Checkered Past

Ratings, racing and restarts

TNT is justifiably proud of its ratings success with NASCAR races. And, as any NASCAR accountant would point out, what's good for business is pretty good for the sport and its fans (with some notable exceptions).
Some fans, it turns out, are a far piece from pleased with what they're seeing on the tube these race days. And some aren't even seeing the races.
Turner Network Television saw its Nextel Cup ratings rise again with Saturday night's Sharpie 500 at Bristol. The numbers were about 15 percent better than last year's and the household count was up to 4.25 million. Previous races this season were also ratings successes, TNT says.
I'm like Jim Utter, at least in this way: I'm still looking for the rest of NASCAR's 75 million fans. This was Bristol, right? Even when you count the 160,000 or so souls at the race, we're still coming up a little short. Unless, of course, all those households TNT is touting were holding big race parties Saturday night.

OK, we won't quibble too much with what NASCAR tells its advertisers just now. Let's just stick with the ratings game.

I've got to wonder what those Bristol ratings would look like had NBC carried the race instead of cable's TNT.
Yes, Virginia, while there is indeed a Santa Claus, cable is still an expense for which many people choose not to sign up. And at this stretch of the season, many of those folks are bothered that NBC won't be getting into NASCAR's Chase game until October, just in time for the UAW-Ford 500 at Talladega.

The Sept. 10 Richmond race, which may well have some final say on who does and doesn't make the Chase? On TNT. Cable.
The first two Chase races? Yup, cable again.

Like I suggested to a reader in an e-mail the other day: You've got three choices if you don't want to spend the money, then have the cable company give you a four-hour window for when they might actually hook you up.
You can plan to visit your in-laws at times that coincide with the races you want to see. You can make peace with that annoying neighbor who still has your chain saw from last winter's ice storm and go see him when the races are on the tube. Or you can find a sports bar within crawling distance of your place.

But any and all of those options, along with signing up and paying for the service, of course, can carry their own set of aggravations.
Restarts that regularly take place while commercials are airing might count as one. Rain delays are easily another.
And, everyone's favorite: the shameless and seemingly endless self-promotion.

Hey, we like your electric soap box and it's a bully pulpit. But we tuned in to see a race thanks.

A special trip to Bristol

EDITOR'S NOTE: Bristol Motor Speedway hasn't always had the kind of crowds we'll see Saturday night. And, besides Bruton Smith, few people likely know that better than Tom Higgins. I expect, were Tom on the other side of the fence and trying to run the place, that he'd have called for sticker tires every time he hit the pits.

But like his father, Tom knew which side of the fence to stay on. So enjoy this Scuffs entry, about a special trip to the little track that thinks it's a superspeedway.

By TOM HIGGINS

It’s likely there’ll be at least 160,000 spectators in the towering grandstands Saturday night at Bristol Motor Speedway for the Sharpie 500.

Thousands more dearly would love to join them, but can’t get tickets.

This, I realize, will seem like a fairytale to the unlucky fans, but once upon a time, Bristol track officials actually gave away tickets to the speedway’s NASCAR races.

I can vouch for this from personal experience.

In 1963, after six years of working in sports departments at daily newspapers in North Carolina, I decided to try something different. I leased the weekly Yancey Record in my little hometown of Burnsville, N.C., and returned to the Blue Ridge Mountains as the paper’s editor and publisher.

In mid-July, quite unexpectedly, I received a fat envelope in the mail from the track then known as Bristol International Raceway. I opened it to find a working press credential and four complimentary grandstand tickets for the Volunteer 500, all unsolicited.

I was delighted at the opportunity to see a race again, having last covered the 1962 Southern 500 for the Durham Morning Herald. That was the Darlington Raceway event in which Junior Johnson was flagged the victor, but saw the outcome overturned at midnight when repeated rechecks of scoring cards showed Larry Frank had won the race.

I told my father, M.B. "Pappy" Higgins of my good fortune.

Pap was then 61 and somewhat well-known in the area as a colorful game warden, or law enforcement officer, for the N.C. Wildlife Resources Commission.

To my astonishment, Pap said, "I want to go to the race with you."

I was surprised because he didn’t like crowds or loud noise. He’d even been apprehensive, at times, of attending my high school and college basketball games.

Nevertheless, on the morning of July 28, 1963, Pap and I met up with three Burnsville friends who were avid racing fans for the 50-mile drive across the mountains to Bristol.

It was a hot, humid Sunday, even in the hill country.

Pap and our pals went to their free seats in the grandstand. The tickets put them about halfway up right at the start/finish line.

I hiked down to the infield to say hello to friends I hadn’t seen in a while. On pit road I saw Linda Vaughn, Pure Oil Company’s "Miss Firebird," up close for the first time.

Wow!

No matter what happened in the race, it already had been a spectacular experience for me.

I went to the press box for the start of the show.

The action seemed to take up right where the last race I’d seen left off—with Junior Johnson running hard up front.

Junior, driving a Chevrolet, grabbed the lead from Ford arch-rival Fred Lorenzen on the second lap and stayed ahead for the next 160 laps.

Johnson then began experiencing engine problems, leaving Lorenzen in command for all but a few laps, which were led by Jim Paschal and Richard Petty.

All the while, I kept a wary eye on Pap. He was fidgeting and clearly uncomfortable with the hectic action unfolding before him, but he stayed seated.

On Lap 312, however, there was a development that determined Pap’s future as a race fan.

Coming off the fourth turn the lavender No. 22 Holman & Moody Ford of Fireball Roberts suddenly slipped sidways and began barrel-rolling violently down the front straightaway. At times the car looked to be as high in the air as a power pole.

As the car slammed down it occurred to me that Pap wasn’t going to like this.

I turned from watching the wreck to see what he was doing.

Pap, his face ashen, was hurrying up the aisle, his long legs taking the steps two at a time.

I left the press box and headed him off at the top of the grandstand.

"Pap, where are you going?!" I asked.

Shaking, he looked me squarely in the eye and firmly replied, "Tommy, if these fellers are damn fool enough to kill themselves, I ain’t damn fool enough to watch it!"

With that he walked down the hill to our car and remained there for the rest of the race.

A race won, incidentally, by Lorenzen at an average speed of 74.844 mph, good for a purse of $4,540. Lorenzen had started from the pole after qualifying at 82.229 mph. Seven cautions slowed the race for only 36 of the 500 laps.

Attendance was announced at 23,000, but I doubt it actually was little over half that.

Contrast not only that 1963 Bristol crowd, but some of the other figures to this era.

The qualifying record is up to 128.709 mph, a mark set by Ryan Newman in 2003.

And when Dale Earnhardt Jr., triumphed at Bristol last August he earned $322,443, or 71 times what Lorenzen pocketed.

The great jump in speed at "Thunder Valley" has led, not surprisingly, to another big figure—20 caution flags, or more, in some races.

But back to my Pap…

En route home across the mountain he solemnly declared, "I don’t care how many free tickets you get, I’m not ever going to a race again."

Pap lived 31 more years, passing away in 1994 at the age of 92.

He kept his promise, never returning to a race track.

This isn’t to say, though, that he didn’t become a fan.

Sometime in the 1970s, after I’d become the motorsports writer for The Charlotte Observer, Pap came down from the hills to visit and joined me and Buddy Baker on a fishing trip.

Pap liked the joking, fun-loving Baker immensely and so began following Buddy’s career as a driver.

Pap enjoyed watching the races on TV. His favorites were those at Bristol.

Unfortunately for fans without tickets, TV also is the only way they’re going to see the action at Bristol.

Can we get some cars on the track, please?

I don't know about you, but I'm really looking forward to this weekend, when NASCAR might start looking a little more like a racing organization than a politics and public relations combine for a short change. I'm confident that getting to see a little racing will be good for my soul, even if it is at Michigan again already.

Yeah, sure, I understand that a certain amount of politicking and schmoozing is inherent in running a multimillion-dollar sports enterprise. And I suppose that's especially true if you're a multimillionaire and want to spend other people's money instead of your own to make more for yourself. But all this hall of fame stuff is such a distraction from the racing.

Not that the hall of fame cacophony will subside real soon. There are more cities to visit, more bids to "evaluate" and all that. Then, when NASCAR announces its decision, there will be the celebrations in one city and all the hand-wringing in the rest.

I do better when I can focus on the amusing side of NASCAR's five-city (cue the trumpets, please) Hall of Fame Tour.

For instance, I've enjoyed daring friends and co-workers to try and find an honest-to-God race fan in some of the photos we've seen from the pep rallies Atlanta's and Charlotte's civic boosters staged in efforts to impress the NASCAR brass.

Believe it. These are people not easily impressed unless you're showing them stacks of cash. Ask the race fans in Rockingham and Darlington if you don't believe me.

It was also less than impressive to learn that some of Charlotte's leading downtown businesses had sent memoes and e-mails to their employees, suggesting they spend Wednesday's lunch hour attending the pep rally and screaming their support for the NASCAR hall. It didn't really matter whether they knew Dale Earnhardt Jr. from Dean & DeLuca.

The people upstairs wanted them out there, wearing the yellow T-shirts and showing their support.

OK, enough griping. It's not like I'm running for City Council in Jimmy Ballard's old hometown of Rantville. But one more thing while I'm thinking about non-race fans for a moment longer:

What makes some people think it's perfectly all right for them to just walk the hell home with store's grocery carts? And to even steal another one the next time they go to the store just because they left the other one under the house or in the yard?

Thanks, I feel better now. That should hold me till race time anyway.

TOM HIGGINS' SCUFFS: Northwest Flight 255

EDITOR'S NOTE: Tom Higgins vividly recalls a race day in Michigan that was marred by tragedy, but it wasn't on the track. As important as racing is to all of us, his story just as vividly reminds of us matters far more important. 

By TOM HIGGINS

I can imagine once again the wreaths out there on the grassy knoll, ribbons billowing softly in a slight summer breeze.

The spot is on Middlebelt Road, just a mile or so from Detroit Metro Airport.

It’s where Northwest Airlines Flight 255 went down on Sunday, Aug. 17, 1987, killing 154 of the 155 people on board. Two persons on the ground also died.

Dozens of horrified witnesses either saw the crash or experienced what happened in the immediate aftermath. I was among the latter.

Along with fellow motorsports reporters Steve Waid and Gary McCredie, both then with a publication called Winston Cup Scene, I had driven to the airport area from the Champion 400 at Michigan International Speedway. We had watched Bill Elliott outrun Dale Earnhardt for the victory a couple hours earlier.

Just after we checked into a newly opened motel to await an early flight to Charlotte the next day, the world seemed to explode 200 yards away.

I thought that 30 years of covering stock car racing at the time had left me somewhat jaded to the sight of sudden death. I had seen several drivers and a couple crewmen, some of them close acquaintances, die violently on race tracks.

I was wrong.

Nothing had prepared me for a tragedy of this magnitude.

Scenes and incidents from that sad Sabbath evening haunted me for months.

And each year, on the anniversary of the awful accident, I remember it all over again. That and the wreaths that have been placed on the grassy knoll each August at this time, always the same week as a major NASCAR event at MIS.

I recall a Northwest Airlines crew — two men, four women — who were at the motel desk checking in as I sat in the lobby. Suddenly, they obviously heard the plane struggling to get airborne and began screaming.

I recall, an instant later, an explosion louder than anything I’ve ever heard. And then a fireball flashing by the motel door.

The concussion was so great that it seemed the motel might have been hit.

I recall running outside just behind that flight crew, and being stunned by the sight of thick black smoke down the street and the heavy smell of jet fuel. Secondary explosions boomed every few seconds.

There was mass confusion among those of us watching in horror from the motel lawn.

Had two planes collided in the gathering darkness of a fierce thunderstorm? What airline was involved?

Steve and Gary joined me outside. We shared a chilling, mind-numbing thought: Was it a plane headed to Charlotte, loaded with NASCAR drivers, team members and others connected to Winston Cup Series racing?

"It was a single plane, a big airliner," said an ashen-faced woman, still holding the suitcase she was taking from the trunk of a car when the plane went over her head. "It’s left wing dipped down and hit the building across the street."

We turned to see that flames were licking the roof the of the Avis Rental Car building on the other side of Middlebelt Road.

Suddenly, sirens wailed and firetrucks from the airport came speeding by. The response time was incredible, just 4 or 5 minutes.

Police cars and other emergency vehicles followed.

By now the Northwest flight crew that had been checking in had hustled into a shuttle bus. They were heading back to the airport terminal. The women were sobbing and the men grim-faced.

"It was one of their airline’s planes," someone said.

I rushed back into the motel to call my paper, The Charlotte Observer, to tell editors about the crash. The power had been knocked out, so phones in the rooms weren’t working, but two pay phones in the lobby were. Knowing there would be news flashes on TV, I also phoned my daughter to tell her I was okay.

I went back outside and saw that a new procession of emergency vehicles was passing by. They were ambulances, dozens of them, confirming the worst fears.

Their flashing lights added to an already eerie, surrealistic scene.

Policemen and deputy sheriffs set up a road block right in front of the motel, turning the curious away.

"Who would want to see such a gruesome sight?" I wondered.

Some insisted they had a right to go to the crash, including a guy that came down the sidewalk in a wheelchair. Cursing the cops, he reluctantly turned around and went away.

Another ghoul of a guy showed up on a bicycle. He ignored the officers and kept pedaling down Middlebelt Road. They pulled him from the bike and somewhat less than gently put him in a squad car and took him away in handcuffs.

Rain started to fall, so Steve, Gary and I went back inside.

By now the motel had a generator going and a TV was on in the candle-lit lobby. Newscasters reported the ill-fated plane to be Flight 255, bound from Detroit to Phoenix. It was reported a 3-year-old child, Cecilia Cichan, had survived the crash that killed her parents and brother.

The TV newsmen speculated widely about the cause of the tragedy (months later investigators blamed it on the flight crew failing to deploy the plane's flaps for takeoff).

Motel guests crowded a small bar in the lobby to order drinks.

"We can serve beer when we get the cash registers back on," said the barmaid. "But no liquor—we’re so new we don’t have our license yet."

By now the motel owner had arrived. He was a hairy, heavy-set man with thick, muscular arms. Wearing an undershirt, he looked like a Russian weightlifter.

"Give drinks to them," he ordered the barmaid. "Forget the cash register. Forget the license."

"But…" she protested.

"I said give it to them," he repeated firmly.

A line had formed to use the pay phones.

Awaiting her turn was a young woman, sobbing uncontrollably as she clutched a Yellow Pages phone book to her chest.

The motel owner approached her.

"Can I help you, young lady?" he asked.

"I’m a Northwest flight attendant," she said between sobs. "I had friends on that plane. I’m trying to locate the nearest hospital so I can go and give blood for this emergency."

This fierce-looking man took the young woman into his arms and softly stroked the back of her head.

Then, gently as possible, he told her that a donation of blood couldn’t help anyone on Flight 255.

Another young woman, carrying a baby, appeared in the lobby. She was desperate to make a phone call.

"My car stalled just down the road," she said. "I left it there and came up here to get help. I’m pretty sure the plane crashed onto my car.

"I’ve got to let my family know my baby and I are safe."

A man in the phone line let the young mother make a call before he did.

It was a night when strangers exchanged consoling words and kindnesses.

Upon boarding a plane the next morning to fly to Charlotte I found myself seated next to an elderly woman. She carried a Bible and she was shaking.

"Are you scared?" she asked.

I told her I was, but offered the reassurance that another crash happening was beyond the longest of odds.

"Would you hold my hand?" she asked.

I held her hand for the duration of the flight.

Back home, I received a phone call from a radio station in Phoenix.

A talk show host wanted me to share what I had seen.

"Most of the people on that plane were from the Phoenix area," she said. "The pain will endure in The Valley Of The Sun for a long time."

It has endured, I’m sure, elsewhere as well.

But the wreaths out there on Middlebelt Road are signs of some consolation.

Love endures, too.

Coo Coo Marlin's one-time escape attempt wasn't so great

Tom Higgins' Scuffs is serving up some significant memories of a long-ago Talladega race weekend and Coo Coo Marlin, who died Sunday.

By TOM HIGGINS

It was quite a "morning after" for two of the most colorful, fun-loving characters in NASCAR history, Clifton "Coo Coo" Marlin and Charles "Hoss" Ellington.

They had partied full-bore the night before, and wound up doing what we’ll call "The Jailhouse Rock."

Nowadays, racing team public relations representatives would be doing everything possible to cover-up such an incident.

What a difference a quarter-century makes.

Twenty-five years ago the ebullient Ellington couldn’t wait to get to the track to tell about it.

That track was Alabama International Motor Speedway, now known as Talladega Superspeedway.

Hoss and Coo Coo had somewhat run afoul of the law in nearby Anniston, where most of the NASCAR entourage stayed during race weekends in those days. Naturally, the law won.

However, Hoss Ellington won, too, because he came out of the experience with a funny story.

Here’s how I recall Hoss telling it in the garage area that morning once he and Coo Coo got out of the hoosegow:

"We had eaten dinner at this nightspot in Anniston and stayed over to listen to the band. We had a few drinks. Well…a lot.

"When we left we had sense enough to let Eula Faye (the late Mrs. Coo Coo Marlin) drive the car, ‘cause she didn’t drink. The cops were watching the place, and they stopped us just down the street.

"The blue lights about scared Eula Faye to death, and in her excitement she couldn’t get the power windows down on the car to talk to the cops. It was pretty comical, but the police weren’t amused.

"They took me and Coo Coo to headquarters and booked us for being loaded. Then they took us down to the cells, which were in the basement.

"It was already dark down there, and as the jailers left they turned off the lights.

"We were down there all by ourselves and it was pitch dark. I said, ‘Hey wait a minute, what if one of us has a heart attack?!!!’

"The jailers didn’t even turn around as they went back up the stairs. One of them said, ‘Then I guess you’re gonna die.’

"I knew right then there was no hope of getting out ‘til morning, so I got in a bunk and went to sleep.

"Sometime later a pounding noise woke me up. I admit it scared me.

"I said, ‘Damn, Coo Coo, what do you reckon is making that racket?!’

"Coo Coo calmly, matter-of-factly said, ‘It’s me. The jailer left us a metal cup to drink out of. I’m beating on it with one of my boots. I’m makin’ us a key!’"

There was no "Great Escape," of course, for the two old friends who had raced each other as independent drivers without big backing.

Upon being released, they came to the race track to continue the weekend, Hoss as a team owner and Coo Coo as a spectator to watch his son Sterling drive.

Coo Coo Marlin, who saw Sterling become a two-time Daytona 500 winner, passed away Sunday at the age of 73.

Part of his legacy is the tenacity and talent he showed in winning dozens of short track races in the Nashville area many years ago.

Another part is all the amusing tales that pals like Hoss Ellington will be telling about his antics for years to come.

Contractual obligations and inner-loops

Our Consumer Watchdog bud Andy Shain makes a good point when he notes how interesting it is to see extremely well-heeled car owners squirming and crying foul when pretty darned well-heeled drivers say thanks, but no thanks and head for the door. Or announce their intentions to, anyway.

Because Andy knows what you and I know, that the foo is more often on the other shoet and it's the drivers who are being told to take a hike by their car owners.

NASCAR drivers are independent contractors, you know. That's NASCAR's definition, not mine.

I still think some of the principals in the current contract wrangling will work something out and that we won't see so many lame ducks driving at the start of the 2006 season, which is why you're now seeing all the posturing and hearing all the denials.

But, as Mrs. Past would certainly tell you, I'm not always right. Sometimes I'm just flat-out wrong.

Missed opportunity

I thought the NBC booth bunch missed a good opportunity to pay a little respect to one of NASCAR's late independent drivers and to do a little more reporting in Sunday's Sirius at The Glen.

In noting how long Watkins Glen International has had the "inner-loop," which slows the cars coming off that long straight before they reach the downhill right-hander, how much trouble would it have been to mention why the change was made?

The paving crews went to work adding that chicane soon after J.D. McDuffie tangled with Jimmy Means, ran off and slammed into the tire wall and died during the Winston Cup race at The Glen in 1991. But not before sports car ace Tommy Kendall ran off at the same place and broke his legs.

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David Green: Only 'chokes' in racing are within the carburetors

EDITOR'S NOTE: There's apparently been a little confusion, which we hope to alleviate here and end when David Green's blog gets officially and actually up and running. This David Green, like the former Busch Series champion and current competitor, has raced some and hails from Kentucky. But this one is a schoolteacher. Both are wonderfully articulate gentlemen and both appear, for all practical purposes, to be absolutlely crazy about this sport you and I love, too.

Here's hoping you enjoy this take from the English teacher as much as we do offering it.

Only 'chokes' in racing are within the carburetors

By DAVID GREEN

A friend and colleague offered the thought the other day that the notion of "choking," long part of the culture in traditional sports, does not exist in auto racing.

Whether you buy into the notion or not, whether you pay anything more than scant attention to baseball, football, basketball or golf, surely you are aware of the derisive accusation of "choking" - a player misses a short putt, blows a wide-open layup, kicks a chip-shot field goal wide right, muffs a soft pop fly or lets a routine ground ball roll between his legs. Sometimes the label is hung on a team, not just an individual, and in a larger context than the single-play bobble (think Atlanta Braves in several World Series appearances in the 1990s).

My friend, I believe, has a point - the concept is all but nonexistent in racing.

Oh, the same things happen. Everybody makes mistakes. The consequences of errors by doctors, airline pilots, soldiers and others involved in life-and-death situations are profound, and sometimes it's a driver's error that may lead to his death or serious injury. Perhaps the elevated level of risk tends to insulate people who take those risks from being susceptible to charges of "choking."

The main factor that separates racing drivers from most other professional athletes is the continuity of most forms of motorsport. The action goes on, uninterrupted except by caution flags. There's never any other suspension of the normal flow of the "game" for the sort of isolated event or individual execution of a specific task that is usually associated with the notion of "choking." Therefore, there's almost never a situation in which a driver could "choke" in the classic sense.

Drag racing, thanks to its format, may offer the best chance for comparison to other sports in this discussion. If a driver with consistently good reaction times somehow fouls or loses because of an uncharacteristically slow start, he or she may be accused of "choking." In other forms of motorized competition, such all-important individual moments just don't occur with the same kind of visibility.

More often than not, an overtaking move in racing is not so much a spontaneous act as it is the culmination of a process the overtaking driver began as much as a full lap earlier, or even before that. I suspect many fans may not realize that. Sometimes, even a seasoned observer or somebody who has done (or tried to do) that sort of thing is surprised. Carl Edwards' race-winning pass of Jimmie Johnson at

Atlanta

earlier this year certainly caught me unawares. A few laps before the final one, Edwards was in about 15 degrees of yaw, seriously sideways, literally dirt-tracking at 190 mph. I thought he was done at that point, with no chance to make up the lost ground - especially with tires that surely were, just had to be, abused and overheated. But make up the ground he did, and when he did, he had the right momentum at just the right time and place to carry him past Johnson by a nose.

Did Johnson, then, "choke"? I don't think so. About the only thing he could've done would be to squeeze Edwards high until the challenger backed off or went in the wall. Refraining from doing that is hardly a "choke" in my opinion, although somebody with a more ruthless mindset might disagree.

Probably the closest thing to the classic sports "choke" in racing would be when a guy is pressing too hard to stay in the lead or to catch an opponent, overdrives the car and spins or puts it in the wall. Also, you might compare the idea of a missed shift on a restart or in a race on a road course, but sometimes that's a mechanical issue, not driver execution error.

In most other instances where a driver's misstep, indecision or hesitation might be comparable to another athlete's "choke," nobody but the driver himself realizes what has happened.

Tom Higgins: Busch's move is big, but there have been bigger ones

Tom Higgins bolts on another set of his Scuffs and offers a bit of perspective on the Kurt Busch story:

By TOM HIGGINS

A mountain of ado has been made about Kurt Busch’s planned jump from Roush Racing to Penske South.

This is understandable.  Busch is, after all, the current Nextel Cup champion and one of the most promising young drivers to join NASCAR’s major circuit in years.

  Some are even suggesting that it’s the greatest seismic driver shift in NASCAR history. It’s big, but it isn’t the biggest.

There have been two bigger bombshells, both of mushroom cloud proportions.

Between the 1983-84 seasons The King himself, Richard Petty, almost unbelievably divulged that he was leaving his throne at Petty Enterprises to join a new operation formed by Hollywood entertainment figure Mike Curb.

Petty left a FAMILY OWNED team with which he had won seven championships and 198 races!

The move proved somewhat productive as Petty won two races with Curb, including the Firecracker 400 at Daytona International Speedway on July 4, 1984.  That was his 200th—and last—victory, and President Ronald Reagan was present to see it.

Petty also drove for Curb in 1985, then returned to Petty Enterprises in ’86, taking over the day-to-day operations and continuing as a driver through the ’92 season. He’s still running the show as the Petty compound in Level Cross, N.C., and remains immensely popular.

NASCAR’s second megaton bomb exploded in the summer of 1986 when Darrell Waltrip announced he was leaving the ride of legendary Junior Johnson to begin driving for Hendrick Motorsports in ‘87. Joining Waltrip in the stunning development was highly successful engine-builder and crew chief Waddell Wilson, making the jump from Ranier Racing.

Waltrip had won three championships in six seasons in Johnson’s cars, including the ’85 title.  He was in strong contention for another crown even as his team change announcement was made (he eventually finished second in the ’86 point standings).

Waltrip was a consistent victor with Johnson, winning 43 races.

Yet he was moving on.

The development produced some memorable quotes.

“They can have each other,” Johnson said of team owner Rick Hendrick, Waltrip and Wilson.  “I don’t think any of ‘em are magic.”

A ceremony marking Waltrip’s move from Johnson to Hendrick was held in November at a hotel in Atlanta prior to the season’s final race.

Waltrip drove his new team’s car onto a stage through phony smoke. He got out, kissed the hood and - incredibly - said, “I’m getting off an ol’ mule and onto a nice strong thoroughbred.”

The next morning Junior Johnson uttered perhaps the sharpest touché retort ever in NASCAR.

“I’ve had a jackass driving for me, and now I am rid of him.”

The drastic change only worked out marginally for Waltrip.  He won nine races in four years with Hendrick Motorsports, but no championship.  He was to win five more races with a team he formed and owned before retiring after the 2000 season to become a popular commentator on racing telecasts.

“Looking at the big picture with hindsight, I feel that if I’d stayed with Junior, we’d have won a lot more races,” Waltrip has conceded in recent years.

It will be interesting, of course, to see how Kurt Busch’s move — big, but not the biggest — pays off for him.

Trouble in paradise for Roush juggernaut

David Green weighs in on the Kurt Busch move that made headlines on Tuesday.

By DAVID GREEN

Kurt Busch’s jump from Roush Racing to Roger Penske’s organization sure came as a jolt, but it is hardly the first chink in the armor for the powerhouse Roush team.

The team went into this year with the impending retirement of rock-solid Mark Martin, who had performed well enough in the first Chase for the Cup that he could legitimately hope for a chance to go out as a champion in 2005. But the Roush signed Jamie McMurray, who still had another season remaining on his contract with Chip Ganassi, to replace Martin.

When it began to appear that Ganassi would hold McMurray to the terms of his pact, Roush asked Martin to consider racing one more year. It’s safe to assume that was not something Martin was happy to hear.

The choice of a replacement for Martin also miffed Roush driver Matt Kenseth, who felt he should have been consulted in the selection of a new driver. If it had been Kenseth who jumped ship, that would have been much less of a shocker.

While all this was going on, the Roush team – which, need I remind anyone, has owned the Cup Series championship for two seasons running – was winning nearly half the first 20 races of the season. Busch’s win at Pocono was his second, and the Roush team’s ninth, of the year.

Unless his career decision causes upheaval within the 97 team, Busch has to be considered a solid bet to score a repeat Cup championship. The question is, how will he perform in a lame-duck status? And how long will he be in that position?

Team chemistry is not necessarily dependent upon harmonious relations, as the “Gas House Gang” St. Louis Cardinals of the 1930s proved. But common sense tells you that it’s not an optimum situation when your driver is already headed toward what he perceives to be greener pastures.

Then, there is the bizarre situation for both McMurray and Busch in 2006. Martin has said he may delay his retirement another year, but Wallace unequivocally will not.

This kind of deal is hardly unprecedented. The first high-profile example in NASCAR’s Modern Era was when Darrell Waltrip bought out his contract with DiGard Racing to move to Junior Johnson’s team in 1981.

It’s also pretty standard stuff in the motorsports world at large. Witness Formula One’s Jenson Button, who last year tried to leave BAR Honda for a ride with the Williams BMW team, but was ordered to honor his contract with BAR; now, Button wishes to remain with BAR in 2006, but may be held to the contract he signed with Williams.

From Darrell Waltrip to Kurt Busch, there’s no question drivers have the right to make the career decisions they think are in their best interests. Each of us would want the same kind of freedom. The bottom line, though, is that all the cutthroat machinations may not settle so well with Joe Racefan, who may rightfully feel that drivers ought to have some loyalty to the teams with which they have enjoyed success.

"Tom Higgins' Scuffs" - When Watkins Glen comes up, the memories do, too

Tom Higgins knows a a little about tradition - and of ghosts, I suspect. Check out his current edition of "Scuffs," which deals with a little of both.

By TOM HIGGINS

In the dimly-lit bar at rustic Seneca Lodge deep in the woods near the storied Watkins Glen race course, several laurel wreaths hang on the walls, their leaves brown and brittle from the years.

Despite the fragility of their age, those wreaths exude an aura.

And well they should.
In another time, the wreaths hung around the necks and graced the shoulders of drivers victorious in the U.S. Grand Prix, a long-ago Formula One race that unfolded for many a year at Watkins Glen.  They were worn by such legendary drivers as Jimmy Clark, Graham Hill, Ronnie Peterson, Jochen Rindt and Gilles Villeneuve — all of them, now gone.

Their wreaths were left behind as mementoes, and they remain in place.

Legend has it that following the wreath-hanging ceremony in the tavern of Seneca Lodge, the race winner had to stand on the bar while his crewmen threw beer on him.

When NASCAR brought its big-time tour back to Watkins Glen in 1986—after being absent there since 1965 — I remember the late Tim Richmond being enthralled with the tales after visiting Seneca Lodge and seeing its treasure trove of memories.

“There’s magic here,” Tim said.  “Ghosts are lurking round.  Getting to race at Watkins Glen gives me goose bumps.”

And then, Tim went out and won the inaugural Bud At The Glen, as the race was then known.  He triumphed in stirring fashion, with a late charge to catch and pass Darrell Waltrip with just 12 of the 90 laps remaining on the 2.428-mile road course.

The triumph for Hendrick Motorsports and crusty, colorful crew chief Harry Hyde continued an incredible streak for Richmond, giving him four victories in his last six starts.  He’d also finished second three times in his last eight.

After the Victory Lane ceremony and winner’s press conference, Richmond ordered his teammates and friends down the hill to Seneca Lodge for a party like the Formula One folks had enjoyed.

The revelry was going strong when Tim’s delight turned to dismay.  He suddenly realized that he had no wreath to hang on the wall.  He hadn’t been given one, in great part because the practice was discouraged by NASCAR.  The foliage, see, would obscure the driver uniform logos of sponsors in the hundreds of photos that are always shot during Victory Lane proceedings.

Tim grew increasingly upset, but the savvy veteran Harry Hyde saved the precious day by suggesting that the team “enshrine” a tire from its winning car instead.

Richmond quickly agreed and crewman David Oliver was sent to fetch a tire from the team’s big transporter parked outside the lodge.

“It was close quarters in there with the race car, the backup race car, all the tools and the other gear,” Oliver recalled years later. “I had to crawl around and under a lot of stuff, and I skinned myself up some.  But I eventually managed to get one of those big, fat tires out of the truck.

“I had to do it.  Tim wouldn’t have left until he’d put something to mark his victory on the wall in the bar.  And after Harry’s idea, it had to be a tire.”

Oliver has other intriguing memories of events that marked NASCAR’s return to Watkins Glen.
“Practically every team went to upstate New York in ’86 planning to use Jerico transmissions in their cars,” continued Oliver.  “These cut down on gear-shifting and the potential for a driver to make a mistake.

“Tim went out to practice, and after only a couple laps he came into the garage with a firm look on his face.  ‘Get that transmission out of the car and put a standard one in!’ he said.  ‘I can’t run well without shifting.  It’s messing up my rhythm.

“Besides, this is WATKINS GLEN!  Anyone who is too lazy to shift doesn’t deserve to win here.’
“My stock in Tim Richmond as a great race car driver already was way up there.  At that moment, it went out of sight in the sky.”

Tim was waiting anxiously as Oliver returned to the festivities in the Seneca Lodge bar with the tire that had been part of the fulfilling victory.  With much ado and amid great applause, Tim and Harry Hyde hung the tire on the wall.

Then Tim — just like Jimmy Clark and all those Formula One greats who had preceded him — stood on the bar and was splashed by beer thrown by his teammates.

Like those Grand Prix greats, Tim Richmond is gone, too.  So is Harry Hyde.
Perhaps all of them are remembered best at Watkins Glen by the yellowed wreaths and that tire, all of which serve to hallow Seneca Lodge.

Some racing fans claim that late at night, when the bar is quiet and the lights are low and the crowd is gone, those who use their imagination can hear the brittle leaves rustle and that tire whir maybe just a bit.

They claim you can hear the long ago laughter of the drivers and their crews, and you can smell the foaming beer.

There is magic.

Ghosts are lurking 'round.