Hey, look, it's the Brickyawn 400

 Saw an Indianapolis Motor Speedway ad the other day trumpeting the Brickyard 400, which comes back in July after a few years hiatus because (at least partly) it will be the 30th anniversary of the first Brickyard 400.

"History Returns!" it trumpets.

The Blob's immediate response is to ask who invited History back, and why, and is it too late to say we've changed our minds?

This might sound way snarky considering the Brickyard used to be one of NASCAR's premier events, but I spent too many dryer-vent summer afternoons watching stock cars go around and around IMS like beads on a string to summon up many warm-and-fuzzies. Mostly my memories of the Brickyard boil down to this:

1. Sweating.

2. Watching Jeff Gordon, Tony Stewart, Dale Jarrett et al sweat.

3. Listening to Bill Elliott bitch about the heat while he sweated.

4. Watching the fans go from medium rare to well done under that mother of a late July/early August sun,  watching the world's loudest Tournament of Roses parade go tearing around the Speedway for three hours or so.

One year the Governor's Trophy won, and everyone who hadn't passed out sent up a mighty cheer.

And, yes, OK, so my sarcasm meter is cranked up to high here. My apologies. But I covered the first 20 Brickyards, and I'm here to tell you it was more often than not lousy racing in the steamiest part of the Hoosier summer, and therefore contained little bang for the buck for both the paying customers and the scruffy media crowd that covered it.

Attendance began falling off once the novelty wore off, and fans discovered the Speedway, with its long, long straightaways, narrow corners and negligible banking, did not make for a great NASCAR show. In fact, many more times than not, the Brickyard 400 was the Brickyawn 400. And then came the Tiregate year, when Goodyear sent a tire that wore out with embarrassing speed, and the Brickyawn was not only a crashing bore but a crashing bore interrupted by mandatory yellows for fresh rubber every ten laps or so.

Not long thereafter the stock car boys were doing their deal before vast swatches of empty seats, with entire grandstands completely closed off. On the track below the rumble and blare of the cars suddenly sounded oddly strengthless, like kids making loud noises to scare off the ghosts in an abandoned house.

Which was certainly not the way it all started.

In '94, see, 250,000-plus showed up for the first Brickyard, and no one had seen anything like it. Stock cars at Indy! Dale Earnhardt and Rusty Wallace and the Labontes and that kid Gordon! Look at 'em go! Listen to 'em snarl!

Whoever thought we'd see such a thing?

Even the racing gods seemed to approve that first year, serving up temperate 70-degree weather for race day and -- with no little irony, considering what happened in subsequent years -- actual drama to it. Down at the end it was  Ernie Irvan, Gordon and Rusty Wallace battling nose-to-tail, until Irvan had a tire go down and the kid from eight miles down the road in Pittsboro took the checkers.

The storyline, therefore, was as perfect as perfect gets. And there was even actual racing, so it was all good.

Maybe the reboot will bring some of that back. I hope so.

Not holding my breath, though.