“And you can stop looking like you were weaned on a pickle, Bekasu,” said Justine. “Because before you make some sneering remark, I would remind you that the baseball stadium in Toronto has a hotel built in it, too, and there’s picture windows overlooking the playing field.”
Jesse Franklin called out, “I hear this was the first track to sell its name for corporate money.”
Ray Reeve’s customary scowl deepened. “Kind of makes you wonder why they interrupt a televised race with commercials, doesn’t it? Seems redundant to me. Advertising on the cars, advertising around the track walls, logos on the drivers’ helmets…The whole damn race is a commercial. Wasn’t like that in the old days.” No one pointed out that he was wearing a University of Nebraska sweatshirt today.
“The Speedway seats 167,000 spectators,” said Harley, raising his voice to regain control. “And you could get another third as many folks in the infield area, where they allow campers.”
“You know, you probably don’t need to give us all those statistics,” said Bill Knight. “Most of your passengers know an approximation of them already, and the rest of us won’t remember.”
“I know that,” said Harley. “But my corporate masters want me to be thorough, so bear with me. Now there’s a lot of reasons for drivers to like this Charlotte track. Anybody know of one?”
Terence Palmer looked up from his hotel copy of USA Today. “Since the banking in the straightaways is only five degrees or so, drivers can get up a good speed here, and they can pass, so I suppose it’s not as frustrating as some of the other tracks.”
“True enough,” said Harley.
“Besides,” said Justine, “it’s within commuting distance of Lake Norman. Could Dale have slept at home when the race was being held here?”
“Him and half of his competitors,” said Harley. “Lake Norman is the Beverly Hills of NASCAR. And before you ask: no. I did not live there.”
“Dale did,” said Shane. “Before he bought his farm.”
“Most of the racing shops are close by, too,” said Harley. “The Hendricks drivers could walk to the track from their garages. Of course, you know-most of you know-that all the Winston All-Star events except one have been held here, and that the Memorial Day race now gives the Indianapolis 500 a run for its money.”
“Speaking of money,” said Ratty. “What are those humongous buildings over on the right?”
“Condominiums,” said Sarah Nash. “They have a country club here, too.”
“Don’t get me started,” said Harley.
“If this tour is going to be a true tribute to Dale, I guess we ought to tell some of the good stories,” said Justine. “And this being Charlotte, you all know what that story is. Except you, Reverend. I know this is all news to you, but that’s good, because there’s nothing more fun than telling a great story to a brand-new listener.”
Sarah Nash frowned and edged closer to Terence. “Here it comes,” she murmured. “The pass in the grass. I suppose it was too much to ask that we get through this week without somebody telling that story.”
“I remember thinking that it was wonderful,” said Terence. “I was in eighth grade when it happened, but we talked about it on my hall for days. Why do you-Oh. That’s right. You’re partial to Bill Elliott.”
“Let me tell the story, Harley!” said Justine, waving frantically. “I was here that day.”
“You mean May 17, 1987?” asked Harley, who didn’t even have to glance at his note cards. He had been there, too. Not driving. It was an all-star event. Harley had been just watching, openmouthed, like everybody else. Justine was nodding eagerly at the mention of the date. He sighed. If he didn’t let her tell it, she’d be chiming in every five seconds anyhow. “Go ahead, then,” he said. “If you think you can manage to put in some facts and figures instead of just gushing.”
Justine nodded, assuming the serious look of the sportscaster historian. “It was the Winston All-Star competition that Humpy Wheeler set up in mid-season, like an all-star game,” she said, pausing for breath. This first bit was directed at Bill Knight, who had no idea what they were talking about. “It’s a special three-segment race. They call it the shoot-out. And that was the third year they’d held it. Hey…threes. Do you think that means anything?”
“It means you’re digressing,” said Harley. “Get on with it.” He waved his note cards as a warning.
“Okay, Bill Elliott won the first two, so he thought he was a shoo-in. But the last of the three races was only ten laps, and the prize-” She glanced doubtfully at Harley. “I don’t remember, but a lot-”
“Two hundred thousand dollars,” said Harley. “And remember that the rules said the whole ten laps had to be run under the green flag. Caution laps didn’t count as part of the ten.”
She rolled her eyes. “I know that. Okay-so Bill Elliott was the man to beat. He had won the first two segments, which was no surprise. Remember, back in the late eighties, Awesome Bill was qualifying at over 200 miles an hour. And he was on the pole for that last race.”
“What was he driving?” asked Matthew.
Sarah Nash spoke up. “A red-and-white Ford Thunderbird, sponsored by Coors.”
“Next came your buddy, Justine, the one-and-only Geoff Bodine, who was yellow number 5, the Levi Garrett car,” said Harley. “And then Kyle Petty. Before you ask-Earnhardt was in fourth position. He wasn’t the Man in Black yet. He was still the blue boy, sponsored by Wrangler in those days, so-” The look of exasperation on Justine’s face silenced him.
“Are you done?” she demanded.
“Go on, then. You remember the whole race, do you? Who was where? Who drove what? Blow by blow?”
“Blow by blow is right,” she said. “They were driving like it was bumper cars in the amusement park. On the very first turn-bam! Elliott hits Bodine. Or maybe the other way around. Anyhow, the two of them collided and spun out, and Earnhardt, who was right on their tails, went low to get around them. He had the lead.”
“Earnhardt caused that wreck,” said Sarah Nash. “He was behind them at the start of the race. I always thought he tapped them with his bumper.”
“Oh, he did not!” said Justine. “But Bill Elliott must have thought so, too, because instead of being furious with Bodine, he went gunning for Dale.”
“How did he do that?” asked Matthew, whose expression suggested that he had taken the term too literally; 1987 was, after all, the Olden Days, as far as he was concerned.
Justine smiled. “Elliot wanted to get even for the bump, so he caught up with Earnhardt on the backstretch and bumped him right back.”
“Right back!” echoed Sarah Nash.
“Well, he thought it was payback,” Justine corrected herself. “Anyhow, when they were coming off the fourth turn on the track, Elliott ran Earnhardt off the track altogether. Dale’s car ended up in the stretch of grass that separates the track from pit road.”
“He did this on purpose?” Bill Knight was aghast.
Justine shrugged. “Rubbing is racing,” she said. “I never heard that Earnhardt complained about it. Anyhow, it didn’t have the intended effect, because Dale just kept on driving.”
“At 150 miles an hour,” muttered Harley. It sounded easy enough to say, but Harley knew different. Two miles a minute. Reaction time: a blink. And grass was the worst surface to drive on, especially on racing tires which had no tread at all. They didn’t call them “racing slicks” for nothing. Not one person in a million would have done what Earnhardt did that day. You’ve left the track, going at a blinding speed, and your impulse would be to brake, at least to let up on the accelerator, or to put the car into a slide, maybe end up against the wall, just to have some control over where you ended up. But he did none of that.