Saturday night racing fever

By Marty Smith, Turner Sports Interactive
May 17, 2001
11:36 AM EDT (1536 GMT)

Commentary

Marty Smith

Last Saturday night, I experienced a new portion of the vast racing landscape -- that of the raucous crowd in the Saturday-night bullring grandstand.

These people are insane, man.

I was back home in southwest Virginia and figured it was high time I went back to New River Valley Speedway to visit with the folks who injected me with racing fever.

New River is where I got my start in motorsports journalism, but not by my own doing. No way. When my editor told me I had been given the Late Model Stock car beat for the Roanoke Times' New River bureau, I was mortified.

As a kid, I HATED racing, thought it was the biggest waste of time and asphalt this side of Interstate 95. I would rather have covered the Virginia Tech swim team, or the Radford University equestrian squad. Heck, give me recreation league softball agate, just don't make me cover racing.

I loved stick and ball sports. I loved the Atlanta Braves. I loved the Chicago Bulls. I adored the Chicago Bears. I was sure nothing could top the eighth-grade thrill of sitting alongside my father as Michael Jordan lit up the Charlotte Hornets for 50 points.

So I reluctantly strolled into the NRVS bullring for the first time, just in time to catch track-champion-to-be Philip Morris take his first qualifying lap for the 1997 season-opener at the 4/10-mile track.

I was awestruck by the resonance of the unadulterated power under that hood. I was instantly transformed from jock to gear head.

Since then, I've graduated from Saturday night twin-50s to the hustle and bustle of major league stock-car competition.

In fact, I'd forgotten what the Saturday night deal was all about. That's the main reason I was so antsy to get back there last weekend.

Rather than hang out in the press box where I'd just be in the way, I figured I'd kick it with the folks in the grandstands -- the record 10,000 individuals who paid hard-earned cash to watch Winston Cup drivers Michael Waltrip, Stacy Compton and Brett Bodine battle with Kerry Earnhardt and Ernie Irvan in a special celebrity 30-lap shootout.

To many of the folks around me in the grandstand, this was as close to a Winston Cup race as they would ever get, and they took full advantage of the opportunity to hobnob with the stars.

Seemingly endless autograph lines snaked throughout the grandstand area like a python in the Amazon rain forest. Flash bulbs popped endlessly, making for a strobe-light effect as dusk approached.

Everyone was decked out head-to-toe in their Sunday best -- his or her favorite Dale Earnhardt T-shirt. Everyone brought their dinner with them -- a case of hops and barley. Everyone made it quite clear for whom they were cheering, and the more "dinner" they consumed, the more audible they became.

Take the kind fellow sitting in front of me. A Dale Jarrett fan, he was ranting and raving with those around him about how great D.J. is. Having consumed a bit too much "dinner" myself, I opted to rattle this dude's cage. I told him D.J. didn't have a snowball's chance in the furnace of winning the 2001 title.

Dale Jarrett has his share of fans at Saturday night bullrings.

Once that left my mouth, I thought I might depart the premises with a contusion to the eye. This dude was serious. He scowled at me like Bobby Knight on a referee.

We eventually settled our differences after I told him his shirt was the coolest UPS gear I'd ever seen. Thank goodness he was a happy drunk.

Heck, he even gave me his business card and home phone number so we could get together for "dinner" the next time I was home.

That was a microcosm of my first experience in the grandstands. People cussed each other all night long, be they Tony Stewart fans harassing Jeff Gordon's disciples or Rusty Wallace fans heckling Dale Earnhardt Jr. admirers.

As I sat there taking all of this in, my group of seven friends and I nearly went deaf when a young lady directly behind us randomly stood up and began screaming wildly in remembrance of Dale Earhardt while conducting some sort of ritual dance that included holding up the number three with both hands.

My buddy turned to me and said, "These people are insane, bro."

I have to agree. Oddly enough, it's that kind of passion that makes racing so appealing. And to think, I never knew about it until I got the chance to participate in the insanity.

God bless Saturday night racing.

Marty Smith's column appears every Thursday on NASCAR.com. The opinions listed here are solely those of the writer.