Each asphalt-covered brick at Indianapolis' Motor Speedway is a tombstone for a dreamthe kind of dream that makes men recite the words on the Statue of Liberty and sing paeans to the New York Mets. For the Brickyard is the place where the underdog never wins.
The men who drive at Indy are rough hombres. They won their spurs on dirt tracks where only the winner gets to eat, and grease clings to their fingernails. But now their brokers phone regularly, their names are printed in big block letters on the sides of...
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