Jason Gay - I Wouldnt Do That If I Were Me: Modern Blunders and Modest Triumphs (but Mostly Blunders)

A couple of years ago, right before the pandemic arrived and the world changed, I took my son, Jesse, to the Daytona 500. I had no idea the planet was about to shut down, but in retrospect, it was a pretty rowdy way to say farewell to civilization.

Jesse was in. I dont even think I got to the second syllable of Daytona. He was six years old and obsessed with Hot Wheels, Camaro fumes, and monster trucks. Hed watched Cars a thousand timesto the point that he grew mildly disappointed when the Impala in traffic next to us wasnt anthropomorphically chatting to us through its front bumper.

Stock car racing is not for everyone. Four-plus hours of Chevys, Fords, and Toyotas making left-hand turns is not a big topic of conversation among the flabby NYC dads I know, who bicker about Pavement albums and drink overrated $6 pourover iced coffees. But Jesse? Book it.

I figured the trip wouldnt be a big hasslea quick flight from New York City to Orlando, a short drive from Orlando to Daytona Beach, and then wed drive around for seven or eight hours looking for parking. Easy-peasy.

What I didnt count on was what it meant to fly to Orlando.

The moment we stepped on the plane, Jesse saw them: kids dressed in Disney gear, clutching Mickeys and Minnies and doe-eyed princesses of every hairstyle and rank. These kids were not going to the Daytona 500. They were not impressed by a small block 358ci V8. They were off to the Magic Kingdom, or Animal Kingdom, or Epcot, or Blizzard Beach Water Park, or probably all of the above, and I realized I was going to be spending this trip playing Disney defense against a child whod never been.

The arrival at the airport was much worse. Orlando International Airport is basically a portal into the inner ear of Mickey Mouse. From the moment of disembarkation, there is an assault of Disney consumerism: colorful posters advertising new rides and features; kiosks arranging transit and VIP tours; a sprawling gift shop stocked not with the usual assortment of polyblend hoodies and beanbag unicorns, but with stacked shelves of Diz Biz merchandise. Basically, the airport is the Disney welcome drink, and as Jesse moved through it, I wished Id brought him a pair of eye blinders, like the ones they put on carriage horses.

Are we ever going to go to Disney World? Jesse asked, not demandingly but plaintively, as if he was asking if wed ever see a loggerhead turtle in the wild.

This is a delicate question for a parent to answer when they are standing in their kitchen, eight hundred miles from Florida. There is no satisfying way to answer it when standing in the middle of Orlando International Airport, when there are shuttle buses outside the door ready to take you, when the entire momentum of the facility is designed to deposit you at the doorstep to Walts Xanadu within fifteen or so minutes. No response is sufficient. You cant give your kid a lame excuse about the timing, or the season, or the inability to find plane tickets. You are literally here .

The only humane thing you can do is to escape, to grab your child by the hand and march them wordlessly to the rental car counter, where the families waiting in line are dammit, already in mouse ears.

Jesse didnt toss a fit. I was grateful. He was too focused on Daytona, and he seemed to buy my limp suggestion of a Disney rain check. We got on the road to the speedway, and once we got clear of the greater Mickeyopolis, we had a lengthy conversation about the respective driving talents of NASCAR heroes Denny Hamlin, Kyle Busch, Ryan Blaney, and Martin Truex Jr.

Okay, thats not true. We didnt know a thing.

Id managed to negotiate my way to middle age and a sports columnists job with barely a passing knowledge of anything to do with one of Americas greatest spectator sports. If you are embarrassed by this admission, imagine how I feel. Its embarrassing for a person paid to write about sports to not know the difference between Bristol and Talladega or have the first idea of what happens when a car rolls into pit road. (They pump up the tires?) I was the worst sort of urbane caricature (I, too, am a flabby dad with opinions about Pavement and overrated $6 pourover iced coffee) who faked my way through a few interviews with NASCAR talent by asking basic questions. ( How is your parallel parking ? ) I didnt know anything, and it was a little mortifying and probably professionally disqualifying. I admit it, mea culpa. Now, please dont ask me about hockey.

Jesse was my vessel here. He may have thought he was my merry plus one, but he was going to be Daddys portal into the whole Daytona experienceI could write about what it was like to be there, eyes of a child, the whole bit. I could cover Daytona without covering Daytona. I could cover it as a dad. Aww , barf, done.

Daytona was a circus atop a circus, hours from race time: miles of cars, flags, and brightly sunburned, tattooed flesh. Blasting music, loud tailpipes, mirrored sunglassesit felt like being in a Kid Rock video without being in a Kid Rock video.