I've sat here for 4 months, growing steadily more silent, knowing that today was coming. Many people don't realize how ingrained watching sports was to me as a kid. They don't know how I watched everything my dad did. I learned to understand the point spreads on the football games, and what a split decision meant in boxing. I knew what camber was before I could drive, and I learned to hate rain delays. What 8 year old was betting on the football games with spreads weekly and winning? That's how I grew up. That was my normal. Sundays were for football in the fall, and racing in the winter, spring and summer. Every kind of racing. . . Indy, NASCAR, drags, you name it, I watched it. I grew up well versed in the driving abilities of Darrell Waltrip, Harry Gant, Rusty Wallace and of course, Dale Earnhardt. My dad alternately cursed him and praised him, depending on what the man in black did on the track. And like most children, what daddy grew up thinking, well so did I. I could curse him out when his driving got him in an accident, and I could scream and watch in awe at the Pass in the Grass. I watched with tears in my eyes as he finally won the Daytona 500 in 1998. It was one of those moments you just don't forget. That year, I went to Daytona Speedway for the first time, and was literally in awe at being somewhere one of my heroes was. I bought memorabilia like it was going out of style. It was simply incredible.
The story doesn't have a happy ending. February of 2001 came along and my dad was sick. Part of me wouldn't believe just how sick he was. It's not something anyone thinks of, until they are forced to. So, being in possession of a really good job, I was going to splurge, and buy my dad an Earnhardt jacket for his birthday that year. He wouldn't have ever bought it for himself, and it was something I knew he'd love. So I placed the order the week of the 500, well in advance of his birthday. And watched as one of my heroes died on the track he was so dominant at that Sunday. How could this be? He wasn't just the best, the most dominant racer there. He was the face of the sport. He was the heart and soul of everything NASCAR was. I watched the press conference with tears streaming down my face. I watched the funeral. I felt like I had lost a part of my life, and a part of my childhood. Word came from NASCAR they were suspending all Earnhardt merchandise after his death due to the overwhelming demand. I called, I emailed, I wrote letters asking them to please, send me the jacket for my dad. His birthday was April 27th, and that's all I wanted, was to see his face when he unwrapped it. Weeks passed. . . and my dad got worse. He went into the hospital on Tuesday April 10th, and died Thursday April 12th, one of the hottest days ever recorded in April. That night I stood in my laundry room on the phone with NASCAR, crying and pleading with them to please send me the jacket so I could bury my father in it. While sympathetic, I was again told there was nothing they could do. I received the jacket the day after we buried my father.
So what does this have to do with sports? It's actually not a happy story, and in some ways, it's more a story of a father who taught his daughter to love all the things he did. NASCAR hasn't been the same since Earnhardt died. The sport has had many men make their name since he died, but no one has taken up his mantle. No other driver had brought so much acclaim to their sport with their skill, and no other sport mourned their hero the way NASCAR has mourned Earnhardt. That much was evident today, the 10th anniversary of the race where he lost his life. As Darrell Waltrip pointed out today, Dale was remembered for his racing, but his legacy was the advancements in safety that occurred after his death. It's a shame to lose the heart and soul of the sport to have that happen, but Dale Earnhardt is absolutely not forgotten. That much was evident in the days leading up to the race today. And it was evident on lap 3 when the camera panned the stands and 100,000 people raised 3 fingers in silent salute to the man who made the sport what it is today.
My dad's legacy? Well that's me. And while I've been trying to write something worthy of the things he taught me, and have tried to convey how I feel, nothing could ever quite be enough. So just like Dale, he may be gone, but he is not forgotten. His lessons live on with every blog I post on here, whether they be months apart and sad like this one, or quirky or flippant like posts past. Consider this my silent tribute.
