A Report On The Accident That Killed Bill
Vukovich In The 1955 Indianapolis 500-Mile-Race
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A Report On The Accident That Killed Bill Vukovich In The 1955 Indianapolis 500-Mile-Race
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Demise of the Fresno Flash By Russ Catlin From 1955 Floyd Clymer Indianapolis 500-Mile-Race Yearbook He was a strange one, this darkharied son of Slovenian parents. It was almost as if he knew he had a date with destiny and he was in a hurry to keep the appointment. He brooked no interference and although he will go down in history as the greatest speedway driver of this era he did everything within his power to reject the title. His treatment of those who could declare him the title -- the press -- was almost brutal and that is where the strange part came in. They loved him to a man. They called him colorful and they sang his praises from coast-to-coast. Vukie was all man a mile long a yard high. His life was not an easy one and he reached the pinnacle of fame and success in the only manner he knew -- the hard way. Born in Fresno, California, October 8, 1919 the youngster had, at an early age, an important role to fill -- to help keep the family in bread and milk. In 1938 Vukie discovered midget racing and he became a sensation almost overnight. He played the role of a villan to perfection and brought crowds to stadiums just to see him defeated. One had the feeling this pleased him because he did not lose too often. Vukie had the true competitive instinct that only the great ones develop. The will to win. He faced odds -- great odds always, and his success was all the more phenomenal as a result. It wasn't until 1950 that he sought out the big cars. At that time midget racing was beginning to decline, in revenue, and Vukie walked into a speedway garage, pointed a stubby finger at a race car and said, "I can drive that pig!" But for some reason car owners -- those with costly and new charges -- didn't relish the thought of this Mad Russian (an erroneous term applied to Vukie early in his career) who liked to drive on heavy tracks "because I have no use for brakes, I just slide high and let the mud slow me down." His good rides were few and far between but he always seemed to lead every race he entered until the "bucket of bolts came aspart!" Vukie got his first big break in 1952 when sportsman Howard Keck signed him to drive his costly creation at Indianapolis. It was practically no race, as Vukie early put his opposition far behind and was blazing to a finish eight laps away. Then, a minor part in his steering gave way and he hit the wall. Some, looking for sympathy and headlines, would have given modest statements to the press but not Vukie. He turned the air blue with excess energy and those seeking an interview had the feeling it was better to leave this man alone. And they sympathized and called him colorful. Tommy Milton didn't say so. The first two-time winner of the 500 said, "He's a great competitor. Probably the greatest today and he is a beautiful driver. What happened was not his fault and his reaction is the natural result of a great one." The next year Vukie won the 500! He had the supreme confidence in his ability, his car, and his knowledge of his profession. He was almost too brave -- as if he knew he had an undeniable date with destiny. He seemed to enjoy his jousts at 180 mph with Jack McGrath and he would not give his pit a glance until he felt he had his battle won. The, a curt nod of the head and it would be all over. Some writers called him stoical. That wasn't true. Vukie's sense of humor was unique but he had a great one. He enjoyed needling his fellow drivers. Bill Schindler, Tony Bettenhausen and Walt Faulkner, all past-masters of the needle were his favorite targets. But, his seeming indifference to the press, and the result, is one of the sports phenomena of the day. A typical answer to a request for an interview was, "Write anything you want. You don't need me," and he would walk away with his head down and always in a hurry. Like his fellow drivers he made the press take it and, strangely, they liked it. They sang his praises and called him colorful. In his own way he had earned their grudgingly-given respect. A good provider always, led Vukie to being a good family man. Never once did the garage area speak of scandal and Vukie. He charted his own course and pity only those who got in his way. His passing came in a manner that was most honorable. He was leading the 500 and only an act such as this could have kept him from becoming the first time three-in-a-row victor. He and his favorite antagonist McGrath had just completed one of the bitterest two-man duels in 500 history and McGrath was in the pits. You watched Vukie go past -- not a sign of recognition that he had one -- and then you didn't see him anymore. There was a yellow light and some smoke and drivers circling the track at slow speed and looking straight ahead. Back in the garage area when it was all over, garage doors went shut. Behind those doors sat men. Racing men. Some hard as nails; some the victims of Vukie's needles. Some great and some that would never be great. And from each category some were crying. He was a strange one, that Vukie. He took everything in its stride and always fought back. He earned the respect of his follow man and he earned the love of those that knew. He will be remembered, always, as being as great as any man who ever pulled on a racing glove . . . . . . |
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