Da race

 Somewhere, no doubt, Scott Goodyear must have nodded his head and said, "Of course."

And somewhere else, Marco Andretti must have nodded, too, and said, "Yep."

And when the day was done, Helio Castroneves must have watched the replay and said, "Been there, done that."

Because the Indianapolis 500, see, went the full 500 yesterday before the winner emerged.

Because not even the blink of an eye, or the twitch of a nerve ending, separated the winner from the heartbreak of second place.

Because young David Malukas, who drove an impeccable race and looked more and more like the chosen one the longer the day went on, was going to win the biggest motorsports prize in the world. And then he didn't.

And then, in the last, what, 50 feet or so, Felix Rosenqvist -- new father and fastest man at at the Speedway for most of the month -- got a run. A millisecond later, he was crossing the yard of brick a nose cone ahead of Malukas. Hell, not even a nose cone ahead.

Zero point zero two seconds. That was your margin of victory after 500 miles.

 Closer than Al Unser Jr. over Goodyear in '92. Closer than Sam Hornish over Marco in '06. Closer than Ryan Hunter-Reay over Helio in '14. Closest finish ever.

Rosenqvist, whose month of May began with the birth of he and his wife Emille's first child and ended with -- let's face it -- a damn miracle, was properly overjoyed. Malukas was just as properly crushed. What do you say to a young man who had the Indianapolis 500 in the palm of his hand one second, and then the next -- literally, the next -- didn't?

"Better luck next time" ain't gonna cut it. That I can assure you.

In any event, it was an unreal finish to an unreal day, with a record 70 lead changes among 14 drivers and a red flag and a caution in the last eight laps. When the green and white flags flew together after the caution, Malukas went from fourth to first with a brilliant outside move in traffic, and then held off everyone until Rosenqvist's perfectly timed push swiped it off the kid's plate.

Some other observations:

* Red is the new fashion statement.

No grumbling from the geezer section, if you please, about the policy of red-flagging the 500 in the final laps of the race. It's the best decision IMS and IndyCar have made in years.

The first year it was instituted was 2014, and it produced Hunter-Reay's thrilling duel to the checkers with Helio. Subsequent late stoppages have set up some of the best finishes in the 110-year history of the 500 in the dozen years since. No one would rather see the race finish under yellow because some back marker got cozy with the wall.

In this particular circumstance, tradition be damned.

* Fuel strategy is not boring. It's what makes the Race, the Race.

Because, as ever, it was a major Indy 500 plotline.

Malukas, Alex Palou, Josef Newgarden, Scott McLaughlin and Conor Daly were on one stagger. Rosenqvist, Marcus Armstrong, Pato O'Ward et al were on another. It meant the latter had to make their last stops ten laps or so later than the former, and then hope they could run Rosenqvist and Co. down or pressure them into running out of fuel.

In the end, Caio Collet's hard crash and Mick Schumacher's kiss of the wall in the last eight laps -- the first stopping the race, and the second slowing it for a crucial lap -- made that a moot point. 

* Oh, Pato.

How many times is Pato O'Ward going to be right there, only to not be there?

He finished fourth on Sunday, which means he's now finished fourth or better four times in the last five years. Once more he was hanging around the front all day; once more he played all the strategic cards right to put him up front as the laps got skinny.

Everyone keeps saying he's going to win the Greatest Spectacle someday, because he's always good here. But as the Blob has noted before, maybe he could also be the modern-day Ted Horn -- who finished fourth or better nine straight times between 1936 and 1948, but never won.

* Dixie!

Scott Dixon may never win the 500 again, but that doesn't mean you can keep him away from the front. The greatest IndyCar driver of his generation led 32 laps yesterday, second only to polesitter Alex Palou's 59. It extended his all-time 500 record for laps led to 709, which are 65 more than second-place Al Unser Sr. 

It also marked the 17th Indianapolis 500 in which he's led at least one lap. Not bad for a guy who somehow has only won the Spectacle once, and who'll turn 46 on July 22.

* And speaking of old guys ...

At 49, Takuma Sato did not have the car to win his third Indianapolis 500 Sunday. But he did have the car to finish 10th.

Counting his victories in 2017 and 2020, it was his sixth top-ten finish at Indy -- and his second in a row for Rahal Letterman Lanigan Racing.

The only older driver in the field was, of course, Helio who at 51 didn't come close to a record fifth 500 victory. He finished 25th.

And yet ...

And yet, he won, sort of.

He won because Rosenqvist won, which made Helio a 500 champion as an owner.  He owns a piece of Meyer-Shank Racing, for whom he won his fourth 500 in 2021 and for whom Rosenqvist won Sunday. 

Of things given

 This being Memorial Day, when we remember the ones who didn't come back from our wars and rumors of wars -- when we remember who bought us our cookouts and our trips to the lake and all of a peaceful life's pleasures and, yes, annoyances, too -- the Blob offers in this space something I wrote eight years ago on this day. It is the perfect message for these times, when the man-children running our country play army with real lives and treat war as some sort of glorious crusade instead of the mean, ugly business it is.

And that's all I'll say about that.

Of the rest, I say this:

Always I remember the crosses, on this day. Pristine white, laid out row upon perfectly symmetrical row, they sprout like a field of wildflowers in this quiet green place, every cross representing a father or son or brother who didn't come back from what was naively termed the Great Adventure.

Every cross representing something given, without expectation of payment.

War is the great waster, thief of life and potential and what-might-have-been. It is never something to be glorified, to be held up as some shining beacon of human virtue. Even in a good cause -- and the good causes almost without exception look less so in retrospect -- it reveals the worst of what we are.

And also the best, in an oddly paradoxical way.

The latter is why, on this Memorial Day, we go to the cemeteries and place American flags on graves. It's why on this day I remember those white crosses in the St. Mihiel American Military Cemetery near Thiaucourt, France, where so many of our countrymen rest who died trying to reduce the St. Mihiel salient in September of 1918.

It was the first major American engagement of the First World War, and if it was a victory it was a costly one, part of less than six months of combat that would steal some 53,000 American lives. The cemetery at Thiaucourt lies at the center of the old salient, a peaceful place set down in the middle of lush French farmland. If you didn't know any better, you'd swear you were in Indiana somewhere -- at least until, in the middle of a field of wheat, you spied the crumbling remains of an old German pillbox.

Or looked out over all those crosses, row on perfectly symmetrical row. Or stepped into the cool marbled shade of the memorial, where name upon name is etched in gold on a black plaque that stretches almost from floor to ceiling. The names go on forever, representing eight different American divisions. They are the names of the American soldiers who fought in the St. Mihiel region, and who now "rest in unknown graves."

Outside, in a leafy alcove, stands a white marble monument with an American doughboy carved on it in bas relief. Bareheaded, eyes closed, he holds his helmet at his waist in his left hand. Beneath him is this inscription: "Blessed are they that have the home longing, for they shall go home."

Around it, beneath those crosses, other American doughboys sleep on. They are home at last, in a sense. And because they and so many of their brothers are, generations of other Americans got to sleep peacefully in their own homes.

And because we do, we remember them this day. And on all days. 

Da prediction

 People keep asking me, because they know what I used to do. It's Indianapolis 500 week, and I covered it for four decades as a professional scribbler, and so of course I must know, of course I have the wisdom of the ages when it comes to predicting who's gonna win the Greatest Spectacle today, other than the rain.

"Beats me," I say. "Could be any of a dozen guys."

Everyone looks crestfallen.

"Oh, come on," they say. "Pick somebody, You've GOT to pick SOMEBODY."

In that case, I say, you could do worse than Alex Palou. Defending champion, starts on the pole, has won three of five races so far on the IndyCar circuit as he pursues his fourth straight title. The Dominator.

Everyone nods.

"Palou," they say. "Well, sure."

Except ...

Except I have this weird feeling he won't be the one slamming the milk at the end today (or tomorrow).

Mainly I say this for the completely irrational reason that it's too easy -- too obvious -- to pick Alex Palou. Indy, after all, doesn't always do obvious on Memorial Day weekend. And when it's this obvious, it hardly ever happens.

Well, OK. Except when Al Unser Sr. won back-to-back in 1970 and '71 in the fabled Johnny Lightning Special. And except when Bill Vukovich won in 1953 and '54. And except when Wilbur Shaw won in the Boyle Maserati in 1939 and '40 ... and when Rick Mears won all those times for Roger Penske ... and when Simon Pagenaud won from the pole in 2019 ... 

Like I said: Irrational.

Except ...

Except that weird feeling won't go away.

It's the feeling I get sometimes when I think this is a year when Indy gets quirky on us, which it's fairly notorious for doing on occasion. How else to explain Mario Andretti only winning the 500 once in 29 starts? Or Lloyd Ruby and Michael Andretti never winning? Or Scott Dixon winning just once, or Ted Horn finishing in the top four, like, every damn year, but never finishing first?

So, no, I'm not picking Palou. I'm also not picking Pato O'Ward, who starts on the outside of Row 2 and has finished second, second and third in three of the last four 500s. He's going to win this race someday. If it's this year, well, that would figure. But I don't think it will be.

Dixon, back there in Row 4? Maybe. Two-time winner Takuma Sato, who led a race-high 51 laps last year and starts on the outside of Row 5? Always up there. Ditto Santino Ferrucci, Marcus Ericsson, two-time winner Josef Newgarden, four-time champ Helio Castroneves.

Ditto Conor Daly.

Who starts in the middle of Row 3 and could very well win this today (or tomorrow), after leading 13 laps and finishing eighth last year for Juncos Hollinger Racing. He's the hometown boy, from just up the road in Noblesville. Makes him a sexy pick for a lot of people.

Me?

Well ...

Well, try this name on for size: David Malukas.

He's a 24-yearold from Chicago who qualified seventh and finished second last year for A.J. Foyt, and now he has Will Power's old ride with Penske. Stuck it on the outside of the front row in qualifying, during which he drove with a calm efficiency that reminded you a little  (OK, so, reminded me a little) of a young Rick Mears. I know, crazy, right?

Know what's crazier?

I think this is a David Malukas kind of year. Write it down.

In pencil, at least.

A real 'dogfight

 The weather was gray, damp and cool at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway yesterday, but the hot(dog)foots were tearin' around the old joint nonetheless. They were sizzlin' four wide down the long straightaways and playin' ketchup through the perilous turns, but only one mustard the wherewithal to relish the victory.

OK, OK. I'll stop.

(Maybe)

But, hey, how could you not get carried away by the second annual Wienie 500, a two-lap speedfest featuring six Oscar Mayer Wienermobiles. Buns and wienies blazed around the hallowed Brickyard at a blistering 50 mph or so, and when the condiments settled New York Dog had beaten the rest of the pack(age) to the checkers.

"Grilled those losers!" said the winning wienie pilot, Dario Frank-Eatie, who credited the radical bun-length design of his delicious ride for his late pass of runnerup Chili Dog.

OK, O-KAY. I'm stopping. Promise.

(Or not.)

Meanwhile, last year's inaugural wiener, Slaw Dog, got shuffled back in the fierce jockeying for position and finished third. Driver Wilbur Slaw filed a formal complaint post-race, claiming the rest of the field was driving "like a bunch of  ***damn Italian sausages out there."

"Wow, wonder what's got his buns so steamed?" said Chili Dog's chauffeur, Mauri Rolls, who--.

Hey. What are you doing with that Guilden's Spicy Brown?

Put it down. I mean it. PUT IT DOW--

Shock and awe

 You never think the leadfoots are gonna go out like this. There's your home truth for today.

There's your home truth now that Kyle Busch is gone, at 41, not in some metal-shredding Big One at Talladega or Daytona but from something too small to see with the naked eye. Died three days before the Coca-Cola 600, his next gig. Died of what for now is only being called a "severe illness" that first sent him to the hospital yesterday morning, and then ended his life a few hours later.

Deadly Virus Or Something Kills The One They Called "Rowdy": Now there's a shocker of a headline for you.

It's a shocker, first of all, because when a race driver gets tagged with a nickname like Rowdy, it's not usually because he's a gentleman on the racetrack. It's because he's a purebred SOB with a big mouth and an even bigger ability to drive the wheels off anything you put him in.

That was Kyle Busch to a fare-thee-well when he came into NASCAR at 19 -- he actually drove in a truck race when he was just 16, finishing ninth -- and if the years and a wife and family killed off the punk in him, it didn't file down his edges completely. Just a couple of weeks before his death, in fact, he was going back and forth with his crew chief about some on-track outrage or other, and when his crew chief suggested he re-focus on the job at hand, Rowdy sneered, "OK, pysch major."

And then suggested the crew chief put a bag of ice on his crotch to calm his ass down.

That was vintage Kyle Busch, and if you didn't like it, well, you could just sit on it and spin. Busch couldn't have cared less. He actually courted the crowd's disfavor on occasion, gesturing the boo-birds to bring it louder after he'd won one race or another.

And there were a lot of those one-race-or-anothers. Because you can't talk about the shock of Kyle Busch's passing without also talking about the awe of his talent.

He won in every iteration of NASCAR, and no one did it better. No one has ever won more than the 234 races he won in the series top three tiers, and his 63 Cup wins are ninth alltime. He's the only driver ever to win 100 races in the NASCAR O'Reilly Auto Parts series, and his 69 wins in the truck series also is the most alltime.

He won two Cup titles for Joe Gibbs, made the Chase at 19, and won the Brickyard 400 at Indianapolis back-to-back in 2015 and 2016. And if he'd ever decided to show up at Indy in May, he likely might have won the 500, too. He was that good.

And the rest of it?

Hell, that was just old-school NASCAR, when the good ol' boys used to put one another into the fences (and occasionally through or over them) in pursuit of the checkers. And then settled any and all disputes with their fists when the racin' was done.

Now, Kyle Busch was not a good ol' boy, except in spirit. He grew up in Las Vegas, a light year away from the Deep South hollers where NASCAR was born. But he did some dispute-settling of his own, too, on occasion.

As Joey Logano could attest.

 A guy like that, you figure, isn't going to die in bed. Although a couple of weeks ago at Watkins Glen, Busch did request medical assistance -- a "shot", actually -- upon finishing the Cup race. Which makes you wonder if whatever killed him was already working on him then.

And yet ...

And yet, he raced again last weekend at Dover. Won the truck race for Spire Motorsports, then finished 17th in the Cup All-Star race for his regular employer, Richard Childress.

Oh, and that race at Watkins Glen?

Despite clearly being in dire straits physically, he finished eighth.

That was Kyle Busch.

A writer's rant

 Read the other day that a writer on one of Sports Illustrated's platforms got nailed for using artificial intelligence to plagiarize part of some betting piece or other, and here came my Curmudgeonly Old Writer Guy, roaring from his cave. 

I cannot help this. It's who I am. It's probably who I was at 31 instead of 71, come to think of it.

And so I shake my head and grumble and wonder what Dan Jenkins would think this. Or Frank Deford. Or Curry Kirkpatrick or Gary Smith or any of the other SI legends from back in the day.

I'm thinking they wouldn't think too kindly of it. I'm thinking they'd think, one, AI is a cheat for a writerly sort, and lazy, and, by the way, so is plagiarism. In fact if you can't come up with a better way to say something than whomever it is you're plagiarizing, you're not much of a writer and should probably take up a different profession, like arc-welding.

I think that's what the legends would think because that's what I think. Not that I was ever a legend or anything close to it.

What I am is guy who did the sportswriting thing for 40 years, and the idea of stealing someone else's words -- at least without quotation marks and attribution -- would never have occurred to me. This was arrogance, mostly; I figured I usually could express something better in my own way, so why would I bother with someone else's way?

And besides ... it's lazy, like I said. And not nearly as much fun.

As for AI, well, that's lazy squared. And if you're a writer -- the sort of oddball who glories in the written word -- you know AI can't write, anyway. This is because the human brain is infinitely more complex, and every human brain is different. We're all informed by different life experiences, and it's those life experiences that enable us to produce words and images unique to us. The associations we make are ours alone.

AI?

All AI can do is reproduce whatever you tell it to. That's why what it spits out is so wretchedly pro forma. Skynet may live, but it can't write for doody.

Or at least, that's what I tell the young minds I find myself surrounded by these days.

In my retirement, see, I've taken up teaching creative writing for an organization called the Unity Performing Arts Foundation in my hometown, and it's been a revelation. First of all, the students are mostly middle-schoolers to young high-schoolers, and I'd forgotten what kids that age are like. And, second, I'm amazed (and a bit envious at times) at how adept some of them are with the written word at their age.

And so, periodically, I haul Curmudgeonly Old Writer Guy from his cave and rant my little rant about AI. It can, I point out, be a useful tool. But it can't express your thoughts and feelings -- your creativity -- better than you can. All that is yours, and yours alone.

It's why, when I try to coax one of my shy ones to read for the class what they've written, I always say a variation of this: "Come on. Have pride in your work, because you should. It's your work, after all, and no one else's. Don't be afraid to share it."

I almost never add, "And don't ever let AI within a light year of it."

I don't have to. I mean, how many times have they heard that sermon from the old dude?

To Cav not

 So I'm looking up at the TV a few skinny minutes before 9 o'clock last night, and, oh, look, it's the Cleveland Cavaliers and New York Knicks in Game 1 of the NBA Eastern Conference finals, and, wow, the Cavs are up 15 with three minutes to play in the third quarter, and this is HUGE, because they're playing in Madison Square Garden and the Knicks have just been rolling through the playoffs so far ...

I'm sorry, what?

Will this sentence eventually have a period in it?

OK, fine. Here's your period. Three of them, in fact.

Now where was I?

Oh, yeah, right: The Cavs. Rolling themselves. Moving the basketball like a metronome. About to erase homecourt advantage for the previously indomitable Knickerbockers.

And then ...

If you live in Cleveland, you might want to stop reading now.

That's because the Cavaliers' lead was up to 22 points with 8:19 to play in the fourth quarter, and now it was not just a win but a certified freaking blowout. Except ...

Except over on the Knicks' bench, head coach Mike Brown and his assistants noticed something.

What they noticed was James Harden was bouncing the ball an awful lot for the Cavs, as he tends to do. They also noticed his age (36). And they also noticed the age of their own bucket-filler, 29-year-old Jalen Brunson.

That's seven years of fresher legs, if you're keeping score at home.

And so, right about then, the Knicks told Brunson to start attacking Harden offensively. And suddenly the 22-point deficit began to melt like an ice cube on an August sidewalk. And before long the Knicks had outscored Harden and the Cavs 44-11 -- 44-11! -- the rest of the fourth quarter and overtime, and Cleveland's blowout became a shocking 115-109 win for New York.

In that same span, the Cavs shot 29.4 percent, missing six of their seven shots in overtime.

Harden was 1-for-6.

And Brunson?

Scored 16 of his game-high 38 in the fourth quarter and OT.

You could call that a choke job of epic proportions by the Cavaliers. Or, you could be nice and call it an equally epic comeback by the Knicks.

Me?

I prefer to call it a horrendous pun, as is my wont.

To Cav ... and then, to Cav not.

I'll be here all week, folks.