By Don Radebaugh — Nothing ever tore through the heart and soul of North Vernon, Indiana quite like it did the day Pat O’Connor died. In the blink of an eye, he was gone, and North Vernon has not been the same ever since. How could it? Their very own hometown hero, the man that had so much promise, was no more.
Had he lived, he would have more than likely become the President of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and God knows what else. He was smart, strikingly handsome, articulate, humble, charming, admirably mechanical, immensely popular and getting more and more famous by the moment. He was North Vernon’s homegrown Indy 500 shining star, an all-American boy with a whole lot of Hoosier running through his veins. Indy 500 winner Mario Andretti once said that he only asked for two autographs his entire life. One was Pat O’Connor’s. I’m not surprised.
The story of Pat O’Connor has always fascinated me. Without ever knowing the man — he was gone before I was born — he became one of my childhood heroes. When the opportunity presented itself to meet his widow, the lovely Analice, his son Jeff and grandson Ryan, I jumped at the chance, got in my little car and steered for southern Indiana.
I was so excited. My good friend Doc Hunter was going to introduce me to the O’Connor family that night at Salem Speedway. Every year the track hosts the annual Pat O’Connor/Joe James Memorial race on the legendary high-banks where O’Connor cut his teeth so many years ago. As the crow flies, Salem is only about 50 miles from North Vernon. But first, I went on an adventure in North Vernon, bound and determined to learn all I could about Pat O’Connor.
My first stop, a funeral home on the main drag. I went inside and asked the nice lady if she had any information. She looked through her old-fashioned paper records and said, “Here it is…Pat O’Connor…the funeral was on June 1, 1958 at 2 p.m…administered by Dr. D.W. Dillards.” There was more information there but she was not at liberty to give it and I wasn’t going to press beyond what I already had. I asked her if she knew anyone around town who I could talk to that knew Pat O’Connor. “Well, let me think…there’s a bunch of elderly men who meet down at Burger King every day at 2 o’clock. I’m pretty sure they all knew Pat pretty well.”
It was about 1:45 so I thanked her and made a beeline for Burger King, home of the Whopper. I marched inside and sure enough, several elderly men were sitting around a table. I presented myself and asked if there was anyone at this table who knew Pat O’Connor. One of the gentlemen’s eyes lit up. “Did we know Pat O’Connor? Sit down,” he said. He pulled a chair out for me and said, “Pat was my brother-in-law, my wife’s brother.” Jackpot!
I learned that I was talking with 87-year-old Harry Rine who was married to Pat’s sister Patsy. By coincidence, my father is also named Harry and my mom’s name is Patsy. I’m not sure that means anything but it was another way I could make a connection with this wonderful man. I learned that Pat O’Connor was originally from Nebraska, Indiana, moved to Indianapolis when he was 10 and eventually moved to North Vernon, graduating from North Vernon High School in 1946. I asked Harry if he could tell me a story about Pat…anything that would help explain who he was and why he was so beloved by so many. Then he opened up.
“It was right before Christmas, the year before he died,” said Rine. “By then he was getting to be a pretty famous race car driver and starting to earn a decent living. He came by the house and said, ‘get in the car…let’s go for a ride.’ A little bit into the conversation, he handed me some money and said, ‘Take this…I want you to buy your kids some Christmas presents. Don’t say anything to anyone…just take this money and give your kids a nice Christmas.’
“That was Pat O’Connor,” Rine said.
Then one of the other nice gentlemen offered to take me around town to see some of the places where Pat O’Connor spent time. I live for these moments and eagerly climbed in his car and made the rounds.
“This is where Pat O’Connor worked as a mechanic,” he said. I got out, took a photo of what was once Watkin’s Garage, and got back in. Then he took me by the automobile dealership where O’Connor once sold cars. The building was, for the most part, just as it was when O’Connor was there. So cool.
Rewinding back to the 1950s, Pat O’Connor was definitely becoming a star. He was already the hometown hero, a daredevil race car driver who mastered his craft and survived the most treacherous short tracks in America — Salem, Winchester and Dayton Speedways before he finally got his shot at Indy. By 1958, he had already won the pole for the Indy 500 in ’57, and raced in every 500 since ’54, finishing 8th twice. He had qualified for the second row in ’58 and was considered one of the favorites to win. In addition to his rising star at Indy, the most famous race course in the world, he had contracts with Champion Spark Plug and Perfect Circle and was a test driver for Firestone. Everything was going his way. When the May edition of Sports Illustrated came out in 1958 across America it was Pat O’Connor who filled the front cover. There was also an offer on the table from the owner of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, Tony Hulman.
“That’s absolutely true,” said Analice, O’Connor’s widow. “We were at a cocktail party in Indy, right before the 500. Everybody was so close in those days. Tony Hulman really liked Pat…everybody did. Pat came back to the table. ‘You’re never going to believe what he just asked me. He wants me to retire (from driving) and be the President of the Indy Motor Speedway.’”
He never got the chance.
It was May 30, 1958 Memorial weekend. The “Greatest Spectacle in Racing”, the Indy 500 was getting ready to start. If there was a fan-favorite in the field, it was without question Indiana’s own Pat O’Connor. No pun intended, but the start was botched from the start. For whatever reason — officials tried it the year before with poor results — the field rolled off for the start singularly from a dead stop on pit road, rather than the traditional start that left from the track, forming 11 rows, three abreast behind the pace car. There was confusion from the get-go. Polesitter Dick Rathmann sped off ahead of the field while front row starters Ed Elisian and Jimmy Reece soon followed…all this before the pace car was even in place. The result was that Rathmann, Elisian and Reece found themselves a half-lap ahead of the pace car with the remaining cars behind the pace car. With the start of the race getting closer, and rather than slow down and let the field catch up, Rathmann, Elisian and Reece stepped on it and drove all the way around the 2.5-mile track and back through the field. Rathmann sped around on the inside of the rows of three while Elisian and Reece raced around the outside. They managed to get to the front just as the field was coming to the green flag for the start. The tension and drama reached a fever pitch as the field took the green to start the race.
Rathmann got the early jump with Elisian and Reece in tow. The field cleared turns one and two without incident. If they could just get through the first lap, this thing could settle down on its own while the drivers went to work. Elisian, hell-bent on leading the first lap, drew alongside on the inside of Rathmann down the backstretch and pulled ahead. With turn 3 coming up fast, Elisian wasn’t about to lift. As they angled down into the corner Elisian’s rear wheels broke loose. His car spun and took Rathmann up to the wall with him. What could have been a two-car crash, quickly turned into a 15-car pile-up when Reece, who some say panicked, slammed on his brakes. O’Connor had nowhere to go and sailed over the top of Reece’s car, landed upside down, bounced back over onto all four wheels and slid further down the track. Simultaneously, Jerry Unser’s car cartwheeled over the wall and disappeared from view. Then O’Connor’s car caught fire. It didn’t matter. Pat O’Connor, just 29, was already gone, his death likely the result of the head injury he sustained when he landed upside down. From that moment on, roll bars were mandated in Indy 500 cars, but not soon enough for O’Connor. 
And never again would Speedway officials attempt this sort of start from pit road that caused all the confusion to begin with. Elisian, already unpopular with fans, officials and racers alike, was immediately suspended by the United States Auto Club (USAC). It’s worth noting that Elisian already had a marked history that included wreckless driving on race tracks, passing fraudulent checks, among other questionable traits. Reportedly, Elisian, in his first competitive race car at Indy, was in debt $30,000 from gambling and was eager to earn enough money to pay it off. Ironically, Elisian also received a speeding ticket near the speedway during the month of May. Elisian himself would die in an Indy car at the Milwaukee Mile one year later, trapped beneath an overturned burning car, his cries for help heard from the grandstands. Reece too died in a race car just four months after O’Connor.
Jimmy Bryan, who would crash to his death at Langhorne Speedway in 1960, went on to win the 1958 Indianapolis 500 on that fateful day. With a celebration underway in Victory Lane, thousands wept for Pat O’Connor, and North Vernon hasn’t been the same since.
O’Connor’s son, Jeff O’Connor, was only 2 years old when he lost his father.
“I still think about him every day,” said Jeff O’Connor. “His pictures line my office wall. People ask me all the time if I’m related to Pat O’Connor. I’m proud to say that I’m his son. It sets a nice precedent.
“Dad would have been 89 this year. I have no memory of him…just the stories I’ve heard from the people who knew him. I know my father through his family, friends and fans. All I’ve ever heard was how personable he was with all the fans. I’m sure he wasn’t a perfect man, but from what I hear he was a very good man. I like to tell the story I’ve heard about him racing at Salem. He bumped into Eddie Sachs coming off the turn and took the lead. But coming to the checkered flag he pulled down to the bottom and waved Sachs by him for the win. He just didn’t feel comfortable taking that win. I don’t think too many drivers would have done that. I still learn things every year. That’s how I’ve gotten to know my dad.”
Analice eventually remarried to a gentleman by the name of Royce Stiening who raised Jeff.
“I’m very fortunate,” O’Connor continued. “I’ve had a great stepfather who put me on the right path. I have a father with a famous name and one that set me straight.”
Jeff is indeed fortunate in that regard. A fatherless boy can quickly go astray. Mr. Stiening made sure that didn’t happen to the children of Pat O’Connor. Admirable.
“I still have people that come by all the time that want to talk about my father. I think about how nice it would be to be able to sit down and talk with him. I only know what I hear and read. I had a guy come by just the other day…he wanted to go down to his gravesite. It’s two or three miles to the cemetery from the church. When the hearse was pulling into the cemetery, the last car in the procession was just pulling out of the church.”
As my most excellent day in North Vernon came to an end, there was one more stop I had to make. I drove out to the cemetery to pay my respects and have my moment with Pat O’Connor, like so many have done before me. I thought his gravestone would have some elaborate, comforting words that could explain who he was, and all that he accomplished during his short, but brief yet fascinating life. All it said was ‘Pat O’Connor 1928 – 1958’. Then I thought to myself…no more needed. Just his name set in bronze was more than enough. I glanced over to my right and noticed Wilbur Shaw’s name on a stone nearby…Wilbur Shaw the 3-time Indy 500 winner. It was quite a moment. I started to wonder if the memory of Pat O’Connor was fading. As the new generations come along, unless someone is telling the stories, then how would they know? I wonder if Pat O’Connor’s son Jeff wonders the same thing. Come to think of it…the last thing he said to me outside of goodbye was, “Thanks for keeping the memory of my dad alive.”
As I turned my attention back toward Mr. O’Connor’s grave, I nodded and thanked him for this day. I thought it was cool that someone, not too soon before me, placed some flowers just ahead of his stone, someone who cared about this beloved man from North Vernon, Indiana, who’s been gone for nearly 60 years…gone, but satisfied for now he’s not forgotten. It also had just occurred to me how this day unfolded. It was ironic to me that my day started out at a funeral home and ended up in a cemetery. But for those brief few hours in between, I lived in Pat O’Connor’s world in small town America, where he was very much alive. I could picture he and Analice standing in line at the Park Theater, which still stands by the way, to see 1957 blockbusters Jailhouse Rock or Gunfight at the O.K. Corral. I imagined the people around them…’Hey, there’s Pat O’Connor here to see the same movie we are…cool….he’s one of us.’ On this day, I was one of them. I walked back to my car, turned around one more time and glanced back at his stone. I got in my little car and drove away.
NOTES: In 2015, the Indiana Racing Memorial Association (IRMA) honored the late Pat O’Connor with an IRMA historical marker at the North Vernon City Park on N. State St. in North Vernon. Legendary Indy 500 radio voice Howdy Bell hosted the event while renowned Indy 500 historian Donald Davidson served as the featured speaker. Mayor Campbell also attended the special ceremony as did the O’Connor family.
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