A Scene Seared In Memory

  It is forever a scene seared in memory.
  Out there, near the start/finish line and adjacent to Victory Lane at New Hampshire International Speedway, Davey Allison waited for a helicopter to pick him up.
  An hour or so earlier, the inaugural  NASCAR Winston Cup Series race at New Hampshire International Speedway in 1993  had ended.  Allison, after appearing en route to an easy victory, had finished third behind Rusty Wallace and Mark Martin, victimized by an inopportune caution flag.
   Despite his bad luck, the outgoing driver was ebullient, joking with fellow competitors and fans as he awaited his turn on a helicopter that would ferry him to a nearby airport and the private plane that he would pilot home to Alabama.
   I, along with many others, watched as the  helicopter flew into a setting New England sun.
   It was the last time we were to see Davey Allison alive.
   Less than 48 hours later he was gone, lost to the crash of a personal helicopter he was piloting and attempting to land at Talladega Superspeedway.
   Each time NASCAR takes its big-time tour back to the New Hampshire track near Loudon, as it will this weekend,  I remember Davey Allison.
   I  hope others will as well.  I know and understand that fans of the present era are more attuned to the exploits of Jeff Gordon, Jimmie Johnson, the Busch brothers and Dale Earnhardt, Jr.
   I wish they could have known Davey Allison.
   He was the son of Bobby Allison, a winner of 85 races, the 1983 Winston Cup Series championship, and noted as one of the fiercest competitors of alltime.
   Davey inherited the same fire.
   Before his untimely death at age 32 he won 19 races and finished third in the point standings toward the title twice.  Except for a freak wreck in the season finale, the '92 title was his.
   How many races and how many titles would he have won if fate hadn't taken his life that awful July day in 1993?
   A bunch, I suspect.
   He was with one of NASCAR's best teams, Robert Yates Racing, one of Ford's premier outfits, and he had the talented Larry McReynolds as his crew chief.
   It was an awesome combination.
   And then, on July 11, '93, Davey decided to fly a new helicopter from his home at Hueytown, Ala., to Talladega Motorspeedway to watch old family friend Neil Bonnett and his son David test for an upcoming race.  Red Farmer, a veteran driver and mentor to both Bobby and Davey went along.
   As Davey, somewhat of a rookie helicopter pilot, attempted to set the chopper down, something went wrong.  The aircraft turned on its side and crashed near a gate leading to the garage area and the infield media center at the Talladega track.
   Farmer manged to crawl out of the wreckage, and later was determined to have suffered fractures of the collarbone, nose and ribs.  He survived,  and remains one of the sport's most beloved, colorful characters.
   However, Davey's injuries were far more severe.
   He suffered a deep bruise of the brain, and within 24 hours of the awful accident he died in a Birmingham hospital.
    I'll remember forever where I was at the time--Higgins Beach, Maine.
   I'd stayed in New England for a mini-vacation before going to the Pocono track in Pennsylvania for the next race the following weekend.
   I got the devastating news upon arriving in little Higgins Beach, which is near Portland.
   Making contact to friends in Alabama who would tell me what was going on was difficult.
   At first, I was reduced to writing special memories of Davey.
   I filed a story about  being in a pizza restaurant in Martinsville, Va., while his wife, Liz, and small children awaited his arrival from a personal appearance after he had qualified for a race at the short track.  Krista  Marie and Robert Grey Allison crawled all over their mom, wanting to know, "When will Daddy be here?."  He finally arrived, and both children climbed in his lap, hugging and tugging.  Before the meal was done, they had pizza all over him.
   Gushed a fan, "I've always admired you as a driver, now I admire you as a father, too."
   Davey beamed, his dark eyes flashing.
   It's an image I will remember forever, the touching, down-to-earth human side of a sports hero.
   There are many, many other memories of Davey Allison that I could include.
   A personal favorite is when he finished second to his dad, Bobby, in the 1988 Daytona 500, the only 1-2 father-son finish in the greatest event in stock car racing.
   Said Bobby, "I'm happy to have won, but I'm glad that Davey is mine.  I hope to see him win this race someday."
   He did.  In 1992.
   There are other warm anecdotes about Davey Allison.
   But let me return to July of 1993 at Loudon, New Hampshire.
   The two of us shared a passion for fishing.
   I told Davey that  I was going to Higgins Beach to fish for striped bass with an acquaintance I'd made in the village.
   "Catch a striper for me," said Davey.
   I wasn't able to do that, because the accident that claimed his life had me otherwise tied up.
   Months later, in the surf at Hatteras Island on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, I did catch a striper.
   I stroked it gently, took the hook from its mouth, and slid it back into the sea in memory of Davey Allison.
   I'm not sure about the life expectancy of striped bass, but I pray that one is still alive out there somewhere.