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 Eaaaarrrrnhardt!
Posted: Thursday May 27, 1999 11:04 AM
The first two things I noticed during my initiation into NASCAR Wednesday night at the Lowe's Motor Speedway just north of Charlotte were a 30-foot inflatable corndog and a sign outside the room where I picked up my press pass that read: No alcoholic beverages allowed in media credential office. Oh, yeah, I thought, while signing eight different liability waivers in order to receive my infield parking pass, I've found my niche. Of course, the next thing I witnessed was a man, sans shirt, standing in front of a sea -- no, an ocean -- of trailers and RVs, screaming over and over at the top of his one lung: EEEEEARNHARDT, ERRRRRRRNHARD, EEEEEERRRRRRRRNNNNNHARDT. This was either a tribute to the man in the black No. 3 car, Dale Earnhardt, or an example of what can happen if you fail to follow rule No. 1 of the media credential office. Really, what grabs you right off the bat at the track is the sheer, gargantuan size of the structure itself. For the Star Wars geeks following along at home, if Camden Yards is an X-Wing Fighter, then LMS is the Death Star; the restrooms here could host the Super Bowl. The next thing that blows you away is the incredible, cacophonous kaleidoscope of sounds, color, smell and activity buzzing around the infield. Not wanting to look too much like a doofus who had no idea what he was doing (ah, hell, who am I kidding, I've made a career out of doing this very thing) I stood off by the side of the garage and watched as the cars were inspected before the time trials to determine pole positions for Sunday's race. Thirty seconds into my adventure I almost blew my cover when I nearly knocked over a guy carrying a 20-gallon drum of motor oil. The first crew rolled up only inches from my toes, then, without warning, started up their car's engine. Just as cool as can be, I sprang back 10 feet, covered both ears and curled into the fetal position, screaming for my mommy. I can't even describe the noise. You know the sound speedboats make? Okay, imagine one the size of the QEII, broadcast over Metallica's sound system, with your ear super-glued to an amp, and you're halfway there. Spinal Tap fans: These cars go to 11. After recovering from my initial scare, what I noticed was that even though most of the cars are covered with ads from bumper to bumper, most teams still paint on fake headlights. Although I noticed no one painted on brake lights. Most teams also showed up at the garage with two very important tools: duct tape and a large hammer. Guys were hammering down fins and taping down wheel flaps to make inspection. It looked like my garage, for cryin' out loud. I decided to just keep walking toward the cars in the pits and at some point, I was sure, somebody would stop me from going any farther. Never happened. The access here is incredible -- imagine fans walking into the Broncos' locker room 10 minutes before kickoff and you get the idea. Drivers sign autographs 20 seconds before buckling their safety belts, and fans and media can pretty much walk up and pat them on the back as they wheel away. Fans, I found out, can also buy a scanner and listen in to drivers and their crews during the race, which, again, is like being able to listen to Larry Bird talk to Reggie Miller during NBA timeouts. Bobby Labonte won the pole by going 185.230 mph. That's fast, folks. How fast? Well, he made it around the track quicker then they yank this column off the home page each week. But I learned you shouldn't just say, "He went super-dooper fast!" It's better to say, "Dangit, ya'll, Labonte really stood on it! Didunhe?" After watching a few of the cars qualify I made my way back to the garage area, which is where I had my first brush with greatness: I got to say hello to Jeff Gordon. Jeff was done for the day and heading to his RV with his wife. He's a little fellow. He qualified 10th. An aberration for Superman, who had won five poles in a row here in Charlotte. Jeff wore Calvin Klein jeans and, after 15 minutes of work, had just one tiny trickle of sweat coming down his brow. "This is a special place for me," Jeff said. "I'm not trying to set a course record, I'm just trying to be part of a championship here." And you thought baseball players were beholden to clichés? The night, however, belonged to Dale Earnhardt Jr., who stepped out of his old man's shadow and qualified for his first Winston Cup race by running 184.407 -- good enough for eighth. "It's a 600-mile race so we're [father and son] bound to run into each other sooner or later," said a relieved Junior. "Not literally, though." Later I caught up to Junior who, with a smile on his face that could only belong to a son who had just done his old man proud, said: "I just hope everybody enjoyed this night as much as I did." As he spoke, the cars buzzed around the track, the smell of petrol hung in the air, and golden light from the setting sun was shining through openings in the grandstand. Yeah, Little E. I can't believe I'm saying this but, heck, yeah, I certainly did enjoy my first trip to the track. Sports Illustrated staff writer David Fleming explores the sometimes weird
and wacky side of sports every Thursday. Click here to send an e-mail to Flem, or
address it yourself: flemfile@aol.com.
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