Dale Earnhardt - In My Mind's Eye
An Opinion
April 29, 2006
By Larry Cottrill
As his birthday approaches, and the nostalgic paint-job on son Junior's car debuts to the world this Sunday at Talladega, the flood of memories rush back in a torrent.
My hero -
Hobbling off of the track in his yellow and blue Wrangler uniform after testing the boiler-plate wall at Pocono and coming out on the short end of it with a broken knee; only to conquer the track twice later...
Looking wearily at the crowd as he got out of his car in Victory Circle at Bristol in '99 amidst a rare ( at this point in his career ) chorus of boos...
Smirking during his interview in '86 after wrecking both himself and Darrell Waltrip at Richmond; a moment which ended up being a turning point in both of their careers...
Clawing his way through the field during the last laps of his masterpiece at Talladega in 2000...
Running through the infield to greet Junior after the boy's win in front of me at "The Winston" in 2000 at Charlotte...
Cussing out Ricky Rudd after the '89 North Wilkesboro melee for driving much like Dale himself...
Jumping his Monte Carlo over the curb and landing on the hood of King Richard's car as a brash young upstart at Martinsville...
Saving his car from certain disaster in the Daytona IROC race just days before his death after Eddie Cheever ran him below the apron headed into turn one at full speed; only to dump Cheever on the cool-down lap on the back straightaway and then take him "out to the woodshed" afterwards...
Returning to the fray in the '97 Daytona 500 after being rolled-over, his car looking much like one of thousands of crushed beer cans laying underfoot in the grandstands...
Banging doors with Geoff Bodine's No. 5 Levi Garrett car countless laps, races and months-on-end...
Mocking Junior in the NASCAR "Ride-a-long"commercial where he says "what, are my seven Winston Cup Championships clogging my hearing?"...
Charging through the field at the '95 Bristol race like the proverbial "bull in a china shop" with his battered car, only to push Terry Labonte across the finish line sideways for the win...
Raising his glass to Jeff Gordon at the '95 Awards Banquet after Jeff toasted him with milk...
His interview after winning the '95 Brickyard 400 when he said that he was the first "man" to win the race; cutting up on Jeff Gordon's tender age as the inaugural winner the previous year...
The shock of seeing his car drifting high in turn three as it slowed on lap 200 of the '90 Daytona 500...
The "Pass in the Grass" at the '87 "Winston"...
The IROC race at Michigan where he and his son rubbed sheetmetal for the last 500 feet in a photo finish; which, of course, the old man won...
And perhaps my fondest on-track memory; the '88 Riverside finale, during which he tossed his airborne car around like a rag-doll through the esses after being angered by a NASCAR mis-call on a late caution.
I know that buried in my mind also are the images of a visibly shaken Kenny Schrader stumbling away from the window of the wounded Goodwrench car in the infield that fateful Daytona afternoon, and of the aerial view of the ambulance making it's far too slow exodus from the track in the aftermath.
I refuse to let those images replay themselves often. I prefer instead the vision that has actually come to me repeatedly in my dreams.
In my mind's eye, through the foggy haze of Daytona's infield, I can see a slow moving procession walking towards the garage from turn four. The ghost-like figures appear to be drivers, but their uniforms are from various eras. I only catch an occasional glimpse of the center of this crowd through the forest of those walking by me. From what I can make out though, I can see that my now-resting hero is being carried off on the hood of his final mount.
A warrior so fierce was only meant to go out on his shield.
To those so deeply steeped in the lore of this sport, for two decades the passage of time was marked by his epic trials, tribulations and, seemingly more often that not, his triumphs. After his passing, time has again reverted to being marked by the rising and setting of the sun, and the turning of the calendar page.
Five years later, the calendar on the wall of my den reveals yet another photo image of Dale as I flip the page to prepare for another month, with and without him...
We will always remember you Dale Earnhardt!
An Opinion
April 29, 2006
By Larry Cottrill
As his birthday approaches, and the nostalgic paint-job on son Junior's car debuts to the world this Sunday at Talladega, the flood of memories rush back in a torrent.
My hero -
Hobbling off of the track in his yellow and blue Wrangler uniform after testing the boiler-plate wall at Pocono and coming out on the short end of it with a broken knee; only to conquer the track twice later...
Looking wearily at the crowd as he got out of his car in Victory Circle at Bristol in '99 amidst a rare ( at this point in his career ) chorus of boos...
Smirking during his interview in '86 after wrecking both himself and Darrell Waltrip at Richmond; a moment which ended up being a turning point in both of their careers...
Clawing his way through the field during the last laps of his masterpiece at Talladega in 2000...
Running through the infield to greet Junior after the boy's win in front of me at "The Winston" in 2000 at Charlotte...
Cussing out Ricky Rudd after the '89 North Wilkesboro melee for driving much like Dale himself...
Jumping his Monte Carlo over the curb and landing on the hood of King Richard's car as a brash young upstart at Martinsville...
Saving his car from certain disaster in the Daytona IROC race just days before his death after Eddie Cheever ran him below the apron headed into turn one at full speed; only to dump Cheever on the cool-down lap on the back straightaway and then take him "out to the woodshed" afterwards...
Returning to the fray in the '97 Daytona 500 after being rolled-over, his car looking much like one of thousands of crushed beer cans laying underfoot in the grandstands...
Banging doors with Geoff Bodine's No. 5 Levi Garrett car countless laps, races and months-on-end...
Mocking Junior in the NASCAR "Ride-a-long"commercial where he says "what, are my seven Winston Cup Championships clogging my hearing?"...
Charging through the field at the '95 Bristol race like the proverbial "bull in a china shop" with his battered car, only to push Terry Labonte across the finish line sideways for the win...
Raising his glass to Jeff Gordon at the '95 Awards Banquet after Jeff toasted him with milk...
His interview after winning the '95 Brickyard 400 when he said that he was the first "man" to win the race; cutting up on Jeff Gordon's tender age as the inaugural winner the previous year...
The shock of seeing his car drifting high in turn three as it slowed on lap 200 of the '90 Daytona 500...
The "Pass in the Grass" at the '87 "Winston"...
The IROC race at Michigan where he and his son rubbed sheetmetal for the last 500 feet in a photo finish; which, of course, the old man won...
And perhaps my fondest on-track memory; the '88 Riverside finale, during which he tossed his airborne car around like a rag-doll through the esses after being angered by a NASCAR mis-call on a late caution.
I know that buried in my mind also are the images of a visibly shaken Kenny Schrader stumbling away from the window of the wounded Goodwrench car in the infield that fateful Daytona afternoon, and of the aerial view of the ambulance making it's far too slow exodus from the track in the aftermath.
I refuse to let those images replay themselves often. I prefer instead the vision that has actually come to me repeatedly in my dreams.
In my mind's eye, through the foggy haze of Daytona's infield, I can see a slow moving procession walking towards the garage from turn four. The ghost-like figures appear to be drivers, but their uniforms are from various eras. I only catch an occasional glimpse of the center of this crowd through the forest of those walking by me. From what I can make out though, I can see that my now-resting hero is being carried off on the hood of his final mount.
A warrior so fierce was only meant to go out on his shield.
To those so deeply steeped in the lore of this sport, for two decades the passage of time was marked by his epic trials, tribulations and, seemingly more often that not, his triumphs. After his passing, time has again reverted to being marked by the rising and setting of the sun, and the turning of the calendar page.
Five years later, the calendar on the wall of my den reveals yet another photo image of Dale as I flip the page to prepare for another month, with and without him...
We will always remember you Dale Earnhardt!