The day I will never forget
By Marty Smith, Turner Sports Interactive
June 28, 2001
10:11 AM EDT (1411 GMT)
COMMENTARY
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Marty Smith
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Thinking back, February 18, 2001 was a gorgeous day. Sunshine filled the sky, and as I entered the garage area at Daytona International Speedway I would swear I felt droplets of God's grace hit me in the face at every step.
I couldn't help but smile. Everyone smiled. It was Sunday, and time for the greatest spectacle in NASCAR. It was the Daytona 500, and man, it was a good day to be alive.
Slight bits and pieces from that day occupy my memory. I remember Stone Temple Pilots blaring through my speakers. I remember needing to shave. I remember Elliott Sadler stuffing cupcakes into his mouth and Bobby Labonte making fun of my outfit at the driver's meeting. I remember Eddie Wood's sly grin when the engines were cranked. He'd been doing this for 45 years, and it still got him fired up.
I remember watching television and smiling as Dale Earnhardt hugged his wife and namesake, whispering to each with obvious sincerity. I remember that being especially poignant at the time. It was something I hadn't seen before.
I remember wanting to explode with pride as O-Town belted out "…and the home of the brave." I remember the cars rolling off pit road, and the deafening roar that ensued. Obviously, these fans felt fortunate to be associated with such a marquee event.
I felt the same way, everyone did. Life on the road can make you quite jaded, but not at Daytona, not on the most celebrated day in motorsports. You're happy to be at Daytona.
From the time the cars rolled off the pit lane, it's all a bit of a blur. I remember standing on pit road for the longest time, hanging out in Dale Jr.'s pit while listening to my boy Brett Griffin in his debut as Sadler's spotter. At the outset, the race was a bit monotonous.
The usual suspects did more slicing and dicing than Yan Can Cook on speed. It was awesome, don't get me wrong, but not the most exciting event I'd ever seen. Then, with 27 laps to go, everything changed. Robby Gordon tapped Ward Burton in the rear, triggering a 19-car pileup that sent Tony Stewart flipping wildly through the air.
Stewart did a complete vertical flip and landed square on Gordon's roof, barrel-rolled a few times and came to rest on top of Labonte's roof. Everyone gasped. The accident looked horrific, but proved virtually harmless.
I remember running to the garage and seeing my buddy Josh Neelon, Bobby Labonte's business manager, and how livid he was at what had happened. I remember the two of us discussing the potential for disaster that had just been averted. I remember taking a deep breath, and saying a small prayer.
Suddenly everyone realized that the race had evolved in such a manner that the impossible lay right on the horizon. Michael Waltrip could very well win this thing. No way, that wouldn't happen.
He hadn't won in 462 tries. 10 laps to go: still leading, Dale Jr. in tow. Five laps to go: still leading. White flag: still leading. As they entered Turn 2, I remember 50 media types crammed in the corners of the media center -- where the TVs are located -- nervous that somehow Mikey would blow it.
He didn't. He took the checkers just ahead of Lil E. Meanwhile, a few hundred yards back, Earnhardt had shot up the track and into the Turn 4 wall. I remember Darrell Waltrip cheering for Mikey and asking about Big E at the same time.
I remember sprinting to pit road to talk to Rusty Wallace, and being intersected by a friend who informed me that Big E was in bad shape. I remember seeing NASCAR Vice President George Pyne in Victory Lane, and the look on his face when I told him Earnhardt was being cut out of the car. He ran to the Winston Cup hauler. I ran to the media center.
That's where I found my co-worker, Dave Rodman, typing furiously on his keyboard. I didn't want to look, I knew what he was writing. His eyes were welled up with tears. I remember him turning to me, putting his head on my shoulder and sobbing uncontrollably. He knew, and he wasn't alone.
Mike Mulhern, a decades-long motorsports journalist for The Winston-Salem Journal, is a gruff man, a celebrated Vietnam veteran whose unique view of the state of NASCAR -- and life in general, for that matter -- makes him seem like a hard-ass.
He's not. I love the guy, always have, but for the longest time I assumed he was incapable of showing emotion. Why? I don't know. I don't know him all that well, but he just seemed like a non-emotional guy.
Then Mike Helton announced that Earnhardt had died in that Turn 4 crash. As Mulhern typed his obit for the Monday morning paper, he sobbed. And sobbed. And sobbed. Somehow, amidst all the frenzied thoughts, sounds and sights that raced through my head that tragic evening, that one sits at the forefront of my memory.
I remember thinking that just two hours ago, I couldn't have been happier. I was ecstatic with glee for Mikey. Now, I couldn't have been sadder. I walked outside, dazed and confused. What I saw was surreal. Everyone was silent, eyes full of tears. I walked over to my car, where my wife sat reading, waiting for me to finish.
She had no idea. I told her, and finally it hit me. The look on her face was one of unadulterated shock. I broke down. My phone rang off the hook, everyone wanting to know if it was real.
I remember one call in particular, that of my buddy Hank Parker Jr., a Busch Series driver and one of Dale Jr.'s dearest friends. I remember how scared Hank sounded when I told him it was true. Big E was his second father, a true hero in all facets of life, someone he approached for advice about career opportunities.
Big E has long been a true hero to millions of people. The seemingly limitless tributes we've seen in all corners of the country since his death only reassure his legend. Every track has given a unique tribute. FOX Television dedicates the third lap of each race to him. Fans nationwide bring personal tributes every week. Half the cars on the highway don stickers of allegiance to our fallen hero.
Though infinitely tragic, Earnhardt's accident has produced several positive reactions. It has triggered a new union among those in the industry and those in the stands. Due to enhanced safety awareness, cars will be safer because of his accident. An entire state rallied together to disallow the release of Earnhardt's autopsy photos.
Still, it's such a tough pill to swallow. Earnhardt was a special breed. He was a tenacious racer, an innovative businessman, a devoted father. He embodied everything that is NASCAR. He was Big Bill France's vision for what his upstart organization would become. He garnered the adoration of millions. Every time you heard his name, the raucous applause was deafening. To me, that is amazing.
I'd die to be cheered like that just once, and he got it every single day.
NOTE: Marty Smith's column appears every Thursday on NASCAR.com and the opinions listed here are solely those of the writer. If you wish to provide feedback to Marty, you can email him at marty.smith@turner.com.
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