everyone hates you. There. I said it.)
The celebrities involved — 0 Pagodas
Julianne Hough? Kristi Yamaguci? The wife from “Everybody Loves Raymond?” Slash? Rupert from “Survivor?” Dharma? Really??? Sweet C-list mercy. Hardly the star power for the crown jewel event of the sport. It’s more like the set of a VH1 reality show. And a bad one at that.
I mean, if you’re a global event and Yamaguci is your biggest celebrity on hand … you’ve got problems. Significant problems. Double-A Shreveport problems. And thus, the Pagoda is here to help.
It’s the “Hierarchy of Celebrities Who Should be Dropping the Green Flag at the Indy 500,” and it took nearly 200 man hours to complete. It is sound. It is reliable. And it is yours if you choose, IndyCar. Our relevant findings are as follows:
You have the obvious 1st Tier notables (George Clooney, Tiger Woods, Bono, Scarlett Johansson, Bo Jackson, Pope Benedict XVI … etc), the 2nd Tier acceptable fill-ins (Tom Brokaw, Liv Tyler, Orel Herscheiser, Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Chuck D, etc), and — moving on down here, to save time — the 193rd Tier PR disasters (Solei Moon Frye, a specially trained manatee, Kristi Yamaguci, John Mark Karr, and George Zimmer of “The Men’s Warehouse.”)
And, sadly, it gets progressively worse from there.
(As an aside, the 2,937th Tier includes Eva Braun’s exhumed corpse, Dario Franchiti, and Wes Welker. Food for thought.)
Let’s keep it somewhere in the top five tiers, IndyCar. And under no circumstances should you stray outside of the top 30. Ever. Moving on.
Jim Nabors — 5 heartfelt Pagodas
I don’t care what he looks like. I don’t care what medical condition he’s battling. It doesn’t matter. Because that unstoppable, bulletproof bastard sings like a god. He’s Indiana’s Patron Saint of Awesome, really. There’s no two ways about it.
Dropping of the green flag — 5,032 Pagodas
I think I’ve made my position clear on this.
Jamie Camara’s crash — 4 Pagodas
So help me God, his collision in the heart of Turn 2 occurred 15 yards from my face. Maybe 12. Thus prompting me to set up my new criteria for the Gold Standard of Crashes:
1. You can see it coming from 2/5ths of a mile away;
2. Everyone in the section hits the deck, lest everyone gets sprayed with ethanol and white-hot shrapnel;
3. Nobody gets significantly maimed; and,
4. There’s a 1.3 mile trail of debris.
F–king. Awesome.
Marco Andretti taking out Tony Kanaan — negative-3,802 Pagodas
Preposterously unwise, Marco. Not only did you take out a man who practices the deadly arts of the Himalayan Silverbacks … but you took out the Pagoda’s favorite driver. And as such, you’re dead to us. Here’s your eulogy, you son of a bitch:
Marco Andretti … unsavory bastard. Moron. Suspected Communist operative. Better-than-average driver. Stuffed more tail than a taxidermist. Noted back-stabber. Destroyed Kanaan’s chances of winning the 92nd Indy 500, thus jeopardizing his life and the lives of everyone he knows. Dishonorably discharged from the Pagoda.
So long, Marco. Ungrateful punk.
The guy sitting directly in front of me wearing an “I AM INDY!” tank top — 0 Pagodas
I’m not anti-tank-top, per se. Not normally. But under certain conditions, I can become violently anti-tank-top. Those certain conditions, as I learned Sunday, are as follows:
1. You’re leaning back into my kneecaps every 35 seconds;
2. You look like Pearl the record-keeper from “Blade” (assuming Pearl had the back hair of a bison and never stopped sweating, of course).
Poor choice of garb there, my friend. Poor indeed.
Brisco abides, takes out Danica — 2.5 Pagodas
Cue the radio transmission you would’ve heard if you were as drunk as we were:
Roger Penske: Ryan … I want her out of commission.
Ryan Brisco: But I can beat her!
Roger Penske: I don’t want her beat! [the sound of a wrench being angrily cleaved through a subservient’s sternum is heard] I want her taken out!
Ryan Brisco: But I’ll be disqualified!
Roger Penske: Out. Of. Commission.
Ryan Brisco: [dejectedly] Aye, Sensei.
Thus leading to …
… Danica seeking retribution, fisticuffs — n/a
Charles Burns, you damn fool! You STOPPED it?!?!?! You stopped the League’s premier marketing asset as she’s in the midst of some kind of crazed, gangstafied, “baby mama drama” walk down pit lane?!?!?! You stopped the most potentially glorious sports altercation since Nolan Ryan kicked the s— out of Robin Ventura?!?!? Holy Christ. I feel faint. Give me a second.
[breathing into brown paper bag ... cursing in Portuguese]
Whatever beautiful things you prevented, Charles … I hope you’re happy. I hope you’re proud. And despite the fact that you’re a kind and decent friend of the Pagoda … you, sir, are on thin ice. Good day.
Scott Dixon winning — 3 Pagodas
Our League sources say Dixon is painfully nice, unassuming and deserving. Fine. They’re happy, the Pagoda’s happy. But you know what? He’s NOT Tony Kanaan. Nor does he keep a white tiger chained up in his garage, as Kanaan is wont to do. Minus 2 Pagodas.
Vitor Meira finishing second — 4 Pagodas
You don’t think it meant the world to Vitor to get runner up? Really? Take a look at this picture. I’ll wait.
He looks like he just gave birth.
Congrats, Vitor. Now get some rest.
Watching the television broadcast of the race that night — 5 Pagodas
It’s a mysterious thing, that re-broadcast. Because we all spend anywhere from six to 18 hours at the track that day, drinking and otherwise teetering on the brink of sun stroke … only to return home to watch the whole thing again. Which makes zero sense. None.
Not that traditions are supposed to.
