By Brett
June 1998
You never could call me the patriotic type. And perhaps I still don¢t bleed red, white,
and blue. I do, however, understand what it means to be an American better than I
did before this past weekend. This reflection comes not from an insightful overseas
trip, one in which the virtues of the democratic society get compared and contrasted
to the schemes of our European and Asian neighbors. My case study for the
American Pastoral - what is truly idealistic and right about the USA - comes from the
most profound source of domestic vernacular I have found in my 22 years of living.
Maybe I can¢t tell you about America from Horatio Alger¢s perspective, and I don¢t
know what the Streetwise salesman on the streets of Chicago will tell you about his
place in this society, but I can tell you what is at once amazing and great about this
place. I have a secret. Its called NASCAR. And it¢s the most extraordinary single
event I have ever witnessed as an American.
Before I tell you about my experiences and those of my counterparts who joined me
this past weekend, let me explain Jim. Now, Jim is a man of about 24 who we met in
our travels through the NASCAR infield. I don¢t know how we got to meet Jim, but he
seemed nice enough. And he was one interesting looking dude: he wore these royal
blue jeans, boots and no shirt the entire weekend. He had a huge boxer¢s chin - a bit
like Sparty - and had a sparse goatee extended from it. Jim was typical for the infield;
he smoked strong cigarettes and had a beer in hand, a huge smile on face, at all
times.
Suddenly, we were playing basketball with Jim. Myself, Dave Rogers, Jeff Joy, and
Daniel Hoyt found ourselves in the middle of the infield throwing up bricks on a
ten-foot hoop nailed to the front of some gigantic bus. Jim was having a good time.
He said that he knew how to get women to show us their *chests, no problem.* Our
crew had not come to the infield expecting to meet the opposite sex, but Jim, well, that
was one of his primary purposes. Jim followed us around awhile that night (Saturday)
and his smile never left. He was excited for a night of drinking and meeting *girls*
Sunday morning, we met Jim again. He looked the same. He still had on his Royal
blue jeans, no shirt, and his smile had gotten even larger. Why? *Well, I met this
woman, she¢s about 30, maybe 40. And she¢ll show em¢.* As we stood in front of the
bathroom, I had to admire the kid. He was so excited. He met his woman for the
weekend, he had been drinking constantly for the past 36 hours. But then his woman
came out of the bathroom. Ask yourself, how many goals on average do the Red
Wings score in a game? That¢s also the same number of teeth this woman had.
But Jim loved his infield catch. This woman with stringy hair and 3 teeth had made
Jim¢s weekend. He said to her, in front of us, *hey, these guys want to see ¡em, you
wanna show ¡em, bueautiful?* . We had no desire, no inclination to see ¡em.
Fortunately, she walked away. Jim put his arm around her, his shirtless body well
tanned from the Michigan sun, his mind corrupt from *I didn¢t sleep all night and I was
just chuggin Vodka at 7am this morning.*
That was the last we saw of Jim. However, later we met up with some of Jim¢s friends
and they told us the following tale:
Jim was really drunk and tired. During the race, he started running around ass naked
with his pants around his ankles. The police started running after him, and he tried to
run away with his jeans around his ankles. He tripped into the wire fence and cut a
huge gash above his eye.
So, we asked, was he in jail?
*Nope. They took him to Foote Hospital in Jackson,* they said. Poor smiling Jim, I
thought, I could see his funny goatee and royal blue jeans. He was now in the
hospital, but at least he wasn¢t in jail. That¢s infield magic for you. I¢ll never forget
him.
Jim is a perfect example fo the type of personnel in the infield. He was drunk, dumb,
but incredibly nice and respectful to us. The inept logic of the infield is so warped one
must have to be savvy to notice it. For example, Dave pointed out to me that although
we were the most well-educated in the infield, our campsite was the most trashed.
And it was too. There was newspaper everywhere, two chairs just crushed (one I
destroyed in a drunk fall on Friday night), pretzels everywhere, carrots. I mean we
were in the *ghetto* of the infield.
But we survived. And we flourished.
Suddenly, Jeff Joy couldn¢t take it anymore. He ran madly into the campsite where
abaout 25 infielders partied, drinking everything from light beer to Vodka from the
bottle. It was dark out, about 11:30pm. There was a kids pool that someone had set
up and filled with water. Kiddie pools, used by both the kids and their parents, gimped
grandparents, etc., are a huge phenomenon in the infield. Jeff Joy wanted his share
of pie. He ran and without warning, flew through the strangers¢ site and jumped in the
air, landing belly first into the pool. At first, the infielders were stunned. But the magic
took over, people laughed. People toasted drinks to him. It was a sense of
comraderie and understanding so missed in America. No one got upset, no one was
*offended.*
And when we donned our *wife beaters* no one complained. All accepted them as our
usual attire or a gimmick to fit in the culture. Dan wore a *I¢ve got your Jeff Gordon*
on front with two gigantic arrows pointing down to his crotch. Jeff Joy wrote *INFIELD
VIRGIN* the front of his, with *HOME WRECKER* on the back. Myself? I had *BEER?*
on the front of mine and *Laimbeer 40" wrtten on the reverse. And we wore these
shirts thorughout the day. No one minded. Anything goes. We were obnoxious, drunk,
and admittedly ugly in our new shirts. Yet, in the infield everyone understood.
Dave Rogers couldn¢t take it anymore. He had drank all afternoon and was
*waaaasted.* He was upset with Brett and Dan for making him take a stroll through
the infield. He decided to sit down in the middle of an abandoned campsite. He
passed out completely. Cars and trailers began to honk, some people even yelled.
We left Dave there and went over to some folks campsite for a beer or two. Dave
woke up and realized he was in the middle of the Michigan International Speedway.
People were everywhere. He had to get up. He got up, took two steps toward where
Dan and I were sitting, and stumbled over his feet and passed out again.
But no one cared. No one minded. There was not some overbearing police officer
with ready patronizing wit to give Dave a ticket or throw him in the drunk tank. If I tried
to wear my *wife beater* in East Lansing, I¢d be thrown in the slammer faster than
Rusty Wallace takes the back straightaway at MIS. Sure, people laughed and
chuckled at us and our antics, but this place welcomed our behavior, because after
all, we were just like them.
But for a place of 40,000 drunkards, with the formal education of Tom Sawyer, you
have to wonder, how does everyone get along? NASCAR is about racing, generally,
but when I saw Grandpa chasing his granddaughter around with a super soaker, and
the entire family having a great time, I thought: maybe if America was a little bit more
like the infield, I wouldn¢t be so hesitant to return to my routine on Monday.
Its an astounding place, my friends. Last night, around 6pm, the infield was a bit of a
ghost town. Walking among the thousands, no; millions!, of beer cans, cigarette
butts, and fire coals - Ozzy Osborne¢s ¡Crazy Train¢ playing softly in the
background, I wondered how this place could exist. Over 48 hours of drunken insanity
and I hadn¢t seen one fight. It was the largest party I have ever been to. You are all
invited to join us next year.
By the way, the race went on and Martin won. But at NASCAR, no matter who wins,
everyone celebrates. It¢s a love for cars, for the race, for the EVENTS that make up
the sport, and everyone drinks to a good time. Obviously, some drivers - Jeff Gordon
- inspire strong anti-sentiment, but I didn¢t see any battle royales, and Hoyt was
talking trash the entire time. It¢s the modern day, white trashWoodstock. Its about
peace, love, beer, and for some, hooking up.
I went out onto the porch of my apartment. Felt the cold wind cut through my shirt. I
reached into my pocket and and reached for a free cigarette straight from the infield.
The wind blew but I could smell it. The beer, the bbq, the smoke - I could hear the
sounds of the infield. I looked out into the trees and felt out of place without gigantic
busses, drunk old men, and NASCAR flags flying everywhere I looked.
I stare into the dark sky. I see Jim¢s smiling face. I realize that, yes, he may still be in
the hospital, but I¢m sure he can¢t wait until next year. While I doubt Jim does much
for a living, I am off to law school. But both of us can¢t wait for next year, and maybe
that is part of the secret of the infield. Maybe.
I puff on my cigarette and say softly, *Jim, I¢ll see you and your snaggle toothed
again next year, buddy.*
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