“In 49 states it’s just basketball, but this is Indiana.” That phrase is more than a sports motto—it’s a cultural identity. Here, we don’t just understand basketball; we apply its strategies to everyday life—including, road construction traffic.
The older I get, the less I care about stop-and-go traffic. It’s a temporary condition, my mantra goes. My daughters would argue otherwise. Each year, they witness my real personality emerge as we navigate the post-Indy 500 traffic apocalypse. I see the challenge as a puzzle—how do we escape John T. Tucker’s yard turned parking lot, and make it the 4.9 miles home before sunrise? Google Maps says it should take 10 minutes, but on race day, it’s an hour-long endurance event featuring an obstacle course of police barricades and questionable detours. One year, Keely got out and walked. She beat us home by an hour. I still consider that a loss.
The Dave Matthews Band concert egress is a similar struggle, minus the gasoline fumes and plus the unmistakable scent of legalized substances, in every surrounding state but ours that is. Add a school holiday concert into the mix, and suddenly I’m surrounded by minivan drivers trying to maneuver out of a parking lot like it’s a synchronized skating event. It’s not frustration—it’s strategy. The more events I attend, the more I see traffic as an ever-changing labyrinth waiting to be solved.
But my patience has its limits, and that limit is line-cutters in road construction zones. You know who you are. You speed past miles of patiently waiting cars, only to force yourself back into the line like a VIP guest arriving late to an exclusive party. I’d bet you wear pinky rings, gold chains, and unbutton your shirt just enough to us all your chest toupee. Obviously, the adult women in your life gave up trying to civilize you years ago.
Sometimes, a good Samaritan in an 18-wheeler will block your path, an unsung hero of the asphalt jungle. Inspired by their selflessness, I recently took action myself. Driving home from Rosslyn Retreat, I hit an unexplained traffic jam. Was it an accident? A funeral procession? A herd of cows that somehow escaped a century-old time loop? Curiosity turned into frustration as the truth emerged—self-important lane creators were causing the backup. The moment I saw the guy behind me angling to make his move, I pulled right and set a pick.
He faked left, cut right, then proceeded through a lawn to get around me. No one picked him up, and he went to the hoop for an easy layup. I imagine he felt victorious and we were sheep. He smelled like he’d just left a dispensary in Michigan. The smell of victory he thought, as he sparked up the blunt.
Eventually, the line moved, and I rolled past the aftermath—busted bumpers and a debris field marking the accident that had started it all. Mystery solved.
The deeper mystery? What goes on in the mind of Angry Traffic Guy—the one shouting, gesturing, and radiating enough road rage to power a small city. That’s a puzzle I’ll leave unsolved. I have no desire to explore his dark, motherless psyche.
But I will set another pick if necessary. Basketball is, after all, a way of life.
Listen to Episode 55 of Welcome to the Suburbs on our website https://suburbspodcast.com/ or your favorite podcast platform like Apple Podcasts: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/season-3-episode-55-setting-picks-kayak-retaliation/id1669816704?i=1000693022593
