These are dark times in Indianapolis. Dark, sorrowful, rage-filled times. For the Colts are no more, I’m afraid. They’ve been ousted. By the detestable, slack-jawed Chargers. Again. And I want to clusterbomb something.  

But you know what? These happen to be introspective times here as well. Colts fans are finding themselve re-assessing things. Re-appraising. Which isn’t terribly odd when you think about it. Because when otherwise upstanding folks find themselves snorting bleach at 4:48 in the morning and wondering why God hates them, they tend to re-appraise the situation that put them there. They tend to take a good look at their surroundings and ask the tough questions. I did. Repeatedly.     

• Am I TOO into this?
• Why do I KEEP doing this to myself?
• It’s just a game, right? 
• Did I NOT send enough anthrax to Philip Rivers’ Mission Beach houseboat???? 
• Why couldn’t the Colts just convert a simple 3rd-and-2!??!?!?!? WHY?!?!?
• WHO WAS THAT GODDAMNED PUNTER?!?!? BATMAN??!?!?!  IS HE BATMAN?!?!?! 
• WHO THE F–K CALLS “HEADS” IN A COIN FLIP!?!?!?!?!?!? BESIDES BILLYGOATS AND SIMPLETONS, I MEAN!!! WHO?!?!?!?! DAMN YOU, PEYTON!!!!!!!!!!!!! 
• WHY IS MY LEFT ARM TINGLING?!???????????????????
• DEFENSIVE HOLDING?!?!?!?!?!?!??! REALLLLLLY?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?  
• F–K!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
• MUST … DESTROY … EVERYTHING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 
• (collapses into a withering heap, regroups)
• Am I TOO into this? 
• Why do I keep doing this to myself? …

… and round and round we go. Down that vicious vortex of melancholy and rage — not unlike a Smashing Pumpkins video. But infinitely more unpleasant.

The end point? The ultimate conclusion? It varies amongst us all, I suppose. But personally speaking, I concluded that the Colts and I need some time apart. We need to see other people, so to speak. At least until September or so. It’s for the best.

Enter IndyCar.  

Now, it’s not that I wasn’t a “fan” last year. I was. Kind of. It’s just that I had little idea what I was watching, frankly.  I was (and remain) a greenhorn. But more notably, I was almost continuously caught up in the NFL Draft and free-agent signings and voluntary mini-camps and strangling Tim Jennings and calculating feasible trades and so forth. I mean, a person has only a finite amount of fandom in their heart.  And the Colts is where the lion’s share of mine rested.

But not this summer.   

No, I’m jumping headfirst into IndyCar. With that crazed, reckless abandon and energy that was once devoted to the Colts. And not because I work here, per se. Not because I have to. But rather because I’ve come to a realization: IndyCar provides an opportunity to immerse myself in a kick-ass sport without the fear of having my everlasting soul ripped out of my chest and savagely heaved into a wood chipper. And you know what? That’s clean livin’ right there — that’s what that is.

Because in IndyCar, it seems, the mere act of watching a race is where it’s at. That’s where the joy of fandom lies. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m guessing that the REAL IndyCar fans are fans of the sport in general … and not necessarily of a particular driver. Now, I’m not suggesting that the real fans don’t have their favorites, because they probably do …

… I’m just suggesting that individual finishing positions aren’t nearly as important as the overall quality of the race — the overall entertainment value of the event.

Is that right? Is that even in the ballpark of right??? You tell me.

For if it is, then IndyCar is the ultimate safe harbor for scorned and soul-crushed NFL fans. Because you can get your healthy dose of awesome without risking your sanity — without much concern in the ultimate outcome. Your bets are safely hedged, in a way. Because as a fan, you’re never totally out of any given race. You never just say, f–k it, I’m done! I mean, if Tony Kanaan your favorite driver can’t win, then maybe their teammate can. (Not you, Marco. Sit the f–k down. You’re not out of the penalty box yet, you hair-gel’d heathen.) And if their teammate can’t win, then perhaps someone you kind-of like can. Like Vitor Meira, for example. Only a damned fool — or a heartless Nazi sniper – doesn’t kind-of like Vitor; he’s the non-threatening Wrigley’s Doublemint of the Series. And if Vitor’s car suddenly gets imploded by EJ Viso’s outstretched forearm – as is wont to occur – then you could always root against some  loathesome asshole you despise, whoever that might be.

(And while we’re on the subject, don’t underestimate the joys of wishing ill on loathsome assholes. Never underestimate it. That’s some powerful fun there — precisely the kind of high-fiving schaudenfraude that made the Olympics what they are today. And when dealing in IndyCars??? Sweet Christ! It’s multiplied by a power of 43,000. Because really, there’s a tremendous adrenaline rush in watching a loathsome asshole snap a suspension rod at 195 mph. Or at least — you know – earnestly rooting for it. I’ll shut up now.)

And if none of that appears possible … well, some driver can always thread an ungodly dangerous  needle at Mach 2 and cause you to soil yourself. That’s always on the table, I’ve learned. And that’s just plain fun.

Again, a fan is never out of a race. And certainly never left sadly snorting bleach at sunrise. All while remaining wildly entertained.   

IndyCar it is. I’m in.

(Someone get me Brian Barnhart. I have many questions to ask and things to learn. Not because I have to, this time. But because I want to.)