Montoya living the American dream
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- White: Jarrett still focused
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- DW: Open-wheelers nothing new
- Kriegel: Dale Jr. racing for his father
- Spencer: Who really won the Duel?
- Kriegel: Living the American dream
- Spencer: Hendrick's power trip
- McReynolds: NASCAR's right call
- Spencer: Is Hendrick too powerful?
- Spencer: Underdog Joe
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Montoya is familiar with their sound, as boos are often directed at him. Indeed, the audience here at TNA Wrestling reminds Montoya's mechanic of the infield at a NASCAR race: noisy and profane, an unruly exercise in democracy.
Welcome to America.
One can argue that nothing captures the state of the nation better than professional wrestling, the eternally televised dance between babyface and heel. The problem, as TNA's wardrobe manager might attest, comes with the now endless permutations to a character's persona. It's getting tough to tell the good guys from the bad.
And that's what has Montoya a bit confused. When the announcer calls his name, will they greet him as a hero or a villain?
"I don't know," he says.
If his inaugural NASCAR campaign — a season that saw him win at Infineon Raceway and earn top rookie honors — is any indication, he'll play the heel. "For a whole year, I tried so hard to be a good guy," he says, with amused resignation. "But what the hell? They boo everybody here. Either you're Dale Earnhardt Jr., or you're booed. So let me be a bad guy."
Montoya, winner of the Indianapolis 500 and the Monaco Grand Prix in his previous incarnation as an open wheel racer, was cast as the foreigner in a sport of good old boys. But there's more to it. He's Colombian by birth, the son of an architect from Bogota. His formative years as a professional driver were spent on the rarefied tracks of Europe. But by sensibility and temperament, he seems, well, American. In a sense, Montoya was naturalized long before he ever got here. You can have Monte Carlo. Montoya has already informed new teammate Dario Franchitti — another former open-wheel driver and the husband of Ashley Judd — as to the virtues of Red Lobster ("The Caesar salad and the biscuits — great," he says). What's more, he understands that Americans adore a particular kind of bad guy, especially racing fans who, after all, have made a religion of "The Man In Black."
"I don't take any shit," says Montoya. "I mean, I try to be a good guy, but we're racing here. It comes down to you or them. You're not getting paid to be nice. You're getting paid to win."
Ask Scott Pruett, a teammate he knocked off to win a Busch Series (now Nationwide Series) race in Mexico City. Ask Kevin Harvick, with whom he got into a slap fight after they wrecked at Watkins Glen International. Ask Michael Schumacher, the great Formula One champion he embarrassed by bumping aside and passing in Brazil.
Unlike the Europeans, whose class system permeates even their racing culture, Montoya observes no rank, reputation or privilege on the track. He wouldn't go back to Formula One. Never, he says. This is the land of opportunity.
"You can win a race here," he says. "In F1 you can nail everything — and still not win. If you don't have the right car there's no way. Here, if you're running well, you have a chance."
That's the American ideal, of course, a semi-level playing field. And just days before the Daytona 500, it poses a few questions. First, can Montoya win driving the No. 42 Texaco/Havoline/Wrigley's Dodge for Chip Ganassi Racing with Felix Sabates?
"I don't think that we're quite ready yet," he says, "but in the future, yes. I wouldn't be here if Chip didn't believe I could win, and I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe in Chip. He believes in my ability. I believe in his equipment."
Still, you wonder, can Montoya's second season be regarded as a success without him qualifying for the championship-deciding Chase for the Sprint Cup?
"I don't know what would be more disappointing," he says, "not making the Chase, or making the Chase and sucking."
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Finally, the question asked of all drivers: what scares you?
He shrugs. "The day you get scared is the day you got to quit," he says. Rather, the closest he comes to fear are those moments when time seems to slow down, he realizes he's going backward and that a collision is inevitable. "That's when you think, this sucks," he says.
Soon, the announcer will call his name. Montoya enters the fray with a posse called LAX. This is the Latin crew, the team of Homicide and Hernandez with a valet named Shelly Martinez. The fans like Ms. Martinez, as the additions to her thoracic region stretch the limits of anatomical possibility.
But they get a much bigger kick out of Montoya, who is loudly cheered with just a smattering of boos. Now LAX is joined by the Motor City Machine, white guys from a mythical Detroit joined by Montoya's teammate, Reed Sorenson. Finally, the Rock-n-Rave Infection — rockers brandishing props from the Guitar Hero video game — makes an entrance.
The stage-managed conflict builds quite briskly until, in its climactic moment, Juan Pablo Montoya — who stands about 5-foot-6 — cracks 6-foot-8 Lance Hoyt over the head with a steel chair. The blow makes a pinging sound, almost like a cartoon.
The audience couldn't be happier. The fans are cheering wildly now. Face or heel? They no longer observe the distinction. They love Montoya.
In a few minutes, he'll be backstage again, getting his picture taken with a smarting Lance Hoyt. Say what you want about wrestling, but the chairs are real and they hurt. "It felt kind of like it sounded," says Hoyt, rubbing his head. It's a wrestler's way of saying, this sucks.
Now Montoya is joined by his wife Connie, who had been watching from the celebrity seats with Pittsburgh Steelers linebacker James Farrior and Johnny Fairplay, a former cast member from Survivor. Next, the Montoya children — Sebastian, 2, and Paulina, 1 — greet their father.
America the beautiful. It's been a long day, most of it spent at the theme park. The kids are tired, and so are mom and dad. They'll get some dinner on the way home. Maybe Red Lobster.
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