Fire In The Hole!

   I knew there was potential for a problem the moment I saw the pairings.
   Assigned to share a golf cart were Buck Brigance, one of the most flamboyant, outrageous characters in NASCAR history, and Delano Wood, among the sport's alltime nicest men and straightest arrows.
   The two were matched with me and my best buddy and fellow journalist, Steve Waid.
   "Uh, boy," I said ominously to Steve, "this could get interesting."
   It was the early 1980s and officials at Virginia's Martinsville Speedway, led by the legendary Clay Earles, had decided to stage a golf tournament in conjunction with their fall race.  The tracks at  Charlotte, Darlington and Rockingham had been doing it for years as a way of entertaining and treating competitors and local dignitaries.
   Martinsville opted to get in on the act of appreciation and good will. 

   Our foursome was penciled in to start on the 10th hole at Lynwood Country Club, only about three miles or so from the speedway.
   The 10th is a long, uphill par-5 and there was heavy rough on the left.
   Buck, typically, insisted on hitting first and he hooked his drive so far into the deep grass that I doubted the ball could be found.  Delano, Steve and myself meanwhile lucked into finding the fairway.
   To great surprise, Buck went straight to his ball--or said he did.  "I've got it," he yelled.  I've always suspected that Buck simply dropped another one.
   At any rate, he couldn't get the next shot out of the rough.  Nor the next.  Nor the next.  Nor the next.  And on and on.
   Finally, all of us were on the green and Buck was facing a 10-foot putt.
   "This is a tough one for a par, isn't it?" he said.
   Delano Wood turned crimson.
   "Wait a minute, Buck!" cried Delano, known as the first great jackman in NASCAR, but who was preparing to give up his spot on the storied Wood Brothers team in favor of the ministry.  "That putt is for at least a 10!  You and I are competing in the same division, and I'm not going to have any of that today.
   "Several people warned me you played loose with your scoring, and apparently it's the truth."
   Buck Brigance was a generous, fun-loving soul, but  he liked to win at any cost, including fudging with a golf score card.
   Steve and I stood to the side in shocked silence.
   "Well," Buck huffed to Delano, "if you're going to play that way I'm going home."
   "Go right ahead," replied Delano.
   Buck pulled his golf bag from the cart, threw the strap over his shoulder and started walking down the hill.
   Every few yards he would stop and look back, apparently in the hope that we would wave him to return.  Steve and I didn't dare.  Delano was too mad.
   Buck went to the parking log, tossed his clubs in the trunk of his car and drove away, headed home to Charlotte.
   "Sorry for the scene," said a calmed Delano.  "But right is right and wrong is wrong."
   Buck Brigance was a great motorcycle racer in the 1950s, winning dozens of championships.  He attempted to switch over to stock cars from 1958-60, but had little success, posting only two top 10 finishes in 16 starts.
   Later, Buck, who died a few years ago, worked on various pit crews on race days, mainly with the teams of Buddy Baker, serving as a gasman.
   He once performed one of the most courageous acts I ever saw from anyone at a race track. 
   Richard Petty crashed off turn four at Darlington and flipped horrifyingly down the fronstretch, his battered car coming to rest upside down near the start/finish line.  Petty hung from his shoulder harness, obviously unconcious.  Buck and another crew guy, Francis Allen, raced out from their spots on pit road in the face of oncoming traffic to pull Petty from the car, which appeared in peril of catching fire.
   But old heroics didn't count on this day in the golf tournament at Martinsville.
   Delano, Steve and I, now a threesome, continued on, with more dramatics awaiting.
   There were "closest-to-the-pin" prizes on each of Lynnwood's four par-3 holes, and as our round neared an end it appeared that my pal Stevie was sure to win one of them.
   He nearly made a hole-in-one on the last par-3 we played, his ball ending a mere eight inches or so from the cup.
   Steve almost was shaking with excitement as the awards ceremony began in the dining room at the clubhouse.
   His shot had been the closest to a pin of all and there were some great gifts awaiting.
   Called up first was David Pearson, the famous "Silver Fox" driver.  He won a set of Goodyear radial tires, as if he needed them.
   Next came a local politician.  He received a gold-flecked putter.
   Following was another area dignitary.  He was presented a full, top-of-the-line fishing outfit, complete with rod, reel and a tackle box filled with shiny lures and accessories.
   Now it was Steve's turn.
   He was handed a small box.
   What could be in it?
   Steve returned to our table and nervously tore open the box.
   Inside was a Zippo cigarette lighter that when flicked to ignition played the Budweiser theme song.
   "This has got to be a joke!" blurted Steve.  "My shot was closer than anyone's!
   "Is it a joke!?"
   A speedway official, shaking his head, assured Steve with condolences that it wasn't a prank.
   In the next few years afterward Steve and I never drove anywhere near that golf course again without him commenting bitterly about the injustice that had been done.
   Now , even a quarter century later, as the teams gather to race at Martinsville again and Steve is there with them, I 'm sure the thought of that Zippo lighter still burns him.