Ron Kantowski on how a couple of local neighbors bonded through Indy 500

Wednesday, May 24, 2006 | 7:05 a.m.

Remember Steve Carlton, the Hall of Fame pitcher, and his teammate and personal catcher Tim McCarver, who were so inseparable that they used to joke that when they died, they would be buried 60 feet, 6 inches apart?

For the past four years, that's the way it was for longtime Henderson neighbors Sam Schmidt and Richie Hearn at the Indianapolis 500. People were beginning to wonder whether they had purchased final resting places 2 1/2 miles apart.

In the high-tech world of major league auto racing, where races and championships are often decided by contracts forged in boardrooms far from the roar of the engines, the only things binding Schmidt, the car owner, and Hearn, the driver, was a ZIP code and a handshake.

But when it came to Indy, they were practically joined at the gearbox.

They made the oddest of couples, Indy 500 have-nots who approached the race as a bonding experience rather than a business proposition. In a sport rife with starched collars and tasseled loafers, they wore T-shirts and cutoffs.

At least until Danica Patrick came between them.

After struggling for years to acquire enough sponsorship to run a competitive Indy effort, Schmidt, 41, thought he had stumbled onto something good last year, when Robby Gordon folded his Indy 500 team to concentrate on NASCAR and Schmidt inherited Meijer, the Midwest-based department store chain, and Coca-Cola, Gordon's primary sponsors.

But when Patrick became the greatest thing to hit Indianapolis since Reggie Miller's jump shot by finishing fourth in last year's race, Schmidt's sponsors hitched onto her bandwagon. He was practically rubbing nickels together when the track opened for practice three weeks ago.

"It was coming down to the last minute when Dare came on board with a big bag of money," Hearn said.

That would be Airton Dare, a Brazilian driver with a sponsor, which in this day and age, is more important than a heavy right foot. It was Dare who qualified Schmidt's car in the middle of the 10th row for the 90th running of the famous race on Sunday.

"I probably wouldn't have done it, anyway," Hearn said about driving for Schmidt in this year's race, adding that a 34-year-old family man is probably not the best guy to be taking risks in an unsponsored bucket of bolts.

Still, Hearn and Schmidt parted on good terms.

"Whenever he puts together a deal (to run Indy), I'm usually the first one he calls," Hearn said.

That probably won't change, Schmidt said.

"We tried like heck this winter to put together a deal for Richie, like we've done the last four years," he said. "The sponsors just aren't out there. We were behind the 8-ball."

Taking that analogy a step further, it's too bad Schmidt and Hearn are no longer together because one day, the racing gods should see fit to chalk their cues.

The sport owes them one. More than one in Schmidt's case.

When open wheel racing split into two factions in 1996, it created opportunities for drivers such as Schmidt to break into the sport without interference from all those Unsers and Andrettis. He capitalized, too, eventually joining two-time Indy 500 winner Arie Luyendyk as a teammate and winning his hometown race at Las Vegas Motor Speedway.

But Schmidt's promising driving career ended in a devastating crash during off-season testing in 2000 that left him paralyzed from the shoulders down.

By comparison, Hearn got off easy. After finishing third as a rookie at Indy in 1996, he jumped to the rival CART series, now known as Champ Car, to race against all those Unsers and Andrettis. But his team eventually folded, leaving Hearn holding his helmet when it came to the 500.

Until an old pal called.

It was Schmidt who sold Hearn on moving to Southern Nevada when both were running in the fledgling Indy Racing League. And it was Schmidt who called Hearn when he began putting together a team for the 2002 Indy 500.

As far as neighbors go, that sure beat putting out the dog and bringing in the newspaper.

They finished a respectable sixth that year, after qualifying 22nd among the 33 starters. The next three years, they wound up 28th, 20th and 25th and loved every lap - even the ones where A.J. Foyt's grandson was in the way.

"Rolling through Gasoline Alley with 300,000 people in the grandstands ... people have asked me to describe what that's like, but it's indescribable," Schmidt says about Indy's allure.

Hearn, who has switched his focus to coaching drivers in the steppingstone Formula BMW series, also holds Indy near and dear to his racing heart. He hasn't ruled out returning next year, perhaps even as an owner-driver.

"I will miss being a part of it. But I won't miss being in the way out there," he said. "You can't expect to show up once a year and think you're going to beat those guys."

Maybe not. But the Indy 500 is still a place where a couple of guys from Henderson can show up once a year and have a heck of a good time going nowhere fast.