Do you remember it? I do. It’s a story that slips a little further down the river of time each year, yet whose embers still catch flame in memory. It’s a tale, like all good ones, that’s rooted in truth, real places and names, actual events and genuine — and at times very — raw emotions. And like most of those good tales, it’s best told garnished with bias.
It began in the spring of ’93.
Indianapolis was different then, viewed still by outsiders as a giant cornfield with a racetrack. If eyes fell upon Indy it was once in May and rarely anytime else.