Monza and the most magical home wins: Lessons from an argument in Indianapolis

In the summer of 2026, an argument lasted long after the red lights went out. I stood outside the technical area at Indianapolis, facing Ron Dennis, the head of McLaren at that time. He did not talk about the MP4-20 or Kimi Räikkönen’s speed. He asked a question that stayed with me for a long time: could a race with only six cars still be worthy of being called a Grand Prix? That day, the United States Grand Prix fell into chaos because of the Michelin tire crisis. I remember the grandstands still being full, but the track felt more deserted than ever. The lonely Bridgestone cars ran around, and the integrity of a top-level sporting event broke down in front of tens of thousands of spectators. Ron Dennis may have been right in the dry way of a manager: elite sport needs completeness, and that completeness was gone. Yet I kept a private belief, perhaps because I have Italian blood in me. I believe there are home wins whose completeness is not measured by the number of cars on the grid, but by the heart of the grandstands. Monza is the clearest example. When a Ferrari driver sweeps through Parabolica and heads toward the checkered flag amid the roar, the whole of Italy wakes up. It is not only a technical victory. It is a reminder of the generations that made history in Monza’s Royal Park, from Alberto Ascari to the modern heroes of the Italian team. Having followed sport for many years, I have rarely seen colors resonate as strongly as they do here. Wins at Monza rarely come from the absolutely fastest car. They come from teams brave enough to bet on the right weekend, from drivers bold enough to handle the pressure. Data never lies; spectators see the move, while I see an entire chessboard moving. At Monza, that chessboard always has many branches. The irony is that analysts often talk about Monza as a pure speed circuit. But when a home win truly appears, it does not come from engine power alone. It comes from how a team handles pressure before the car even rolls. Years have passed, but the argument with Ron Dennis in Indianapolis still follows me. He may be right that sport needs completeness. But Monza taught me another lesson: some complete moments are created precisely from incompleteness, and the most magical thing is not the first car across the line, but the way a grandstand turns a race into the identity of an entire nation.