Tom Higgins' Scuffs

A King Is Born

   It took a magazine cover this week to jump-start my memory of probably the greatest accomplishment in NASCAR history.
   There, pictured on the front of Dick Berggren's  Speedway Illustrated, was a sharp black and white photo of Richard Petty, slightly hunched forward as he drove his No. 43 Plymouth to yet another victory in a sensational-beyond-belief 1967 season.
   An  accompanying caption read:

  1967
   Year Of
   The King
   Record 27 Victories

   "My, God!" I thought to myself.   "It IS the 40th Anniversary of Richard running absolutely rampant!"
   How could I have forgotten?
   I covered several of those races.
   I anxiously turned to an article written by Rob Sneddon, which provided an in-depth, excellent recounting of Richard Petty's remarkable feat, which included winning an astonishing 10 races in a row.
   There's a well-worn cliche that holds "records are made to be broken."
   That one wasn't.

   

    Not ever, ever, ever again will any driver triumph 10 straight times at NASCAR's top stock car racing level, or much of anywhere else.
    "Looking back, the '67 season, more so that some of the others, seems like a blur," Petty told me a while back.  "We ran 48 races that year, so the team was constantly on the road, working on the car--we mainly used only one--qualifying, racin', then movin' on to the next track."
   Petty, now 70, and retired since 1992 with his mind-boggling 200 career victories and seven series championships, permitted himself a small smile.
   "There for a while," he said, "it seemed like we were simply rollin'  from one Victory Lane into another one."
   Here's how that "incredible journey" of win-after-win unfolded for Petty and the team led by his brother Maurice and cousin Dale Inman in that '67 tour of four decades ago:
   No. 1--Nov. 13, 1966, Augusta, Ga., half-mile paved.  (In that era, NASCAR often started succeeding seasons in the fall of the previous year).
   No. 2--March 5, Asheville-Weaverille, half-mile paved.
   No. 3--April 6, Columbia, S.C., half-mile paved.
   No. 4--April 9, Hickory, four-tenth mile dirt.
   No. 5--April 23, Martinsville, Va., half-mile paved.
   No. 6--April  30, Richmond, half-mile dirt.
   No. 7--May 13, Darlington, S.C., 1.366-mile paved.
   No. 8--May 20, Hampton, Va., four-tenths mile dirt.
   No. 9--June 6, Macon, Ga., half-mile paved.
   No. 10--June 8, Maryville, Tenn., half-mile dirt.
   No. 11--June 18, Rockingham, 1-mile paved.
   No. 12--June 24, Greenville, S.C., half-mile dirt.
   No. 13--July 9, Trenton, N.J., 1.5-mile paved.
   No. 14--July 13, Fonda, N.Y., half-mile dirt.
   No. 15--July 15, Islip, N.Y., two-tenths mile paved.
   No. 16--July 23, Bristol, Tenn., half-mile paved.
   No. 17--July 29, Nashville, Tenn., half-mile paved.
   No. 18--Aug. 12, Winston-Salem, one-fourth mile paved.
   No. 19--Aug. 17, Columbia, S.C., half-mile dirt.  (This victory broke the previous record for most wins in a season, 18 by Tim Flock in 1955).
   No. 20--Aug. 25, Savannah, Ga., half-mile dirt.
   No. 21--Sept. 4, Darlington, S.C., 1.366-mile paved.
   No. 22--Sept. 8, Hickory, four-tenths mile paved.
   No. 23--Sept 10, Richmond, half-mile dirt.
   No. 24--Sept. 15, Beltsville, Md., half-mile paved.
   No. 25--Sept. 17, Hillsboro, nine-tenths mile dirt.
   No. 26--Sept. 24, Martinsville, Va., half-mile paved.
   No. 27--Oct. 1, North Wilkesboro, .625-mile paved.

   Petty's seemingly impossible streak came to an end on Oct. 15  in the National 500 at the track then known as Charlotte Motor Speedway when he was swept into a wreck not of his making.  The triumph went to one of Richard's boyhood friends, Buddy Baker, who won for the first time.
   Bobby Allison took the season's last two races.
   "Of all those wins in '67, there's no doubt which one stands out the most to me and everybody at Petty Enterprises," said King Richard.  "It was finally winning the Southern 500 at  Darlington on Labor Day.
   "We had been trying to get that trophy since the track opened in 1950, but we weren't able to do it.  I think that not winning the Southern 500 was maybe the biggest regret my daddy (the late NASCAR pioneer Lee Petty) had about his career as a driver.
   "It seemed me or him one or another had it won several times, but it got away from us until '67."
   Turns out it was no contest 40 years ago as Petty took the checkered flag five laps ahead of runnerup David Pearson, with whom he later formed  perhaps the sport's greatest rivalry.
   Now that my memory is somewhat mobilized, I vividly recall the normally cool Petty letting his obvious glee show during the winner's interview that steamy Labor Day so long ago.
   "Damn, Richard!" exclaimed journalist Joe Whitlock, a popular character who later worked for NASCAR, Charlotte Motor Speedway and Dale Earnhardt, Sr., before his untimely death.  "Are you gonna win 'em all!?"
   "Wait a minute now," said Petty, feigning hurt feelings.  "I've lost two or three."
   Seems like that's about all King Richard lost in 1967.

No green and no peanuts no longer the rule

By Tom Higgins

Joe Weatherly was angry and adamant that September week in 1962.

   Bob Colvin was just as fiery and forceful.

   "I won't run the race!" stormed the colorful Weatherly.  "And you can't make me!"

   "You will run," shot back Colvin.  "And I can make you.  We have a handshake deal!"

   At issue was the 13th annual staging of the Southern 500 at Darlington Raceway in South Carolina, which at that time was NASCAR's supreme event.

   Weatherly's problem was with the No. 13.  The former motorcycle racing champion, who was en route to two straight major NASCAR stock car titles in 1962 and '63, simply loathed the numeral.

   Colvin, the colorful president of the Darlington track, hated to give in.  But he saw a way out that would appease Weatherly.

   The Southern 500 of 1962 was renamed.  It became "The 12th Renewal Of The Southern 500."

   Weatherly got to race.

   Colvin saved  face.

      All this comes flashing back to mind because a pal in racing, Ray Kilgore, asked me the other day to share anecdcotes about drivers and crewmen and team owners who had superstitions.

   "There don't seem to be many of them nowadays," said Ray.

   You know, it seems that's true.  Maybe it's because the competitors of this era are too busy checking their stock portfolios, the lastest high-tech toy available for their cushy motor homes or how high and how fast their private jet planes will fly.

   "None of these present-day guys seem superstitious," said hall-of-fame crew chief and engine builder Waddell Wilson, who maintains a tie to the sport as a consultant after fielding so many major winners in the 1960s-'80s for drivers such as David Pearson, Cale Yarborough, Benny Parsons and Buddy Baker.  "Maybe that's 'cause they've got so much.

   "But decades ago..."

    Wilson laughed.

   "A lot of them, heck most of 'em, were nuts when it came be being superstitious," continued Wilson.

   "David Pearson is as good a friend as I have got in the world, but he hated the No. 13, black cats and peanuts in the garage area or the pits.  I've seen him absolutely become livid about someone bringing peanuts in the garage and shelling them.

   "Also, David pretty much confirmed to me that he drove 25 miles out of the way to get to the track at Charlotte one time 'cause a black cat ran across the road in front of him.

   "Dale Earnhardt is another one that went nuts - again forgive the pun - about peanuts in the pits.  He would go ballistic.  Of course, this highly amused Dale's  best friend, Neil Bonnett, who on frequent occasions always seemed to have some peanuts around."

   For many years green cars also were taboo in NASCAR.

   Why?  There are as many theories as exist about peanuts.

   For whatever reason, it was not a happy day when the new pairing of driver Darrell Waltrip and team owner Junior Johnson revealed that their Mountain Dew sponsorship would field a car with a green and while paint scheme.

   "It looks like a damn Christmas tree!" groused NASCAR veteran Elmo Langley.  Langley later relented, a little, when he drove a green and white race  car, and then  the NASCAR pace car before his untimely death of a heart attack during a NASCAR event in Japan.

     I knew that NASCAR’s great stars of several decades ago were superstitious.

    But I never realized the depth of their belief in the occult until talking to my boyhood friend Waddell Wilson this week.

    “There were a few of ‘em, including Pearson and Dick Hutcherson, that would visit fortune-tellers in local towns a night or two before a race.” said Wilson.

"They never shared with me what they were told, and to tell, the truth , I didn’t want to find out.”

But to end this column let’s go back to Joe Weatherly.

In 1964 the incredibly talented, colorful Virginian was running for his third straight major NASCAR championpionship with the great Bud Moore-owned team of Spartanburg, S.C.   On  the  86th of 185 laps at the Riverside Road Course in California, Weatherly hit the wall.  He apparently died on impact.

Superstition?

Some friend had owed Weatherly $100.

Just prior to the start of the race, the friend had given Weatherly two $50 bills, which Joe  stuck in the pocket of his driver’s uniform.  They were there when he died.

To this day, most NASCAR drivers refuse to accept $50 bills.

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.

   

Metcalfe, Mark Maker

   The hot-shot sports columnist for a major newspaper in the Carolinas had decided to grace Charlotte Motor Speedway with his presence, finally acknowledging that stock car racing  actually existed.
   It was raining hard the chilly autumn day in the 1970s that he came to the track during Charlotte's fall race week.  Because of the bad weather, few drivers or crew chiefs were around.
   No matter.  He wasn't there to interview them.  Instead, he planned to do a piece on Morris Metcalfe, chief scorer for NASCAR's top division, then called the Winston Cup Series.
   Only my pal Steve Waid and I were in the speedway's old frame press box when the columnist arrived to start composing.  He shook the rain from his jacket and umbrella, took a portable typewriter from its case (this was in the days before computers, remember), rubbed his hands to warm up and stared long and hard at the blank page of copy paper facing him.
   Then, he began typing.
   What happened next ranks as the most bizarre thing I ever saw in any press box.

   The guy wrote a paragraph, then yelled "You idiot!  That's not it!"  He ripped the sheet of paper from the typewriter, wadded it up and threw it away.
   During the course of the next 90 minutes similar scenes of self-deprecation played out, much to the amazement--and then the amusement--of Steve and I.
   Finally, the fellow screamed, "This story is impossible to write!"  He wadded up a final piece of paper and tossed it into a heap with the rest.
   He put his portable Olivetti in the case, phoned his office to explain that he had "writer's block today" and wouldn't be filing a column.  He left the press box whistling a happy tune.
   "I could never get by with that," I said.
   "Me neither," said Steve.
   However, we understood the plight of the guy, who left a pile of 56 wadded-up sheets of copy paper behind him.  I know it was 56 because Steve and I counted 'em.
   NASCAR's scoring system in those days was difficult to write about.  And although Morris Metcalfe was master of it, explaining exactly how it worked was another matter.
   All this comes to mind because Morris passed away  Aug. 30 at age 81, his scoring duties and the system he oversaw replaced a few years ago by high-tech gadgetry that enables NASCAR officials to determine the exact position of all the cars at anytime during a race.
   Metcalfe, who spent most of his life in Winston-Salem, working as a senior engineer for Western Electric, enjoyed telling how he first connected with NASCAR.
   "I drove over to the old track at Hickory and heard the P.A. announcer saying they needed scorers for the race," recalled Morris.  "I volunteered and happened to be the scorer for a driver named Dick Passwater, who won the race.
   "NASCAR returned the price of my ticket that day in exchange for me joining the group of scorers.  I thought this was a good way to spend weekends during summer and see races for free."
   Morris, a tall, slender fellow, eventually became the sanctioning body's chief scorer.  His spiffy uniform on race days was a black and white striped shirt like those worn by basketball referees, white slacks and shoes and a white cap with his title emblazoned on the front.
   Metcalfe stood in front of the scoring corps--two persons for each car--with his back to the race track.  As they logged each lap and the time it was completed, they held up the scoring cards and Morris marked the information into his log.  He couldn't look away for a second, and demanded that the scorers not be distracted, either.
   "He ruled that scoring stand with no-nonsense passion," recalled one scorer, who asked not to be named.  "He put fear into you about making a mistake.  It wouldn't have surprised me that if sometime Morris had pulled out a buggy whip and snapped it over our heads.  But I think the contribution he made to NASCAR during a period when it was undergoing major growth and new scrutiny was very significant."
   One blogger wrote a day or so after Metcalfe's death that  "there was never a scoring controversey in NASCAR during his tenure."
   This isn't correct.  There were some protests by competitors over scoring issues.
   Metcalfe and his scorers weren't infallible, in part because of the system they were required to use.
   A system so seemingly complicated and difficult to explain that it befuddled one of North Carolina's best sportswriters.
   He never did write that column, by the way.