Catch A Striper For Me

   Once again, NASCAR's top teams are returning this week to New Hampshire International Speedway.

   And, as always at this time of year, the memory of what happened during the track's inaugural big-time race on July 11, 1993 and the next few days thereafter come flooding back, bringing with them a lump in the throat and misty eyes.

   That week was record-sizzling hot in New England, with temperatures touching 100 degrees on the thermometer.  Few folks in New Hampshire had air-conditioning--normally they didn't need it--and some died of the oppressive heat.

   As a precaution, Bob Bahre, the fan-concious founder/owner of the track near Loudon, had pipes emitting a fine, cool spray installed under the stands so fans could get in the shade and find relief.

   It was a grand event for a section of the nation that had long supported stock car racing with weekly shows at area short tracks.

   To paraphrase, the great sports editor/columnist Bob Ryan of The Boston Globe observed, "We've dedicated more coverage to stock car racing this week alone than we did in the paper's first 100 years." 

   It was a coup for Bahre, a long-time NASCAR promoter.

   He had carved the track from a rocky, pine-thick rural area two years before, gambling that he'd get what was then a Winston Cup Series date.

   During a chilly winter day meeting in Boston, Bahre and NASCAR president Bill France, Jr., were walking down a midtown street for lunch.  A homeless man sat on the sidewalk, begging for money.

   "Bill, if you don't give me a race I'm going to be down there with him," cracked Bahre.

  He got the race.

  The chase on the 1.058-mile track proved relatively competitive, with six drivers swapping the lead 13 times.

  Quick pit service during a final stop under a yellow flag put Rusty Wallace back onto the track in the lead, and he never relinquished the front spot.  Wallace took the checkered flag 1.31 seconds ahead of runnerup Mark Martin, with Davey Allison finishing third.

   The race had appeared to be Davey's until the pivotal caution flag .  He had taken the lead on the 245th lap of the 300-lap race, and was comfortably ahead when the yellow showed on Lap 270.

   I will remember forever the sight I saw an hour after the race's conclusion.

   After freshening up in the drivers' lounge, Davey stood in line with fans at an infield helicopter pad, awaiting his turn for a short flight to a nearby airport where his private plane was parked.

   As he flew away, I wondered if I could make good on a lighthearted promise I'd made two days earlier during a break as Davey and other drivers prepared for qualifying.

   Davey and I had fished together a couple times, and we talked about fishing a lot.  I told him that following the race I was going to remain in New England for a few days and go casting for striped bass on the rocky coast of Maine.

   "Catch a striper for me," said Davey.

   "I'll do my best," I promised.

   Upon arriving at Higgins Beach, Maine, the day after the race, I found an urgent message awaiting.  My sports editor at The Charlotte Observer was calling.  I phoned the paper.

   The news was chilling and almost beyond belief.

   Davey Allison had been critically injured in the crash of a helicopter he was trying to land at Talladega Superspeedway in Alabama.  Subsequent phone calls to friends in Talladega and Birmingham indicated there was little hope he would survive.

   This revelation was especially numbing because only mere weeks earlier--on April 1, 1993--the reigning Winston Cup champion, Alan Kulwicki, had lost his life along with four associates in the crash of a private plane near Bristol, Tenn.

   I arose from a restless sleep early on July 13 and walked across the street from the bed-and-breakfast where I was staying to meet a new-found friend who was to guide me on my first fishing trip in Maine.

   "Tom, it just came across as a bulletin on CNN...Your young friend Allison is dead," the man said.  "If you want to pass on the fishing today, I will understand."

   I thought for a moment, then said, "No, let's go."

   I wanted to get out there on the rocks where the surf was splashing softly in a slight wind.  Maybe out there I could make some sense of the tragedy that had happened.

  And maybe catch a striper in memory of Davey.

  My friend and "guide" and I saw plenty of stripers, but they wouldn't strike.

  Maybe they wouldn't hit because I wasn't working the lure well.  My mind and heart were in Alabama, with Davey's family, especially his dad and mom, motorsports hall of famer Bobby Allison and his wife Judy.  They had lost Davey's brother, Clifford, only a few months earlier in a crash at Michigan International Speedway.  I couldn't imagine the agony all the Allison family was feeling.

   After about 45 minutes, I told my Maine friend I needed to go and start filing columns about Davey and his Robert Yates Racing team.

   Following July 13, 1993, I didn't go fishing for striped bass for a long, long time.

   Then, in December of 1999, I ventured to the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where great schools of stripers were feeding in the surf.

   Early one morning near the famous Cape Hatteras Lighthouse I cast a bait of cut mullet out beyond the suds, and soon afterward there came a strike.  Within a few minutes I pulled a striper of around 20 pounds onto the sand.

   I admired the silvery, line-sided fish for a bit, amid flashbacks of Davey saying, "Catch a striper for me."

   Then I tagged that beauty of a bass in memory of Davey Allison, gently slid it back into the water and watched it swim away.