There was a traffic accident Sunday. Somebody died. It happens many times every day. Odds are, however, that it will only happen once of such enormous proportion, on live television, in front of an audience of millions. Unless you’ve been
There was a traffic accident Sunday.
Somebody died. It happens many times every day. Odds are, however, that it will only happen once of such enormous proportion, on live television, in front of an audience of millions.
Unless you’ve been in a sporting coma for the last two days, you know Dale Earnhardt died during the final lap of the Daytona 500 Sunday. In attempting to hold off another driver his back tire was clipped. The jarring turned his car up the embankment and into a wall at 180 mph. Emergency personnel had to cut him from the seat he’d occupied with vigor so many times before. He was dead before he left it.
In my mind, there has always been a stigma about NASCAR fans. That they were able to throw heart and soul behind a bunch of left turns baffled me. More than that, in my eyes there was a stereotypical quality to those who rooted for car number 3 or 13 or 20. Having lived in Virginia for a short while and North Florida a bit longer, I saw those who might commonly be referred to as “Rednecks” backing their favorite driver with an unconditional love some didn’t transfer to their own spouses.
But the longer I was in Florida, and the more I’ve traveled, the better I’ve been able to see that NASCAR’s net grabs those from all walks of life. Earnhardt is directly responsible for that. With his gusto and attitude, not to mention unparalleled skill behind the wheel, he spearheaded car racing’s effort to stretch its swath beyond the southeastern corner of the country. Other drivers have played major roles in that capacity, but Earnhardt’s was greater. He defined his sport. And bolstered it to uncharted heights of popularity.
True story. I was supposed to go to the 1998 Daytona 500. With St. Augustine, FL — my last home — just 50 miles north, my sports editor and I would have been fools not to cover the event, if for no other reason than to see what 150,000 people look like when stuffed into a confined area. But lots of other media did also. Earnhardt had bitten the dust in a horrific-looking crash at the speedway in 1997; those media in the know understood that the driver — who to that point had not won the Daytona 500 — may have been staring down the straightaway of his final days. Though Earnhardt had won 70 races and seven Winston Cup titles to that point, they wanted to see if the “Intimidator” could stamp NASCAR’s main event before hanging up the keys.
My boss and I called for credentials 18 days before the race. The woman in media relations laughed. Not just a chuckle, but a full-on laugh.
“We’ve been out of our allotment for credentials for the past three months,” she said.
“So there’s no way?” I asked. “No way at all?”
“Nope.”
After telling the woman he didn’t need a parking pass and would sit wherever they told him, my boss eventually swung a single credential. On his return he tried to describe the scene of 150,000 NASCAR fans inside the stadium, and the other “10,000 that just loitered around for a chance to be near it all,” as he put it. It took my boss six hours to go 50 miles that Sunday, and four to return.
Earnhardt won the Daytona 500 that day, tightening his grip on NASCAR’s pulse though he was nearing age 50.
Sunday he was trying to do the same. As a team owner, Earnhardt was trying to ensure that two of his team’s cars — one driven by winner Michael Waltrip, the other by son, Dale Earnhardt Jr. — finished first and second in the race. In other words, he was playing defense.
Then, just seconds before the race’s end, God waved a checkered flag at Earnhardt.
If you still can’t understand the implications, consider this: if Michael Jordan had suffered a fatal heart attack during Game 7 of a NBA Finals or Wayne Gretzky had taken a life-ending blow to the head during Game 7 of a Stanley Cup, we’d be drawing comparisons.
I know a slew of people in little St. Augustine who lost their hero Sunday, who today are flying their flags at half-mast, who today say they will never watch NASCAR again — that there’s no point any longer. That’s how deep Earnhardt and the sport he stood for courses through their veins.
Sports editor Jason Gallic at 245-3681 or mailto:kauaisports@pulitzer.net
