Andretti's return at Monza

And then Maranello announced that Mario Andretti would be driving a Ferrari. The Commendatore needed an experienced - and available - man to partner Patrick Tambay, and who else filled the bill? He needed points for the Constructors Championship, and, of course, it was important to field two cars in Italy. The deal also solved the organisers' problem. Immediately there was a rush for tickets. The place was packed.

A lot of people in racing resent Andretti, largely, I suspect, because of his immense popularity. When most of today's drivers were still at school, Mario had already learned that there is much more to being a racing driver than merely driving cars. As a schoolboy himself he had gone to Monza to worship his hero, Alberto Ascari, and well understands that intangible weave of idolatry, sentiment, exhilaration and even fear which draws people to watch motor racing. Ascari, he still maintains, was the biggest single influence on his life.

Four years ago, after he won the World Championship, I wrote a book about Mario. Naturally enough, a lot of taping was necessary, and I spent a week with him in Sao Paulo just before Christmas. He and others were there for tyre testing at Interlagos, and it was a very enjoyable time. What impressed me perhaps more than anything else was his ability to deal with people, be they Lotus engineers, track workers, waiters, fellow drivers or fans. Each wanted different things of him, and he was comfortable with all of them. We'd walk into a restaurant and before so much as a drink had been ordered there was a mumbled buzz of people speaking his name, cocking their heads towards him, not wanting to turn round, stare at him. And, inevitably, they would start to drift over, wanting to shake his hand, have him sign a scrap of paper torn from a diary. Unfailingly he behaved pleasantly towards them, despite the irritation of constant interruptions.

Some drivers do not respond this way, and I can understand that. Equally they should understand that that is why the public loves Mario Andretti - and why sponsors flock to him. Charisma cannot be taught. If it is not there, it cannot be put there, and many of Mario's monosyllabic colleagues cannot appreciate this. They resent the amount of press coverage he gets, failing to grasp that Andretti gives journalists the kind of material they need. He has a good sense of humour, and can use it to advantage. Everything he says is an instant 'quote.' By behaving this way he pleases the press, guarantees himself plenty of coverage. To him it is merely another part of his job. And some dolts are jealous of this.

His arrival in Italy was an Andretti tour de force. He was coming to Monza to drive for the home team, so a massive press turnout was guaranteed. The TV cameras were on the Alitalia jet before it landed, following the aeroplane as it taxied round. Finally it halted, and the steps were pushed into place, hordes of reporters gathering at the foot of them.

The door opened, and Mario came out alone, stopped halfway down, held up both arms, a broad smile on his face. It was, said an Italian colleague, like the arrival of the Pope - except that Andretti was wearing a Ferrari cap! Well, of course, they saw that and they went bananas, half their copy written already. It was a piece of pure theatre, a matter of giving people what they want. The whole thing went out on Italian TV more than once, and probably put 500,000 on the gate.

When Andretti turned up for practice he was wearing new overalls, carrying all the usual 'Ferrari' patches, including a Prancing Horse, just as at Long Beach he wore 'Williams' overalls. Simply a matter of being professional. And, because he is Mario Andretti, he also carried evidence of personal sponsorship from Marlboro, Giacobazzi and Misura, thereby ensuring that the journey was not merely a sentimental one.

So that was one side of Mario at Monza. The other was the Andretti who had lunch with Enzo Ferrari on the day of his arrival, then asked late in the afternoon if it would be possible to have just a few laps in the car that day. He literally couldn't wait to get his hands on it. The Commendatore clicked his fingers, and it was done.

The following day there was serious testing, Mauro Forghieri and his colleagues smiling approvingly as Mario's times came down towards Pironi's Fiorano lap record. Sunday. The track was closed. So Andretti clambered aboard a large Moto Guzzi and took off for the mountains, just for the hell of it. On the Monday he was back at Fiorano, this time to put in a full Grand Prix distance.

When he came to Monza on Friday morning, therefore, Mario knew the car. He set sixth best time, admitting that he had gotten out of the habit of qualifying "in traffic" after a season of running Indy cars. The following day he took the pole, to scenes of indescribable delight. Seventy thousand turned up that day. Now the organisers knew they would be all right.

And on Sunday he finished third, making an indifferent start, then being plagued by a sticky throttle pedal which proceeded to the floor in a series of jerks. It was maddening, he said, and made driving smoothly almost impossible. Either he was going into corners too slowly or, pressing the throttle another jerk, too fast.

At the end, though, he was up there on the podium, having brought Ferrari four points which could very well win them the Constructors' title. Anyone, said the sour grapes, could have done that; it just showed how much of an advantage Ferrari have at the moment. The crowd - the people who paid to come in and watch - had no such thoughts. In 1954 Mario saw Alberto Ascari sitting in his Ferrari, and decided what he wanted to do with his life. Last weekend, very probably, a boy in the grandstand looked at Andretti and came to the same conclusion.



One way and another, Rene Arnoux spent most of the Monza weekend getting ready to become an Italian. As a 1983 Ferrari driver he was much in demand for interviews, coming across on TV as a much more confident individual than the shy little fellow who joined Renault at the end of 1978.

Since the death of Gilles Villeneuve, Arnoux has established himself as perhaps the fastest of all - although Keke Rosberg also has a solid claim. The Arnoux-Prost teaming at Renault has been a curious one. Last year Alain excelled Rene in every respect, and Arnoux frankly admitted that, during the early part of the season at least, his confidence was in pieces. Prost won three races, Arnoux zero.

This year, though, their roles have been surprisingly different. Prost began the year with a brilliant display at Kyalami, but since then Arnoux has invariably been the pace-setter, consistently adding to his impressive pole position tally and leading many a race. Reliability problems and two silly errors (at Monaco and Montreal) kept him from the chequered flag until the French Grand Prix, where he disobeyed team orders and refused to squander a 23-second lead to let Prost win.

There, at Paul Ricard, team spirit fell apart. Alain was furious afterwards, making it clear that he would not have Rene as a team mate for 1983. And Arnoux almost certainly incurred the wrath of the Renault Board of Directors with some of his off-the-cuff remarks afterwards. When asked why he had not stopped just before the line, sat there twiddling his thumbs until Prost had taken the flag, Rene laughingly observed that, after four years of driving for Renault, he had learned that if the car was moving you did not do anything to stop it...

It became clear that Arnoux would have to go, however, when Prost came very close to signing a contract to drive a Williams-BMW in 1983. Renault wanted to keep Alain at all costs. Then Didier Pironi had his dreadful accident at Hockenheim, and Ferrari's talks with Arnoux, previously on a fairly casual level, became serious.

Despite being a very different type from the urbane Patrick Tambay, Rene will probably fit in well at Maranello. Four years of working for Conrero in Italy has left him with a good command of the language, and he has more experience of driving turbocharged Formula 1 cars than any other driver. He lunched with the Ferrari team at Monza on race day, and said that he cannot wait for Vegas to be out of the way so that he can begin testing the red cars - which he then proceeded to beat in the afternoon.



The Monza race fan is something quite special, noisy and passionate and demonstrative. And this is not simply a matter of being Italian, for the Imola crowd is far more subdued. Monza makes the difference. Take an Italian there and he undergoes a metamorphosis. Getting to see his heroes is important, vital even, and to that end he hangs on the outside of the paddock fence for hours at a time, like someone trying to get out of Colditz.

Or... if he is ingenious, he tries to find a way into the paddock. Sometimes he digs a plain, ordinary tunnel under the fence. Sometimes he climbs over, oblivious to the barbed wire taking chunks out of his hands and who-knows-what-else...

This year six gentlemen kitted themselves out as Monza Parco workers, equipped themselves with a brush apiece, and proceeded to sweep their way in - right past the credential check! But my favourite story came from Autosport's Italian correspondent, Pino Allievi, who told me about the man and the dog.

At Monza, you see, many paddock officials are accompanied by Alsatians. Now, dogs do not like Formula 1 cars being revved up near them, and nor do they care for hordes of noisy people treading on their paws. Consequently they get a bit edgy, and I have every sympathy for them. Once in a while they remove a chunk of someone's leg. In other words, you treat them with respect.

So here's Giovanni, and he sees all this and gets a brilliant idea. He brings his Alsatian to the track, strides through the paddock gate looking confident. He's in.

"That's fantastic," I said to Pino as he related the story. "He got away with it..."

"Well, not really," replied our charming colleague. "Not for long, anyway. The problem, you see, was the dog. Was a very nice dog, and he licked everybody. Monza dogs don't do that, and someone spotted it..."