The Wright Angle
May 7, 2007

Show some respect, Earnhardt fans

By Scott Wright

Jeff Foxworthy knows a redneck when he sees one. One of my favorites among his "You might be a redneck ..." one-liners speculates that you might have a little crimson beneath your collar if you think the last four words to the Star-Spangled Banner are "gentlemen, start your engines!"

"Hey!" I exclaimed the first time I heard that attempt at humor, because I was raised a NASCAR fan from an early age. (In all honesty, Foxworthy pretty much had me dead-to-rights on that one.)

My mom and dad used to take my brother and me to Talladega, back when Darrell Waltrip was peddling Gatorade on the side of his DiGard Chevy, and any one of the Alabama Gang -- Neil, Bobby or Donnie -- was a threat to bring home the checkered flag come Sunday afternoon. I was at Talladega in 1981 when some yahoo from Massachusetts passed D.W. and Terry Labonte in the tri-oval on the last lap to collect the only win of his short NASCAR career.

I was there in 1983, too. It was the Winston 500; a young Phil Parsons barrel-rolled all the way through turn No. 1 in his Skoal Pontiac and landed on Ricky Rudd's Piedmont Airlines Monte Carlo. I will always remember that day because it's the only time I ever saw Richard Petty win a race in person. That was a "pretty neat deal", as the King might say, and as far as this No. 43 fan is concerned it's one of the best racing memories a 13-year-old boy could have ever asked for.

That's one reason I feel sorry for all the 13-year-olds who were in the grandstands at Talladega last week. Twenty years from now, they probably won't remember that Jimmie Johnson punted his own teammate into the wall and caused a scary-looking crash early in the race; they won't recall how perfectly beautiful the weather was, or the number of U.S. Navy F-18's that buzzed the track during the pre-race ceremonies (there were four). They may recall that Jeff Gordon won the race, but that will only be because of what they remember seeing a few despicable fans do after he crossed the finish line.

To clarify, before I begin: I believe it is my status as a longtime Petty fan that gives me a unique insight to understand what was going on in the minds of the Earnhardt fans (mostly) who felt compelled to display their displeasure with the race winner by tossing beer cans at his windshield.

I've been there, Intimidator fans. I remember watching Dale, Sr. run away with race after race at Talladega (and everywhere else, for that matter) in the 1980s and '90s. I remember when he won his seventh championship, and how angry I was that some other driver had the unmitigated gall to equal the number of Winston Cup trophies the king of the sport already had on display in his museum at Petty Enterprises. Why, the nerve of that Dale Earnhardt! I'm sure I cussed Earnhardt and I know for a fact that I declared my undying disgust for the man. I also vowed to showcase my disdain for Earnhardt whenever I had the chance at a Talladega race.

A middle finger on the pace lap? Here's two of 'em for good measure, Ironhead. Cut in line in front of an inebriated Earnhardt fan at the men's room urinal trough? Oops! Sorry, dipstick. A snicker under my breath on the rare occasion when the racing gods did not see fit to bestow a top-five finish on the No. 3? Tee-freaking-hee.

But I'm telling you right now race fans, it never occurred to me to toss a beer can at Dale Sr. on the cool-down lap after a Talladega win.

Back then, my favorite thing to see every Sunday, at some point between the waving of the green and checkered flags, was a thundercloud-sized ball of smoke pouring out of the exposed engine compartment on the Goodwrench Chevy. But, as a fan of the sport, I understood a little bit about the grind of a 30-plus season schedule that ran from February to November, so I respected Earnhardt for his dedication. I also appreciated the way he conducted himself with the fans and the media. I mean, like him or not, he had a helluva sense of humor.

 And damn it all, but the man could drive the wheels off a race car. Seven championships and 76 wins pretty much speak for themselves.

So to you fans of Earnhardt who threw those cans last Sunday, I say this: None of you despises Jeff Gordon any more than I absolutely loathed Dale Earnhardt. As bad as I hate to admit it, though, in his prime he was a better driver than Richard Petty. In fact, he was probably the best I ever watched saw away at a steering wheel on a Sunday afternoon -- until last week, that is. That's right, Earnhardt fans. Every time Jeff Gordon flashes past the grandstands he gets one lap closer to being a better race car driver than even Dale Earnhardt.

It's a hard pill to swallow. Trust me, I know. Luckily, though, I didn't throw my last cold beer at the guy who took my hero's place at the top of the heap, so at least I had something to wash it down with.