Not
Him
He
wasn’t supposed to die. Not
in a race car. Not at Daytona.
This
was Dale Earnhardt after all
- Ironhead, The Intimidator.
This is a driver who did things
in a stock car that seemed
to defy the laws of physics
or, at the very least, should
have been well beyond the
realm of human control.
I
saw him get spun out at 150
miles an hour and, instead
of crashing, stand on the
gas pedal and do a complete
360 degree turn before continuing
without missing a beat. I
witnessed him at nearly 200
miles an hour drive from the
outside of the race track
to the grass of the infield,
pass six cars in the process,
and then still get back onto
the track and in position
for the next turn. I watched
as he gingerly climbed into
his car with a broken collarbone
at a road course, where the
left and right turns can hammer
even a healthy driver. It
was only a few weeks after
he had survived a frightening
crash at Talladega - the fastest
track on the NASCAR circuit.
Yet with the seat belts cinched
down tight on the broken bone,
he went out and ran the fastest
lap of the day, winning the
pole position, before they
had to literally carry him
out of the car because he
was in so much pain.
Whether
you are a race fan or not,
you have to marvel at his
raw ability to control a fast-moving
car, the same way you have
to appreciate Tiger Woods’
golfing ability, or Michael
Jordan’s basketball ability.
Dale Earnhardt was DAMNED
good at what he did - probably
the best ever at racing a
stock car.
Sure
he was controversial. I hated
him at first. My favorite
driver at the time, Geoff
Bodine, had just moved up
to the Grand National circuit
from the local short tracks
of New England. Geoff won
everything in the northeast
and I expected him to go down
south and clean house.
Well,
except that every time Geoff
got to the front, Dale Earnhardt
was there. Some days he would
just flat out-drive Bodine.
Some days he would lean on
him and they’d beat and bang
on each other until they both
crashed together into the
wall. And sometimes Earnhardt
would drive in hard and tap
the rear end of Geoff’s car,
sending it pirouetting up
out of the way and out of
the race. “God damned Earnhardt!”
was a popular refrain at my
house growing up.
But
then stock car racing changed.
With the influx of corporate
money, drivers took fewer
risks. Nobody wanted to upset
their sponsors, and everybody
said the same nice things,
dressed the same nice way,
and all drove to be there
at the end.
Not
Earnhardt. He still raced
like he wanted to win. He
wasn’t afraid to mix things
up, to battle hard with the
popular driver even if they
both wrecked and Dale took
the blame. He was an individual,
a throwback to the wilder
days of auto racing, unique
among a field of stilted,
cookie-cutter drivers.
By
the time he finally won the
Daytona 500 after years of
trying, I was an Earnhardt
fan. I stood up on the couch
when he took that checkered
flag and whooped and hollered.
Tears welled up in my eyes
when every crew member from
every team there that day
walked out onto pit road to
shake his hand as he headed
towards Victory Lane. Love
him or hate him, everybody
in the sport acknowledged
his greatness.
Now
I know that auto racing is
a dangerous sport. I’ve grown
up with auto racing, watched
personal friends fly upside
down in a race car 30 feet
off the ground before crashing
into the asphalt and flipping
end over end. I’ve got a running
list of all the drivers, famous
or otherwise, who have been
killed while I have been a
fan.
But
those of us involved in auto
racing can always justify
motorsports deaths. Adam Petty
was too young, Kenny Irwin
a driver who still had a lot
to learn. Clifford Allison
was going too fast for his
experience. Neil Bonnett was
too old to be driving a race
car, with health problems
to boot. J.D. McDuffie never
really had good equipment.
Davey Allison and Alan Kulwicki
died in a helicopter and a
small plane crash, and we
all know how dangerous those
are.
But
this was Dale Earnhardt after
all - Ironhead, The Intimidator.
This was a driver who was
arguably the best ever, if
only for his unadulterated
ability to drive a stock car
to the absolute limit of control
and then keep it there all
afternoon long.
He
wasn’t supposed to die. Not
in a race car. Not at Daytona.
This
column © 2001 Lee Totten
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