One
South Lyon, Michigan, 1992
“Alex Król?” the voice on the other end of the phone said.
“Speaking.”
“Mr. Król, it’s an honor to meet you.”
“If I don’t recognize your voice, then I don’t know you. If I don’t know you, then I don’t believe you’ve had that honor.”
The voice laughed – a bit stifled, Alex thought – then said, “Yes, I suppose technically you’re right. But I hope to change that.”
“I don’t need window treatments or my furnace cleaned, or anything else you might be selling, including Girl Scout cookies.”
The laugh again, a little more genuine.
“Mr. Król, I’m not selling anything.”
“I don’t have Prince Albert in a can either.”
The laugh yet a third time; Alex was becoming annoyed. “Why don’t you start by telling me who you are?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. My name is Alicia Abney. I work for the Metro Times in Detroit, a weekly newspaper that’s distributed free of charge – and before you accuse me of trying to sell you a subscription, I’m not,” she rushed to finish. Her attempt at humor fell flat.
“What can I do for you, Miss Abney?”
“Actually, I don’t work for the Metro Times. I’m a freelance writer, and I’d like to do a story on you.”
“I’m not interested.” Alex sounded as if he were talking to a telemarketer trying to sell him a product she was convinced he couldn’t live without but about which he couldn’t have cared less.
“Oh.” Alex’s response was the one Alicia least expected to hear.
“I’ve been out of motor sports for more than twenty years. I don’t need publicity.”
“Mr. Król, it’s not about publicity. It’s a profile of a former Indy 500 champion.”
“My career in racing does not define who I am.”
“Our readers –”
“Are more interested in reading about today’s stars – Arie Luijendijk, Danny Sullivan, and Paul Tracy.”
“But none of them are from the Detroit area.”
“Neither am I anymore.”
“But you have ties to the area.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You were born here.”
“Not by choice.”
“Mr. Król –”
“I left behind that life.”
“I’m sure your hometown remembers you.”
Alex sighed. “You mind telling me how old you are?”
“Excuse me?”
“I know, a gentleman is not supposed to ask a woman her age.”
“I’m forty-seven.”
“You sound much younger.”
“Thank you.”
Alex wondered if the woman understood that his question wasn’t intended as a flirtation. “Do you know who Mauri Rose is?”
“A former 500 winner?” Alicia said.
“A lucky guess. I met Rose at Indianapolis in 1967, when he drove the pace car. A nicer man you’ll never meet. Everywhere he went, he was lauded as a three-time Indy winner, even if the pretty girls had long ago stopped asking him for an autograph. Yet he considered his greatest accomplishment a device he invented that allowed amputees to drive a car. By the way, he retired to a Detroit suburb.”
“But I don’t wish to interview Mauri Rose.”
“You can’t. He died in 1981.”
“Well then, why did you –”
“I imagine your readers wouldn’t have a clue who I am any more than they would Rose.”
“All the more reason to remind them of your legacy.”
“Look, Miss...” Alex had already forgotten the woman’s name – but he’d never been good with names. “What did you say your name was?”
“Alicia Abney.”
“Miss Abney, to your readers I’m just a face on a trophy.”
“One of the most recognizable trophies in sports.”
Alex ignored Alicia. “I didn’t win the 1972 Indy 500. Gary Bettenhausen was the class of the field, leading a hundred-thirty-eight laps before his ignition quit. Jerry Grant would’ve won, but on his last pit stop he took tires from his teammate’s pits and was penalized. I inherited the lead and the win. But I didn’t win, not really. They lost.”
“You have to finish in order to win.”
“And I finished.”
“In first place. Had Grant not been penalized, would he have been any less deserving of the win after Bettenhausen fell out?”
Alex said nothing.
“They say winning the 500 changes your life.”
“Oh, it changed my life all right. My career in motor sports changed my life. Not all of it was for the better.”
“Well, here’s your chance to tell me about it.”
“Why would I want to air my dirty laundry to you?”
Alex heard Alicia sigh in his ear.
“Look,” he said. “The sport – if it can be called that anymore – long ago passed me by. When I started racing back in the fifties, it truly was a sport. Good equipment was a plus, sure. But today’s drivers are athletes. They’re better conditioned than drivers were in my day. They may even have better reflexes and eye-hand coordination. But a good driver back then driving by the seat of his pants, out-braving the competition, could put a mediocre car in the winner’s circle. Today they have wind tunnels, radio communication, and onboard computers. Drivers have engineering degrees. In the modern era, a winning combination is maybe forty percent driver.”
“So take me on a trip down Memory Lane.”
“And sound like sour grapes?”
“It doesn’t have to be that way. Believe it or not, some people long for the good old days. You lived through the golden era of racing. There’s a big market for that. Back in the day, the drivers were colorful, larger than life, with names like Foyt, Unser, and Andretti. Today they’re all spokespersons for their sponsors, smile for the camera and offer thanks to an A-to-Z list.”
Alex said nothing, but he began to reconsider. He knew the kids today were embracing the Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin and the Beatles, because modern music left much to be desired. Alicia was appealing to his ego, he knew. She was offering him a chance to talk about his career – the fond memories as well as the not so fond. Comparisons to the modern sport. He’d often wondered about athletes who kept scrapbooks despite the fact that their records have fallen to other athletes – better, stronger, perhaps more skilled. Their moment in the sun. There were aspects of his career he wouldn’t have to bare. Like his more personal failures.
“Mr. Król?”
“What if I don’t like your article?”
“Well,” Alicia said. “I don’t usually do this, but I’ll let you read the finished draft. If you don’t like it, then I’ll rework it until you’re happy with it.”
Alex nodded. “What do you need from me?”
“I want to meet with you. It’s essential to my process. Mannerisms and expressions often find their way into my work. They add another dimension to my profiles.”
“You intend to fly out to Chicago for an hour-long interview?”
“For as long as it takes.”
Alex allowed himself a chuckle.
“I’m from Chicago. I often visit my family, so I’ll combine a business trip with pleasure. And I can expense the business part.” She then added, “Thank you. You won’t be disappointed, Mr. Król.”
“Call me Alex.”
“Only if you’ll call me Alicia.”