He’s the Greatest Import Since Pizza

The banker, George Graziadio, was on the phone. The National Italian American Foundation is honoring prominent Italians in Washington, D.C., next month and among them is George’s pal Yogi Berra.

Nice idea. Overdue. And it set a couple of us to thinking. Who would we include in this august company if it were up to us?

We very quickly went by the great Italian contributors to our culture like Caesar; Galileo, who only mapped the heavens for the world; Leonardo da Vinci, scientist and artist; Michelangelo, God’s painter; Marconi, who gave us radio; Caruso, who gave us the high C; Marco Polo, who gave us the Orient (and spaghetti); Enrico Fermi, who split the atom and ushered in the nuclear age; even Machiavelli, who invented the politician.

We went very quickly out of the labs and onto the playing field for our paisans.

The great Joe DiMaggio was our center fielder, Phil Rizzuto our shortstop, Tony Lazzeri on second, Yogi catching, Sal Maglie pitching, Vince Lombardi coaching, Joe Montana passing, Rocky Marciano punching, Gene Sarazen putting and Eddie Arcaro riding.

But then we went quickly to the oval tracks of the roaring speedways, where we had no trouble separating our choice from the Dario Restas and Alberto Ascaris.

No one anywhere ever drove a race car any better than Mario Andretti. He was the Joe DiMaggio of his sport. For 40 years, he was the man to beat in any kind of a race he ever drove in--Formula One, stock, Indy car, midget, even motorcycles. The worst sight a driver could see was Mario Andretti in his rear-view mirror.

He won Indianapolis, he won Formula One in Europe and Africa--the only one who brought off that important double. He won the United States Auto Club title his first year on the circuit. He could make a bad car competitive and a competitive car victorious. If it had wheels, Mario could make them go faster than anyone else. He could drive ovals, road courses, drag strips, dirt tracks, Grand Prix on city streets. A race without Mario Andretti was just Sunday traffic.

He spoke up for his sport. He didn’t just hide in his garage even when his car broke down. If auto racing is the fastest-growing sport in America today--and it is--it is in part because Mario Andretti promoted it. Two words in the English language he never bothered to learn were “No comment.” Andretti had lots of comment.

He won one Indy, but he will tell you “Two.” In 1981, he was entitled to Victory Lane according to official results when Bobby Unser was penalized for reentering the race from the pits illegally. But the courts overruled the penalty the next October. It was the slowest Indy ever run--four months. “I could beat 32 drivers but not two lawyers,” Andretti used to shrug.

He was not a grudge-holder. Andretti drove hard on a track, but no one was afraid to dice with him. He saved as many lives as he risked because he was an athlete. He not only saved Danny Sullivan’s victory in 1985, he saved his life. Danny spun in Turn 1 on Lap 120, a 360-degree turn. Mario dived down on the grass and went around him in one of the greatest moves ever seen at Indy.

He was third in the first Indy he ever drove (1965) and rookie of the year. He was second twice, third once, fourth and fifth and in the top 10 ten times. He was on the pole three times and led the most laps in Indy history.

He did not make the Italian-American Foundation grid at Washington next month, but he is being honored at a black-tie dinner at the Beverly Hilton hotel on Tuesday by the Richstone Center for Abused Children.

It’s fitting because Mario could relate to childhood abuse. Only his was not family, his abuse was caused by a retreating German army and a confused group of Communist partisans as he was growing up in the border regions of Italy around Trieste. Mario and his twin brother, Aldo, were waifs in various displaced persons camps, where the trick was not to get caught in the cross-fire and where they frequently slept 17 to a room--families, that is, not people.

The Andrettis--momma, poppa, the twins and sister Anna Maria--migrated to America in 1955. They came the old-fashioned way--legally. They had to learn English, and Mario today can speak it as well as Ronald Coleman. The only American thing they didn’t have to learn was how to race. The twins were on a racetrack before they were old enough to drive on the street. “We didn’t lie exactly,” Mario once said, “we just couldn’t add very well.”

Aldo kept getting in crashes. Mario hit a few walls but was more solicitous of his machines, which were not only pre-owned, they were pre-wrecked. The first time he got in a new car, he almost got liftoff.

He’s the greatest American import since pizza. He became American the day he landed, but he became a citizen April 15, 1964. “When people ask, ‘Was winning Indy the greatest day of your life? I say, ‘No, April 15, 1964, was.’ ”

Some people marry their high school sweethearts. Mario married his high school tutor, Dee Ann, and they have been married 34 years.

He can’t sing like Caruso, hit the curve like DiMaggio, achieve fission like Fermi, putt like Sarazen or paint ceilings like Michelangelo, but put him in a race car and it’s grand opera by Verdi. Or, for the field, Mama Mia!