DAYTONA BEACH – As the 49th Rolex 24 At Daytona approached its end at Daytona International Speedway, wishing to be among and desiring to convey heartfelt congratulations to those who were just about to achieve one of motorsports’ most historic moments, the World Famous Rolex Sports Car Series Reporter arrived Sunday afternoon at the Chip Ganassi Racing with Felix (y José) Sabates’ Rolex 24 pit-road compound at Daytona International Speedway.
Reaching to part and pass through an entryway of white tarpaulins which served to sheath the TELMEX/Target double-stall pits from the rest of the world, suddenly stepping into and blocking the reporter’s path was a presumably official Ganassi Gate Guard or, simply, GGG.
“Who are you?” the GGG huffed to the suddenly Former World Famous Rolex Sports Car Series Reporter, who was as quickly dethroned as he had been self-coronated only moments before.
The reporter quickly grasped a lanyard hanging from around his neck. Having numbers approaching three, at its bottom were that which could ward off the most evil of security spirits: hard cards.
Thrusting them forward toward the GGG at shoulder height while making like Vanna White turning letters on “Wheel of Fortune,” the now-former world famous reporter displayed each card, especially noting the consistency of name and image found on each.
“No! Who are you with?” said the ever more impatient GGG, now defensively positioned in the doorway, as would a nightclub bouncer (such, um, “profession” easily recognized by the former world-famous scribe who once “bounced” in a country western honky-tonk – mud, blood and beer being a regular feature of which, no less – so as to pay his way through the pillars of higher education).
The scribe, after looking left and right over respective shoulders, answered, “No one. I’m alone.”
“No, I SAID, ‘Who are you with?’ Who do you know?” said the now wholly impatient castle-gate guard, snarling with such ferocity that one began to think foam at the mouth would soon follow.
The scribe sensed a sudden, critical need of carefully responding to the gatekeeper’s inquiry because access to the inner sanctum clearly hinged on the response.
The reporter said to hisownself, “Self, what about dropping‘President Obama’s name? That might work.’”
“Naw, even though Obama was born in Pennsylvania,” the reporter answered himself, “I doubt it’d carry much weight. Besides, my knowing ‘Oh-Bo’ (as in, “You don’t know Didley”) probably was a stretch, anyway.”
“Tom Jefferson,” the reporter said aloud to the gatekeeper, repeating his full name, “Thomas Jefferson.”
Who wouldn’t “know” Jefferson, right?
A United States founding father; principal “Declaration of Independence” author; ambassador to France; third U.S. president; second U.S. vice-president; the first U.S. Secretary of State; and, governor of Virginia.
Once, when welcoming a large group of Nobel laureates to the White House, President John F. Kennedy said, "I think this is the most extraordinary collection of talent and of human knowledge that has ever been gathered together at the White House – with the possible exception of when Thomas Jefferson dined alone."
The scribe, certain of victory and seeing the gatekeeper’s parting lips, shifted his weight forward as he began his triumphant stroll into the magical place within.
An outwardly thrust arm suddenly again blocked the reporter’s path.
“Who!?” the foaming gatekeeper half spit, half barked.
Just as did the Wizard of Oz’s Emerald City Doorkeeper say to Dorothy, The Cowardly Lion, Tin Man and Ray Bolger, “You can’t come in here!”
Only, the GGG didn’t have a portal to close.
Peering through areas which hadn’t been obscured from the reporter’s gaze were Judy and Maureen Pruett; Floyd Ganassi Jr.; Felix y mi amigo especiales José Sabates; Carlos Slim Domit; Mike and Melinda Hull; Memo Rojas; Tim Keene; Kent Holden; Tyler Rees; Kelby Kraus and at least a few others with whom the once world-famous reporter at times has partied and in places at which the GGG could only imagine.
All the reporter wished to do was shake the hand of each, give ‘em each a pat on the back, and offer a “Well done!”
“There’s never any point in arguing with people at the upper end of the gene pool,” the dejected nobody said to himself as he turned and walked away.
Over the soon-to-fade din emitted by cars that race, the Ganassi Gate Guard could be heard chanting the Wicked Witch of The East’s winged-monkey cheer, “Oh-re-oh; OH---RE-OH! Oh-re-oh; OH---RE-OH! O-re-o! OREO!”
Now, some sleep.
Later,
DC
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