It's certainly not for the ads -- I get to see more about motor oil, beer, and cars in general than I see at any other time of the year. I'm especially not an automotive type of guy -- I didn't even get my driver's license until this year.
But we're talking about the Indy 500 here. Fast cars! Going around and around! Jack Arute in the pits, sticking his microphone into the faces of men who have seen their race end because their engine blew or because their car slammed into the wall.
Jack: "So how does it feel to have your Indy dream shattered?"
Driver: "Screw you, Jack."
Okay, I'll admit it. The real reason I watch the Indy 500 is for all that coverage of driver's wives.
You know, when there are people going 200 miles per hour with about 2 millimeters of metal shielding them from concrete, when these cars are coming within feet of one another as they try to pass in a tight turn, what I really, really want to see is the lovely hat being worn by Mrs. Michael Andretti.
Showing us the pit crew people is one thing. The owners are fair game, too. Roger Penske pacing in the pit area after finding out that one of his racers has a blown engine is good TV.
But the wives? Come on. Give me a break.
So why watch the damned race, anyway?
Well, it's entertaining -- true drama at some points, and so-bad-it's-funny at others.
The race is pure sports entertainment when it becomes a test of endurance -- as, one by one, cars slam into the wall and engines blow up. Who will be next? When will Mario Andretti's car break down this year?
True, the race isn't incredibly exciting all the time -- but neither is baseball. The whole thing can be boiled down to a few moments -- home runs, stolen bases or Indy lead changes -- but those moments, and everything leading up to them, is worth the payoff.
But on top of the drama, there's the hilarious spectacle of the thing, including the TV coverage. Watch Jim Nabors sing "Back Home Again in Indiana." Listen to Bobby Unser display why he should be fired as an announcer and be forcibly put back in a soundproof cockpit. More beer ads. More motor oil ads. More car commercials. Jack Arute in the pits. (Whatever happened to Al Trautwig? How do you spell chriseconnamackie? Chris used to cover the pits, but I never knew how to spell his name. Now he's gone. I'll never know.)
After watching the race, I know it all. All 26 major league baseball stadiums can supposedly fit into the center of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Contrary to popular myth, Al Sharpton never drove an Indy car. Rick Mears' wife Chris has a bowl haircut. Michael Andretti's wife has a big cowboy hat and really, really white teeth. Emerson Fittipaldi's wife Teresa is pregnant... and very, very big. Last year, as I recall, Teresa Fittipaldi was extremely skinny. Her husband won the race, so she got lots of screen time.
So who cares what the Chicago Bulls' chances will be against the L.A. Lakers? (Bulls in six, by the way.) Who cares how the Padres are doing? Who cares about how badly the Trail Blazers were beaten Sunday?
I wasn't watching basketball or baseball. I was watching the Indy 500. So while you may know lots of stuff about Vlade Divac or Danny Ainge or Tony Fernandez, I'm afraid I've got you beat.
I know that it's Miller Time, that STP is the racer's edge, and that Chevy is the Heartbeat of America. And while I don't know what company makes the fashionable glasses worn by Michael Andretti's wife, I can assure you that they were lovely.
Back home again...
Sing it, Gomer.