The Checkered Flag

All the way back in May.

1996.

I was working in television production.

Producing sports shows.

About sports.

When I got called into the bosses office.

Not the first time I got called into the bosses office.

But the first time I heard this.

“We want you to produce the auto racing show.”

I’m not sure the exact words I responded with.

But the end result was “you got it.”

Even though I wasn’t really sure what “it” was.

I’m a Jewish guy from California.

I can’t even change my own oil.

What in the world could I possibly know about auto racing.

But when your boss asks _________.

You say, “yes”.

That’s page 1 from the “How to Keep a Job” handbook.

And look how well it worked out for me.

Well I guess in this case it actually did work out.

Seven years later I was still working in auto racing.

And truly enjoying it.

Almost every bit of it.

Really.

I don’t know what you know about motor sports.

But when I started I knew nothing.

Well almost nothing.

I knew that Richard Petty was “The King”.

And that Mario Andretti was Italian.

And...

Um...

Did I mention that Richard Petty was “The King”?

Ok -- I was also well aware that racing is dangerous.

200 mph.

Dozens of cars.

Narrow track.

A recipe for trouble.

And in some cases.

Disaster.

I was reminded of that during my first day on the new job.

Scott Brayton was the pole-sitter for the 1996 Indianapolis 500.

Just like he was in 1995.

That meant his car was faster than any other car during the qualifying for that historic event.

His average speed was a blistering 233.718 miles per hour.

But for my first show.

Brayton’s statistics didn’t matter.

Neither did his starting position.

On May 17, 1996.

Scott Brayton died.

In a practice crash, leading up to the big event.

At that point, my knowledge of auto racing -- or lack thereof -- really didn’t matter.

I wasn’t producing a sports show anymore.

I was producing an obituary.

That was the first time.

But not hardly the last.

•   July 14, 1996 -- Jeff Krosnoff
•   August 31, 1996 -- Blaine Johnson
•   March 21, 1997 -- John Nemechek
•   October 21, 1999 -- Greg Moore 
•   May 12, 2000 -- Adam Petty
•   July 7, 2000 -- Kenny Irwin
•   October 14, 2000 -- Tony Roper
•   February 18, 2001 -- Dale Earnhardt

And those were just the ones that I covered.

Wikipedia has a list of “racing drivers who died in racing crashes.”

Dating all the way back to 1900.

There are 311 names on the list.

Unfortunately that page was updated again on Sunday.

His name is Dan Wheldon.  Was Dan Wheldon.

The 33-year-old father of two was killed during a 15-car crash at the Las Vegas Motor Speedway.

Wheldon, a two-time champion of the Indianapolis 500, was considered a young star in the world of motor sports.

But on lap 11 of the final race of the 2011 IndyCar season, Wheldon’s future became his past.

I never met Dan Wheldon.

In fact, I never met most of the men whose obituary I wrote.

They were just a number to me.

A page number in my rundown.

Usually page 1.

Each time tragedy would strike, we would be shocked.

And sincerely saddened.

And we would cover the tragedy with sensitivity.

And class.

And respect.

And the next day we would get up.

And return to racing.

Of course the shocking death of Dale Earnhardt captured our attention for more than just a day.

But he too would become a footnote before too long.

I’m not sure if that’s more of a statement about working in the media.

Or just life itself.

The show must go on.

The show does go on.

And so must life.

Of course it won’t just go on for the Wheldon family.

Like it didn’t just go on for the Petty family.

Or the Irwin family.

Or the Earnhardt Family.

Dot dot dot.

But it does go on.

Somehow.

Until someday.

Someday way too soon.

When there will be another story to cover.

Like the story of Dan Wheldon.

Hardtbreaking

I have been beyond lucky to attend pretty much every sporting event I could've ever hoped for.

Ok, I have not been to Wimbledon.

Or the Kentucky Derby.

Or the Masters.

But aside from that I am good.

Very good, thanks.

Olympics.

Super Bowls.

World Series.

All-Star Games.

Been there.

Done that.

And I would gladly do that again.

More than anything, the thing I love about sports is that fact that you never know.

And to see it in person.

There is nothing like it.

I’ve been asked several times to name THE favorite event I’ve been to as a spectator.

And that’s not an easy question.

But for me it is a pretty easy answer.

It’s the Daytona 500.

Actually, the 1998 Daytona 500.

To be exact.

Now I didn’t grow up a big racing fan.

Not a racing fan at all.

Sure I knew who Richard Petty was.

And I went to college with a great guy named Jeff Gordon.

Not the racer.

And I always thought Lake Speed was a cool name for a driver.

But in 1995, when I was assigned to cover motor sports, full-time, I knew pretty much nothing about cars.

After all, I’m a Jewish guy from LA.

Who can’t change his own oil.

But since that’s what my boss wanted me to do.

Dag-gummit, that’s what I’m going to do.

I’m good like dat.

Seven years later, I was still covering NASCAR.

And loving it.

Really.

By that point, I had been to about 20 tracks around the country.

Darlington to Dover.

Rockingham to Talladega.

Of course, I didn’t tell them I was Jewish.

Duh.

But getting back to the Daytona 500.

In 1996, I attended the event for the first time.

With about 200,000 others.

That’s nearly five times the population of Kannapolis, North Carolina.

I went back again the next year.

Actually the next five years.

But 1998 was something special.

It was the 50th season of NASCAR.

The 40th Daytona 500.

And the 20th attempt by The Great Dale Earnhardt to win The Great American Race.

The Kannapolis native entered that year 0-for-19.

Now Dale Earnhardt was no ordinary race car driver.

He was “The Intimidator.”

He could see the air move around him.

Or so they said.

By 1998, he had seven NASCAR Championships.

Tied for the most with Petty, “The King.”

But unlike “The King”, who had seven Daytona 500 victories.

“The Intimidator” had never won the sport’s biggest race.

Sure Earnhardt had enjoyed plenty of success in Daytona.

With an amazing 30 wins on that track.

But exactly none of them came in the Daytona 500.

NASCAR’s Super Bowl.

So when Earnhardt, driving his #3 car, crossed the finish line before anyone in 1998, it was a big deal.

A big deal for him.

And his team.

And his millions of fans.

And the millions of racing fans who couldn’t stand him.

But most of all, it was a big deal for the sport.

And as he drove down pit road, heading towards victory lane for the first time as a Daytona 500 champ, he was greeted.

Greeted by the fans who loved him.

Greeted by the fans who hated him.

And greeted by every single member of every single pit crew.

That’s something that just doesn’t happen.

The people, who had been trying to intimidate the Intimidator, were paying their respects.

To a man who had changed their sport.

And their life.

Now I’ve always loved the exchange of handshakes at the end of a hockey playoff series.

But even that has become a little cliche.

And somewhat forced.

But in 1998, when hundreds of men, representing 43 teams, created a human red carpet.

For a man they had always battled.

And sometimes didn’t like.

It was really special.

And really unexpected.

It’s why we watch sports.

And to be standing on that asphalt road, as it was happening, was a moment I will never forget.

As I will never forget being on that same asphalt road exactly three years and three days later.

The 2001 Daytona 500.

That is a race nobody in NASCAR will ever forget.

That is the day the music died.

The day Dale Earnhardt died.

It happened on the last turn of the last lap of what turned out to be his last race.

Everyone watching knew right away that it was bad.

But it wasn’t until a couple of hours later that we knew how bad.

Plenty of people tried to sum it up by saying that the man died doing what he loved.

And maybe that’s true.

But for me, the bottom line is that the man had died.

It was an event I will never forget.

The same track.

The same race.

Two completely different results.

I guess that’s why we watch sports.

You never know.