So the Rays Won’t Commit; St. Pete’s Bigger Draw: The Firestone Grand Prix

At least racing fans don’t require a $1.3 billion stadium!

St. Petersburg—a sun-soaked paradise where you can enjoy an ocean view, provided you can afford a million-dollar condo or manage to park without mortgaging your kidneys. Now Tampa Bay sports fans face another gut punch: the looming departure of the Tampa Bay Rays. Nothing like the sting of rejection to make you appreciate what you still have—like the Firestone Grand Prix, which may stand as the crown jewel of Tampa Bay area entertainment aside from the Bucs. Unless, of course, you count playing the high-stakes game of “Will I get arrested for loitering on my beach chair too close to an invisible beachfront high-rise property line while visiting a local beach?”

With the Rays flirting harder than a snowbird in April sipping a final margarita at a tiki bar, it’s clear that St. Pete needs to double down on what works—and that means racing. The Firestone Grand Prix doesn’t just bring in thousands of fans, it practically turns the city into a high-octane tourist destination. Compare that to a Rays game, where the crowd size usually resembles an awkward family reunion—minus the free food.

For our family, the IndyCar world isn’t just a weekend diversion—it’s practically genetic. My wife, Leigh Wallard Clifton, carries a legacy that speeds circles around baseball. Her father, Lee Wallard, won the 1951 Indianapolis 500—a time when men were men, and the only analytics involved were how much oil you leaked per lap. My stepson, Bill Robinson, a general contractor from Tampa, has attended every Indy 500 since 1995—barring one unavoidable work emergency (because even race fans have to pay the bills). He also never misses the St. Pete race. My grandson Collin, when he was about four, even scored a photo op with Danica Patrick. A grown man now, Collin already recognized Danica as racing royalty even at the age of four.

In 1995, our whole family made the pilgrimage to Indianapolis when Lee Wallard, the father-in-law I wish I had known, was posthumously inducted into the Racing Hall of Fame. It was my first Indy 500, and while the hobnobbing was spectacular, a couple of moments stuck with me. Paul Newman nearly ran me over with his golf cart as I rounded a corner in pit row but stopped just in time, lowered his shades and said “excuse me”. Later, I found myself in the pit bathroom standing a mere urinal away from Indy legend Danny Sullivan. He gave a cool-guy nod, which, let’s be honest, is basically the male equivalent of sharing a deep, emotional connection, right?

But the true highlight? Sitting at a table next to Mario Andretti and his family at the Hall of Fame dinner. Talk about dining with greatness. My mother-in-law, Esther, the woman Lee Wallard married and raised two daughters with, gave a speech, we all dined and toasted the Famers before the after-dinner hobnobbing. The IndyCar community is vast, but its fan base dwarfs even that. If you think Rays fans are a passionate bunch, try standing trackside when those cars scream past. It makes a baseball crowd seem like a middle schooler’s birthday party.

So maybe it’s time for St. Pete to embrace its racing roots even tighter. If the Rays do pack up and leave, Tropicana Field can still serve a noble purpose—IndyCar parking. If Tampa or some other city wants the rather expensive Rays’ baseball headaches, St. Pete has the memories without the financial drain of stadium building.

With a little luck, Paul Newman’s ghost will occasionally haunt the track, golf cart and all.

Larry Clifton is a former print reporter and Florida native based in Hernando County.