Nobody’s shouting it from the rooftops, and maybe that’s part of the problem. But Sunday, Bubba Wallace won the Brickyard 400, and if you’re Black and if you’re from Indianapolis you felt that in your bones.
For me, it wasn’t just a race. It was a bridge across generations. My grandfather was one of the Gold and Glory drivers, part of the Black racing circuit that barnstormed across the Midwest when Jim Crow said “no” and they said “we’ll drive anyway.” They didn’t run at Indy. They couldn’t. But they ran fast, and they ran proud.
Somewhere tonight, I imagine them those men in beat-up cars and Sunday suits leaning over the rail of whatever heaven looks like for racers, watching Bubba take that checkered flag at the Brickyard. A track that wouldn’t let them through the front gate, now hosting a winner who looks like them.
This one wasn’t just for Bubba. This one was for all of them.
And I bet they’re smiling.