Covering Indy 500 back when newspapers ruled

Whoopee! Sports Editor Lou Brewster's online story last Mondaythat IndyCar racing is returning to the Auto Club Speedway perked meup.

My love of Indy-style racing goes way back to 1935 when my UncleHarry took me to my first Indianapolis 500. That's when KellyPetillo won in a car powered by an Offenhauser engine. It was afirst for Offie at the Brickyard.

My money was on the blue car, which didn't finish. When you are5, colors rule your choices. Sometimes they still rule when you are45. I can't say about 85; call me around Memorial Day 2015 and I'lllet you know.

I renewed my relationship with Indianapolis and the 500, while Iwas in the Army after returning from Korea and then after I left theArmy I went to work for the Indianapolis Times. It was my kind ofnewspaper: Tough, take no prisoners. It was owned by Scripps-Howard.

The ownership was tight-fisted and got 120 percent out of itsstaff in a very competitive situation against a morning-eveningcombination of papers owned by the Pulliam family.

Old Gene Pulliam, the patriarch, was grandfather of a fellow witha spelling problem: Dan Quayle. I guess that's why Dan went intopolitics instead of newspapering: He spells potatoe, and we spellpotato. Ah, let's call the whole thing off.

Race day was madness at the Times and the News, Pulliam'safternoon paper. The competition was ruthless. On an ordinary daythe Times would have five to seven editions. On race day we wouldproduce 20 or more editions. This was before the Internet anddigital news. The papers were gold at the raceway, where a hundredthousand fans were thirsting for news. It was impossible to see allof the track and know who was ahead. The papers sent truckloads offresh papers with each new edition out to the track, where they werehawked in the grandstand and in the infield.

On race day in 1955, the News' truck pulled into the racewaycarrying a load of papers with a banner headline reading "Vukovichleads after 50," and right behind came the Times' truck. Its bannerread "Vukie dies in fiery crash."

The News' truck driver backed up to the creek that runs throughthe grounds, dumped his load of old news and raced back to town.

It would be a long time before even the press box and officialswould know what happened to the hugely popular driver, so fansgobbled up the papers.

For the Times, it had been the luck of the draw. On race day, wepractically emptied the newsroom and sent everyone to the track.

Leaving only Andy Anderson, our top rewrite man in the office totake calls from our reporters at the track and turn them intohistory. One editor was on the copy desk to give it a final read andput a headline on it and one reporter was stationed at the cop shop(police headquarters) in case all hell broke loose from anotherfront.

The managing editor assigned his staff to strategic spots hopingnot to miss anything during the race. It happened that one of ourtop reporters was right there when the car driven by the immenselypopular Bill Vukovich flew off the track in a fatal plunge. Hecalled Andy and gave him all the details, and Andy laid aside hisever-present crossword puzzle and went to work.

The Times was a great place to work, lots of action, but thehandwriting was on the wall. Most of the corporate leaders atScripps-Howard wanted to sell it or fold it because of the lock onadvertising held by the Star-News combo had proved impossible toconquer, even though we beat them regularly with the news.

The word was that Roy Howard (The Howard in Scripps-Howard)refused to put the Times on the market or to close it because it hadbeen his first newspaper and remained his sentimental favorite.

He stopped by the paper one night when I was working andintroduced himself. No fanfare. He just dropped by. One of thelegends of the industry. I was impressed. He was pretty old and theword was the Times wouldn't last a day longer than Roy Howard. Andthat was about right.

I headed back to California in 1960 and had been back less than ayear when Howard died and the Times was shut down not long after.

There was a lot of history at the Times. Ernie Pyle, one of myjournalistic heroes, got his start there, and I was thrilled to sitat his desk.

Indianapolis and Indiana have lost some history, too. FortBenjamin Harrison, where I was stationed, has been closed down.

And the great jazz guitarist Wes Montgomery, whom I met and abecame friends with before his career ignited like a rocket, what atalent he was. The fact that we both had the same first name becameour running joke. He died way too young. His musician brothers Monkand Buddy are gone, too.

But nearby Speedway, Ind., is still home to the 500. I doubt thetrucks still race from the press to the track. There's no one leftto compete with.

I used to think that someday I'd work on that big City Desk inthe sky, but I doubt it will be there anymore. All that stuff willbe in storage or sold off for memorabilia.

I wonder who got Ernie Pyle's desk? I should know because it waspartly mine, too.

In the meantime, I'll watch the IndyCars run at the Auto ClubSpeedway.