There are only a few moments in our daily living when we get down to the brass tacks of who we really are and what exactly it is we’re doing with our lives — when we face the crushing insecurities & worries & fret constantly lurking beneath the surface. Very few. And for good reason too. That kind of reckless shit is best served in small doses — if at all.
Personally speaking, 99.999999987% of the time those moments come at night, during that maddening eternity otherwise known as “trying to fall asleep” — when my brain decides to just frantically uncork all the angst & apprehension I’ve so wisely jammed down its throat over the past few days so that I may live in peace. My brain is a vindictive bastard, I think.
Oh sure. It starts innocently enough. Usually with helpful reminders and such. Client meeting tomorrow … 9:30. Don’t forget to shave and wear a suit and not drink bourbon for breakfast. Which is certainly beneficial, and probably what separates us from the stupid animals. But it rarely stops there. Why? Because I’m not whipped into an introspective panic, you see. And my brain can’t have THAT!!!
No, because ”helpful reminders” quickly turn into slightly more alarming thoughts of upcoming bills to be paid, for example. And then BOOM!!! We’re off!! PURPOSEFULLY FORGOTTEN FINANCIAL CONCERNS!!! WHEEEEEE!!! The uncorking has begun, and any chance of restful sleep in my near future just got violently kicked in the groin.
Because financial concerns lend themselves nicely to the marital stress they cause, and marital stress naturally leads to parenting concerns. And parenting concerns segue smoothly into a whole host of worrisome shit, none of which is particularly conducive to peaceful sleep. Because frankly, when one starts pondering whether or not one is setting the proper examples in life, one freaks the f–k out. That’s as brass-tacks-y as it gets, and it’s now 3:28 AM. The chaos inevitably ends at this point with an uncomfortable (and yet critical) realization of some sort. Which is certainly what my brain was gunning for all along.
If all men are great in their dreams, then they’re a sweat-soaked heap of self-doubt & realism right before. Because in the quiet dark of pre-sleep solitude, there are no false fronts. And there are no rose-colored glasses. This is where stinging recognitions live. As well as nervous pessimism.
Of course, the other 0.000000013% of those cathartic, reflective moments occur during IndyCar road races, where I’m right on the verge of sleep — but not quite. And Mid-Ohio proved to be no different.
This time around, as we all watched Milka Duno’s spot-on impression of a malfunctioning Rascal scooter dawdling down the Audubon, an uncomfortable (and yet critical) realization began bubbling to the surface. And ultimately, the realization was this:
Despite what I tell anyone who asks — and despite what I’ve vehemently defended as the truth – I’m starting to fear that IndyCar isn’t a real sport. Not because the drivers aren’t athletes, because they are. But rather because real sports disallow an inferior athletes to buy their way into the big leagues. And because real sports are the ultimate level playing field — maybe the last meritocracy in America — where the only thing that matters is how you perform.
Listen, you can buy your way into almost every facet of our society if you’re so inclined, but you can’t buy yourself into the starting shortstop position for the Cubs … you can’t buy your way into the Masters … and you can’t buy the chance to play the Packers in Lambeau in January. 
A real sport would forbid Milka from saddening up the track on Sunday while “Will Power, Alex Tagliani, Bruno Junqueira, Tomas Scheckter, Darren Manning, Alex Lloyd, Townsend Bell, Vitor Meira (even with a backbrace), Buddy Rice, Townsend Bell, Enrique Bernoldi, Jamie Camara, Mario Dominguez, Jay Howard, and Franck Perera” all sat on the sidelines and quietly seethed & yearned for their own multi-billionaire/dictator to get their back.
(That list, by the way, is a direct quote from Jeff Iannucci when I asked him to name some of the drivers who DIDN’T race at Mid-Ohio … but who are more skilled than Duno. The email came back in just under 8 nanoseconds. I suspect that it’s woefully incomplete.)
It’s not a realization I’m proud of, nor was it particularly enjoyable to come to. Of course, the act of getting down to the brass tacks of who we really are seldom is.
And who we really are, I’m afraid, is an “entertainment” league full of athletes. Not a sports league full of the deserving. Because really, there are no Milka’s in real sports.
By So, August 11, 2009 @ 3:23 pm
Go f yourself Roy! You trying to tell me Monte from Brewster’s Millions was not based on a true story? I have worked my whole life for a shot to buy my way onto the Brooklyn Cyclones and have a shot to pitch against the Mets at Citi Field. Talk about sleepless nights… thanks for ruining my dreams.
By Allen Wedge, August 11, 2009 @ 3:54 pm
Definitely point taken, but didn’t Billy Crystal play a game for the Yankees? And there’s hoards of “Olympians” who got to compete in the Olympics simply as they were the only ones who cared to try a sport for their country and paid the entrance fees themselves starting with Eddie “The Eagle” Edwards: the so-called “best” British ski jumper; and even the original Jamican bobsled team, who in no way resembled the story in Cool Runnings, were actually a bunch of random guys assembled together by sponsors with money.
By Coz, August 11, 2009 @ 7:02 pm
But she has nice hooters.
By Young Harold, August 11, 2009 @ 8:21 pm
Well, it used to be a real sport. F1 and NASCAR (gasp) are real sports. Over “there” there are sufficient sponsors such that the whole field is easily filled with teams that can afford to hire great drivers. Over “here” the franchise, or brand if you prefer, has gone so far down the porcelain receptacle, for a variety of reasons that won’t fit here and we all know anyway, that the lack of serious (aka “big dollar”) sponsorship means filling the field requires allowing in the non-qualified-driver self-sponsored-self-rich. Which kills viewership. Which makes it even harder to get real sponsors for the not-so-real sport. In MBA school this is referred to as a death spiral. It can be turned back into a real sport however. A nice first step would be to let the teams design their own aero packages rather than the league. Knock, knock, hellloooooo? Brian, are you in there somewhere? How does a person parley changing the left rear tire on Al Unser’s car into becoming the IRL’s COO? Maybe Milka should be COO. That’s it – the perfect role reversal. Brian drives and Milka is COO. She knows way more about raising money.
By izod9, August 11, 2009 @ 8:46 pm
Please give Milka a chance, she’d smoke Roy’s butt even in that little scooter. Lapping her every 7-10 laps is like having a moving chicane, kind of like having a random event the leaders have to deal with 5-10 times a race. Anyway, I wouldn’t want to piss Chavez off too much Roy, he just imprisoned about a dozen writers he didn’t like. You may be next on the list.
By dylan, August 11, 2009 @ 9:51 pm
Yeah, the only real Nascar ride buyer is Paul Menard, and he can keep up with the field.
By dylan, August 11, 2009 @ 9:52 pm
Acually, one thing that keeps Duno level ride buyers out of NASCAR, is there qualifying rules. If you can’t keep it in the Top-35, you have to qualify your way into the show or risk not making it. Duno would quickly lose her Top 35, and then fail to make the show, so her rides would vanish quick.
By Todd Cleary, August 11, 2009 @ 10:51 pm
I’ll trade you your “pre-sleep angst” for my night terrors any time.
By P Daddy, August 12, 2009 @ 3:41 pm
2 comments:
1. Garth Brooks spring training for the D-Backs I believe.
2. Ambien- God’s gift to sleepless nights. And for a better night’s sleep try Ambien w/Absolut Limon, fresh lemon scented breath with the instantaneous knockout punch that all men desire.
By Roy Hobbson, August 12, 2009 @ 3:54 pm
Garth Brooks & Billy Crystal each had an at-bat in a Spring Training game. So too did Phil Mickelson, I believe. And Winky the Walrus from Sea World. And the guy who played Wojo in “Barney Miller.” Such tomfoolery is not uncommon in meaningless exhibition games in February.
If you’d like to stick Milka in whatever the IndyCar equivelant of that is, I wouldn’t protest.
By Roy Hobbson, August 12, 2009 @ 3:55 pm
Oh … and your Ambien-&-Absolut recommendation has been formally denied by both the IndyCar executives overseeing this site, as well as my overall satisfaction with not being dead. I like your pluck, though.
By pressdog, August 12, 2009 @ 4:51 pm
Time to eyeball the bright side, Roy. If Milka had not been in the field, you would have been fully asleep rather on the edge of it. But her chicane impersonation (she’s got the curbs for it .. RIMS SHOT) added something to the Festival of Non-Passing. As for me, I’m to the point where I’d vote for Paint Ball Snipers as a way to liven up the growing number of mind-melting twisty courses.
By Allen Wedge, August 12, 2009 @ 9:26 pm
I still contend the Olympics have plenty spot-buyers. You ever watch round 1 of a Olympic swimming and see the person in lane 8 who always seems to be going the opposite direction of the leaders? The difference, of course, is the spot-buyers don’t generally endanger the other competitors.
By Sl4md4nce, August 13, 2009 @ 7:17 pm
Good point. Seriously. I’m hanging my head in shame at this travesty I’ve called “sport”.
But for Americans, what’s more sporting than electing some commie hating politician who’s been looking for a poster girl to push the agenda of immigration control? Side bonus: Humiliate Huggy Chavez, gain additional free press. Do we not have the ability to buy our own arch rival to stand against the ride-buying Milka… like say a tank full of Citgo for whatever poor bastard that stamps her work visa?
Or maybe I’ve been watching too much C-span… I have trouble sleeping too.
By teresa, August 13, 2009 @ 10:36 pm
I don’t like Hobbson…..but I’ll give him this one.
By Roy Hobbson, August 14, 2009 @ 8:17 am
Um, thanks?