"When I dream about the moonlight on the Wabash..."

Usually this time of year – well, the past eight years anyway – I am busy writing my preview of the Indy 500 for the paper.

This year, I can tell you who is on Pole, and that’s about it.

As a kid, if I could have done anything in the world I wanted, I would have raced in the Indy 500. To me it was bigger than the World Series or the Super Bowl. I always dreamt of one day actually going to the race and sitting in the stands.

I was incredibly blessed to not only get to go to the race, but to be on the inside, to see the man behind the curtain, to meet childhood heroes, to experience the thrill of Indy firsthand.

I wasn’t driving. But it was the next best thing.

I remember Sam Hornish Jr.’s first year driving for Roger Penske in 2004. Much was expected of the linking of Hornish, a two-time series champion, with Indy’s winningest car owner.

But Hornish, who grew up and still lives in Northwest Ohio, got caught up in another driver’s crash just past the halfway point of the race and had to drop out of the field, ultimately sliding to 26th in the results.

Tim M., the reporter from the Defiance (Hornish’s hometown) paper, and I rushed to the Penske garage after the crash, hoping to get a quote from Sam. The garage was barricaded off with one of Penske’s PR watchdogs standing guard.

There were probably 15 different print and TV reporters standing along the barricade. Sam, naturally, was very disappointed and wasn’t real keen on the idea of having to face a sea of reporters.

The watchdog then began to make her way down the barricade, looking at credentials and deciding who got in and who didn’t.

“No. No. No. Defiance, yes. Lima, yes. No. No. …”

There Tim and I stood, with three or four other writers and the ESPN camera crew, talking to Sam while a dozen more reporters threw little temper tantrums outside the garage.

But Indy is more than just moments like that to me.

When I think about walking among the 33 cars all lined up on the front stretch of the track on race morning, I get chills. I can’t tell you why Indy has always had such an allure to me. It just does.

The race is in one week. The paper isn’t sending anyone this year. They can’t afford the expenses. And my summer financial aid hasn’t come in yet, so I can’t even buy a ticket. I’m stuck watching it on TV.

I am sick to my stomach.