The Great Fruit Ball Incident of Turn 4

As witnessed by Julie at the 69th running of the Indy 500

There are a few things you expect to see at the Indy 500: tire smoke, shirtless men slathered in questionable SPF, a sea of checkered flags, and at least three different kinds of deviled eggs before noon. What you don’t expect to see is a rogue beach ball covered in fruit lodged atop a bathroom stall in the women’s restroom at Turn 4 like it was planning a coup.

It all started Sunday morning when I rolled into the Speedway with my cooler full of tequila spritzers and my bag of spicy deviled eggs—because hydration and gastrointestinal adventure are both essential to race day. The clouds were out, spirits were higher, and everyone was already one hot dog away from euphoria.

Around 11:15 a.m., I made a pit stop—pun intended—at the women’s restroom behind the stands. That’s when I saw it.

Stall 1. Unassuming. Innocent. But above it loomed something… suspiciously festive. A giant inflatable beach ball. But not just any beach ball. This one was covered in an aggressive pattern of bananas, strawberries, and cherries, like Carmen Miranda exploded onto a pool toy. It sat there, proudly perched on the door like a fruity sentry guarding secrets within.

Naturally, I froze. A line of mildly hungover women with bedazzled tops and race flags for earrings formed behind me. I pointed up.

“Is that… someone’s purse?”

A woman with a mullet and a Marlboro in her sports bra squinted. “Nah, that’s a party ball. I’ve seen those at spring break in Daytona. Usually ends up in the pool or with someone making a very bad tattoo decision.”

Another woman, clearly from Ohio, nodded. “Looks haunted.”

Theories flew.

“Maybe it’s a new kind of bathroom air freshener.”

“A secret race fan code. Like, if you know the fruit pattern, you get invited to the VIP tent.”

“Maybe someone gave birth to it in the stall. Don’t judge. It’s the 500.”

I didn’t know what to believe. But one thing was clear: I needed answers.

So I did what any rational, tequila-infused Hoosier would do—I knocked on the stall.

Nothing.

Knocked again.

Still nothing.

Finally, a brave soul from stall 3—who had clearly finished her mission but was lingering for the drama—offered to climb on the toilet and peek over.

Her name was Linda. She had a perm that could stop traffic and the confidence of a woman who’s been to 42 races and once elbowed Jeff Gordon’s cousin at a memorabilia sale.

Linda peeked over.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she said.

The crowd hushed.

“There’s no one in there.”

Gasps.

“The beach ball… is alone?”

“Sentient!” someone cried.

“A message from the Race Gods!” another said.

At this point, an ecology track worker wandered in to see what the fuss was about. She took one look and rolled her eyes like this was her third beach ball encounter today. She fetched a long mop from a supply closet and, with the precision of a bomb squad technician, poked the fruit ball.

It rolled slightly. Wobbled. Then… launched itself directly into stall 2 with the grace of a chubby dolphin.

Everyone screamed. And then applauded.

I have no idea how the beach ball got there. Maybe someone tried to smuggle it in under their shirt and it got loose during a desperate bathroom dash. Maybe it was abandoned in a post-mimosa haze. Maybe it simply was. A mystery. A fruity, inflatable monument to the weird, wonderful chaos that is the Indy 500.

As I returned to my seat—armed with a commemorative lemonade, a souvenir photo and an existential respect for citrus-themed inflatables—I realized something:

The Indy 500 isn’t just about cars going 230 miles per hour. It’s about moments. About surprises. About the bizarre, magical little stories tucked between the engines roaring and the tequila pouring.

And that day, in a bathroom behind Turn 4, I bore witness to one.

The legend of the fruit beach ball lives on.

Julie Bolejack, MBA