From the beginning, Tony George’s ace in the hole was Indianapolis Motor Speedway. The ancestral home of American auto racing was his. It was the Indy Racing League’s.
The unfortunate thing for open-wheel racing in the U.S. was that it became the ante in the poker game between George and the other high rollers who comprised CART prior to the sport’s fracture in 1995.
Neither side was bluffing, particularly George when he created the rival IRL with the Indianapolis 500 and the famed Brickyard as its centerpiece. CART, comprised of team owners, had been in business since 1979 and was unflinchingly determined to go its own way.

Both sides were stubborn. Their sizable egos were matched only by their bank accounts, so both sides could easily put their money where their mouths were. They were foolish — everyone said so — but they did not listen.

Both sides were stubborn. Their sizable egos were matched only by their bank accounts, so both sides could easily put their money where their mouths were. They were foolish — everyone said so — but they did not listen.
CART had the stars. Its governing board decided to go public. Meanwhile, the IRL struggled to even get on the track in 1996. Why not? The Speedway in May was George’s only chip, he may as well play it again.
CART could keep Long Beach, all its Hollywood glitz and star power. It could create a rival oval race in Michigan as its pseudo 500. It could have the sport’s biggest names, including Andretti.
He would listen to them snicker: “You know the difference between CART and the IRL? In CART, the fans know all the drivers. In the IRL, the drivers know all the fans.”
But he would have the last laugh because he had the sport’s history on his side. He had the 500. All else in American open wheels paled in comparison.
There were times when the IRL’s fields were shallow, and the Indy 500 certainly lost quite a bit of its luster with bump-free Bump Days and often fewer than 33 cars initially showing up at the Speedway in May.
A.J. Foyt was George’s most staunch supporter. His name meant something, but he was no longer a driver. He was an owner, but George got mileage from the presence of “Super Tex” in May.
The Indianapolis 500 was home to Foyt and George counted on the lure of that race to be the siren song for other drivers as well. It was.
They came back, all of them — the Unsers, the Andrettis, Roger Penske, Bobby Rahal. They all came back. Indy was the one they wanted to win.
Sure, George’s paradigms of American drivers and an all-oval series shifted as the series evolved and was forced to adapt to being lapped by NASCAR while still fighting a Civil War with CART, which was losing its star power nearly as fast as it was losing money.
By 2003, CART was headed to bankruptcy and every American driver worth his salt — Hoosiers Tony Stewart and Jeff Gordon headed South, even a name considered Indy royalty, Casey Mears, and others — headed to NASCAR, which was helped in its growth from a largely regional series to a nationwide juggernaut by the open-wheel chasm.
The fans, confused, disgusted and embittered by it all, defected in droves, played to by the NASCAR marketing machine that gave them bigger-than-life heroes such as Dale Earnhardt, an amazing slight-of-hand that convinced the race-loving public and the casual fan that the Earnhardts, Jarrett, Gordon and the like were just like them; they just drove faster on Sundays.
Sponsors followed, paying the NASCAR premium while still trying to figure out just who was where between the IRL and CART, which would become Champ Car after a 2004 buyout from Kevin Kalhoven and partners, outbidding George for the rights to the series and perpetuating “the split.”
Again, egos won out over both common and financial sense — mistakes in business are made, but the advent of Champ Car was simply because the remnants of CART were determined not to let George win the poker game that had been ongoing at that point for nearly a decade.
But, again, George had his ace in the hole. He had May at the Speedway, which wasn’t what it used to be, but it was still May. It was and is still Indy.
For 13 years, that has been enough. George bet that it would be time after time and this past week he became the last one sitting at the table, holding all the cards and all the chips.
American open-wheel racing now has one direction and one leader, but there is work to be done if it is to be a factor in the country’s sports-scape again. George must consider his bets even more carefully than he did before.
But he still has Indy up his sleeve. That’s proven to be a pretty safe bet.