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Looking In The Crystal Ball?
July 25, 2002
By: Mark Moore
Daytona Beach, February 2050
An old man, in his eighties if a day, and his young great-grandson were riding in the man's electric car down Volusia Blvd. one chilly, foggy day, when out of the mist arose a huge, run down, crumbling edifice. It captured the boy's attention, and he turned to his great-grandfather and asked him, "Paw Paw, what's that big round looking thing?" The old man looked over at what the boy was pointing at, and chuckled.
"Well boy, that there is what used to be the Daytona International Speedway," the man said. "That was the shrine of the birthplace of speed. Now, it's just a crumbling monument to greed son." "What do you mean Paw Paw?"
As they drove down the road, the man saw the gate to the racetrack had fallen. He turned in, telling his great-grandson, "I'll show you what I'm talking about." They drove over the cracked, weed pocked road through the fourth turn tunnel. As they entered the speedway, the old man winced at the sight of it in ruins, as the little boy looked around in amazement. "Wow Paw Paw, this place is so big! What did they do here?" The man stopped the car, and the two got out. They looked around the once mighty grounds, seeing the grandstands twisted and buckled, falling in on themselves, the towering banked turns riddled with holes, their pavement cracked and broken. The man's eyes misted up, as he began to talk, telling his great-grandson the sad tale.
"Well boy, once upon a time, they raced cars here. This place was the dream of a man, who built it, raised the sport up to great heights, then turned it over to his son. His son took it even higher, then lost sight of his father's vision, and the ones that followed him had no vision, except, how much money could be made."
"At one time, the greatest drivers in the world raced here, with names like Petty, Earnhardt, Pearson, Gordon, & Yarborough, among countless others, challenging themselves and their cars, going to the limits of their abilities. They didn't just race here, but, all over the country, week after week, from February to November." A cold, eerie wind began to blow, and the man thought for a moment he could hear the roar of engines mixed in it. He shook his head to clear it, took a breath, and continued.
"As more time went by, and the crowds grew ever larger, attracted by the bravery of these men, the people running the organization saw that by going to more tracks, whether they were suitable for the type of racing that had made the sport so popular or not, they could make more money than they had dreamed of. The racing started to suffer, but, that no longer mattered in their eyes. All they saw were dollar signs. The cars, which had looked like the ones a man could buy at the dealership, soon became so slippery, that they looked identical, and could only be told apart by decals for the head and tail lights." Out of the corner of his eye, the old man thought he saw an electric blue car with the number forty-three on it, roaring through the remains of the tri-oval, a black car with number three on it's side screaming behind it, in furious chase. He blinked, realizing that it was just water in his eye, probably from the eerie wind that swirled around them.
"The slicker the cars got, they less they could race side by side. Pretty soon, between the slick cars, and the newer tracks not being right for exciting racing, the races began to look like parades. Still, the men in charge took little notice of the problems, having instead found another way to make even more money. If they licensed their once proud name to any product they could, the money rolled in. New fans, attracted by the marketing push showed up. They hadn't seen what the racing had once been, and thought this was the greatest thing they had seen. It wasn't their fault. They were swept up by the hype. The drivers were still great, but, had no say in what went on." The man glanced over at turn three, seeing in his memory, Donnie Allison and Cale Yarborough fighting, their wrecked cars still smoking behind them.
"After a while, the excitement began to wear off for the new fans, and the old fans had given up on what had taken the place of the sport they loved. The marketing overkill began to get annoying. Ticket prices got so high, that only corporations could afford to buy them, usually the sponsors of the cars. With attendance falling rapidly, the sponsors saw no return on their investment, and began to leave as well. They TV ratings, which had grown so high tumbled as well. Soon the sport began to retreat back to it's roots, where it was once again man against man, going for the win. The greedy people saw this, but, it was too late. They had ignored the warning signs for years. Instead of fixing what was wrong before it got out of hand, they had just let the money roll in. They tried to fix it, but, everyone who knew what to do right was gone, and the ones running it now had no idea. They soon gave up, and, took their money with them. After all, they were rich, what did it matter to them if they had ruined a great sport?" Now the man was sure he could see the Wood brothers cranking out a blindingly fast pit stop on a white and maroon Mercury. He sighed, realizing time had passed him by.
"Well boy, I guess we better get back, or you know they'll worry about us." As the two got in the car, the old man took a last look around the remains of the derelict old track, lifting his hand in a silent salute to the men who had made it all so great at one time. They drove off in the fog, leaving the memories behind.
July 25, 2002
By: Mark Moore
Daytona Beach, February 2050
An old man, in his eighties if a day, and his young great-grandson were riding in the man's electric car down Volusia Blvd. one chilly, foggy day, when out of the mist arose a huge, run down, crumbling edifice. It captured the boy's attention, and he turned to his great-grandfather and asked him, "Paw Paw, what's that big round looking thing?" The old man looked over at what the boy was pointing at, and chuckled.
"Well boy, that there is what used to be the Daytona International Speedway," the man said. "That was the shrine of the birthplace of speed. Now, it's just a crumbling monument to greed son." "What do you mean Paw Paw?"
As they drove down the road, the man saw the gate to the racetrack had fallen. He turned in, telling his great-grandson, "I'll show you what I'm talking about." They drove over the cracked, weed pocked road through the fourth turn tunnel. As they entered the speedway, the old man winced at the sight of it in ruins, as the little boy looked around in amazement. "Wow Paw Paw, this place is so big! What did they do here?" The man stopped the car, and the two got out. They looked around the once mighty grounds, seeing the grandstands twisted and buckled, falling in on themselves, the towering banked turns riddled with holes, their pavement cracked and broken. The man's eyes misted up, as he began to talk, telling his great-grandson the sad tale.
"Well boy, once upon a time, they raced cars here. This place was the dream of a man, who built it, raised the sport up to great heights, then turned it over to his son. His son took it even higher, then lost sight of his father's vision, and the ones that followed him had no vision, except, how much money could be made."
"At one time, the greatest drivers in the world raced here, with names like Petty, Earnhardt, Pearson, Gordon, & Yarborough, among countless others, challenging themselves and their cars, going to the limits of their abilities. They didn't just race here, but, all over the country, week after week, from February to November." A cold, eerie wind began to blow, and the man thought for a moment he could hear the roar of engines mixed in it. He shook his head to clear it, took a breath, and continued.
"As more time went by, and the crowds grew ever larger, attracted by the bravery of these men, the people running the organization saw that by going to more tracks, whether they were suitable for the type of racing that had made the sport so popular or not, they could make more money than they had dreamed of. The racing started to suffer, but, that no longer mattered in their eyes. All they saw were dollar signs. The cars, which had looked like the ones a man could buy at the dealership, soon became so slippery, that they looked identical, and could only be told apart by decals for the head and tail lights." Out of the corner of his eye, the old man thought he saw an electric blue car with the number forty-three on it, roaring through the remains of the tri-oval, a black car with number three on it's side screaming behind it, in furious chase. He blinked, realizing that it was just water in his eye, probably from the eerie wind that swirled around them.
"The slicker the cars got, they less they could race side by side. Pretty soon, between the slick cars, and the newer tracks not being right for exciting racing, the races began to look like parades. Still, the men in charge took little notice of the problems, having instead found another way to make even more money. If they licensed their once proud name to any product they could, the money rolled in. New fans, attracted by the marketing push showed up. They hadn't seen what the racing had once been, and thought this was the greatest thing they had seen. It wasn't their fault. They were swept up by the hype. The drivers were still great, but, had no say in what went on." The man glanced over at turn three, seeing in his memory, Donnie Allison and Cale Yarborough fighting, their wrecked cars still smoking behind them.
"After a while, the excitement began to wear off for the new fans, and the old fans had given up on what had taken the place of the sport they loved. The marketing overkill began to get annoying. Ticket prices got so high, that only corporations could afford to buy them, usually the sponsors of the cars. With attendance falling rapidly, the sponsors saw no return on their investment, and began to leave as well. They TV ratings, which had grown so high tumbled as well. Soon the sport began to retreat back to it's roots, where it was once again man against man, going for the win. The greedy people saw this, but, it was too late. They had ignored the warning signs for years. Instead of fixing what was wrong before it got out of hand, they had just let the money roll in. They tried to fix it, but, everyone who knew what to do right was gone, and the ones running it now had no idea. They soon gave up, and, took their money with them. After all, they were rich, what did it matter to them if they had ruined a great sport?" Now the man was sure he could see the Wood brothers cranking out a blindingly fast pit stop on a white and maroon Mercury. He sighed, realizing time had passed him by.
"Well boy, I guess we better get back, or you know they'll worry about us." As the two got in the car, the old man took a last look around the remains of the derelict old track, lifting his hand in a silent salute to the men who had made it all so great at one time. They drove off in the fog, leaving the memories behind.
