Dear Champ...

   AN OPEN LETTER TO THE LATE DALE EARNHARDT...

   Dear Champ:

   Even now, five years afterward, it remains difficult to believe that you departed that dreadful February afternoon in the Daytona 500 of 2001.

   The shock still hasn't worn off, and likely it never will.

   The anniversary of the memorial service that was held for you in the beautiful, massive church in Charlotte is coming along in a day or two, and it's certain there will be an outpouring of tributes all over again.

   As there should be.

   Friends and millions of NASCAR fans will recall their favorite "Intimidator" stories, your myriad motorsports feats and the like.

   For some it'll be the daring move you pulled to win a race.  For others a humorous remark you made.  For still others the autograph that they were lucky enough to have you sign.

   Count me among those fondly doing a lot of recollecting.

         

   I remember the first time we met.  It was the spring of 1975 and you were shaking down a Dodge you'd borrowed from Ed Negre to run in a race then known as the World 600 at a track then known as Charlotte Motor Speedway.

   I'd learned that the son of the great short track driver, Ralph Earnhardt, was at the speedway testing in the hope of getting a Winston Cup Series career going.  I'd long admired the determination and racing talent of Ralph Earnhardt, so I decided to drive out to the track to interview his son.

   There were only three people inside the speedway.  You, me and the obligatory ambulance driver, ordered to be there in case there was an accident.

   You'd run a few laps, get out and work on the car, and then run a few more.  Finally, you were done and started loading the car on an open trailer that was hitched to your pickup truck.

   I approached and asked if I could get a few comments.  You reluctantly agreed.

  Man, you were painfully shy!  All I got was "Yep" and "Nope" and "Maybe."

  I knew I was on to a good story if you'd only open up.  Toward this end, I said, "Dale, I saw your daddy turn Banjo Matthews over in centerfield at McCormick Field in Asheville in 1958."

  McCormick Field was a minor league baseball  park that for one year was transformed into a race track when Asheville lost its farm team.

   Ralph Earnhardt and Matthews were bitter rivals, and the incident ended a long winning streak for the latter at McCormick Field.

   You brightened upon learning I was there that night, covering the race as a cub reporter for the Asheville Times.  "I've heard about that wreck," you said.  "Tell me what happened!"

   I complied, and as a result you relaxed a bit and told me of your hopes and dreams in racing.

   You talked of becoming a Winston Cup champion.  Who at that time would have imagined you'd win even one title, much less seven, sharing the record with a man you admired, Richard Petty?

   But then, who at the time could have imagined the intensity of the fire that blazed within you to succeed?

   You made the field for the 600, qualifying 33rd.  You finished 20th, but you were 45 laps down to winner Petty.

   Not an auspicious start, but it didn't deter you from seeking out rides here and there while keeping your short track career going across the Carolinas.

   I remember one ride that a lot of observers guessed would be your last at the Winston Cup level.

  In October of '76 you were driving a  Chevrolet fielded by Alabamian Johnny Ray in the Dixie 500 at Atlanta International Raceway.  With 49 laps to go Dick Brooks hit the wall in turn three and collected you into his crash.  Your car flipped repeatedly and essentially disintegrated.

  You were shaken, but escaped serious injury.

  "Well, we won't be seeing any more of young Earnhardt," someone in the press box cracked, suggesting you'd been scared out of racing.

  Ha!

  Obviously, Champ, the fellow hardly knew ye.

  To this day Buddy Baker relates, with a mixture of amusement and awe, how you came back to pit road and the garage area immediately after the horrifying crash and began lobbying crew chiefs to put you in as a relief driver. 

   I remember the earthy, colorful comment your tough ol' crew chief, Jake Elder, had on the eve of the Southeastern 500 on April Fool's Day at Bristol in 1979.  Said Elder, speaking of your potential:  "Stick with me kid, and we'll both be wearing diamonds as big as horse droppings."

   Only Jake didn't say droppings.

   And he wasn't being foolish with his assessment.  You won that race for your first Winston Cup victory, and a year later you were the champion.

   It was on the occasion of your taking the title in 1980 that you ordered me and others to change how we addressed you.

   "I'm not Dale anymore," you said.  "From now on, call me Champ."

   So Champ it was, except on the occasions when you scared me stiff.  Those times I called you quite something else.  Something unprintable.

   Like the time you spun my brand new '82 Pontiac station wagon while we were en route to Santee-Cooper Reservoir on a fishing trip.  You didn't take kindly to me zinging  you with a joke about a guy supposedly losing his life in a silo we had just driven by.

  I made you beg me for several minutes to divulge how he died.  Finally, I said with great glee, "He walked himself to death hunting a corner to pee in!"

  This is when you locked the brakes on my wagon, turned the steering wheel hard left and took us on a 360-degree ride down the lonely highway.

  And flat-spotted all four tires.

  Or the time following a UNOCAL Record Club dinner in Darlington.  I was driving a spiffy little red convertible at that time.  It was a beautiful, full-moon night and upon leaving the dinner I put the top down, tuned in some good music and was enjoying the ride back to the motel when something grabbed me on the left side of my neck.

   Shock isn't a strong enough word to describe what I felt.

   I was doing 50 mph and I couldn't imagine what had suddenly snatched me by the throat.  I was almost afraid to look.  "The Almighty has seen the sinning I've been doing and sent The Devil for me!" I thought.

   When I got up enough nerve to take a peek, what did I see but your evil grin and those blazing eyes of yours, sparkling with mischievous delight.

   Richard Childress, your team owner, was driving the car, and the two of you had pulled alongside me with lights out.  Richard inched the vehicle over to my door, and you leaned out the passenger's side window to your waist in order to get hold of me.

   After you let go, whooping in amusement, I had to stop on the roadside to regain my composure.  Back at the motel you and Richard  awaited my arrival.  You wanted to see if I had wet my pants.  I hadn't, but it was close.

   There are great racing memories, too, Champ.

   Like the time you started last in a 15-car field in the final 10-lap segment of the Busch Clash at Daytona.  You'd won the opening 10 laps, and had to go to the rear when the field was inverted for the restart.

   In the press box there was speculation that you couldn't get back to the lead against so many all-star drivers in just 25 miles.

   You shot down that theory in stunningly short order.

   Taking a low line and keeping your car there, you swept to the front in just 1 1/2 laps and won easily.

   And I'll always remember the time that you ran a zig-zag evasive maneuver at North Wilkesboro to avoid crashing cars in the fourth turn.  What I call "The Mark Of Zorro" feat left your car without a scratch and enabled you to win the race.

   It was moves like this that have led some to tag you as NASCAR's greatest driver ever.

   Included is the best talent scout I've known, the sage hall-of-fame owner and driver Junior Johnson.

   Many times I've heard fans ask Junior to name the best driver he ever saw.  Invariably, Junior would chuckle and say, "Me!"

   But as we left your memorial service five years ago on a cold, dreary day that befit the dark, sad mood, a television reporter waved down the vehicle that Junior and I were riding in.  Thrusting a microphone in the window, she asked Junior, "Where does Dale Earnhardt rank on the alltime list of drivers?"

   Junior never hesitated.  "The best ever, bar none," he declared emphatically.

   "Bar none?" she said.

   "Bar none."

    You'd be astonished, I think, to know exactly how far your fame spread, the affection that fans held for you, and the esteem you commanded, especially among blue-collar, working-class fans.

   A late doctor friend of mine returned home to North Carolina from a pheasant hunting trip to Nebraska a few months before you died.  Dr. Bob Payne brought back an amusing story.  While having lunch in a small diner in a rural area, he noticed that the guy running the place was wearing a cap with your name and the number 3 on it.  The doc asked the fellow how he knew about Dale Earnhardt.

   The man replied that he and his friends never missed watching the races on TV, and that you were overwhelmingly their favorite driver, "a hero for the common man."

   "When I told the diner owner that I was from Mooresville and went to the same church as Dale Earnhardt the guy almost hyperventilated," said the doctor.  "The next day when I went to the diner to have lunch the man had gathered all his buddies, and they were waiting there to meet me.  They wanted MY autograph just because I casually knew Dale Earnhardt."

   As news of the tragedy at Daytona in 2001 spread, fans drove to your compound in Mooresville--the "Garage Mahal" as Darrell Waltrip dubbed it--from all over the Eastern U.S. to join in a vigil.

   I met two sisters from Tennessee who had been estranged for six years.  They hadn't spoken in all that time.

   Both were fans of yours, and when the distressing news came from Daytona that the last lap crash had proven fatal, it was powerful enough to forge a reconciliation.  They drove together across the mountains from Tennessee to join thousands of other mourners.  They embraced touchingly as their tears flowed.  They wept, I think, because of their shared love for you and their renewed love for each other.

   Amazing.

   Champ, you'd be proud of how your wife, Teresa, fought successfully in court in Florida to preserve your dignity against those who would have exploited for personal gain the autopsy photos following your death.  And of how she has held onto the company you two built together.

   You'd be proud of your offspring, too--Kerry, Kelly, Dale Jr., and Taylor Nicole.

   I imagine that you and your best buddy, Neil Bonnett, have checked out all the finest fishin' holes up there, and are landing a lot of lunkers.

   I also imagine that if The Lord has a private pond, you two have concocted a way to sneak into it.

   Rest in peace, Champ.

   Ol' Tom