I am so excited about today’s Daytona 500. Not.
Can’t wait to see Dale Jr., Danica and the rest of the gang back on the track. Not.
Truthfully, I am happy to see NASCAR here because it means baseball season isn’t far behind. And being even more truthful, I’m not knocking NASCAR, or any other motor sport at all because the millions and millions of people who love it can’t be wrong. It’s just, I don’t get it. I’ve tried, I really have, and I guess I will try again today for awhile, but as my ever-growing list of mechanics will tell you, I don’t get cars.
As Bill Cosby once said, “Fill ’er up. That’s what I know,” and now that’s barely applicable.
I’ve tried to get it, but I just don’t. Not can’t or won’t. Don’t. My friend Bob Gornall even tried to help me. He took me to a race, inviting me to bring my date, who had made me dateless with her relocation to Baltimore, for a weekend bus trip to Rockingham, N.C., for the 1992 GM Goodwrench 500. Bob really wanted me to get into this, as he also paid for a year’s subscription to a NASCAR publication that he said was the Bible of stock car racing and would change my life forever.
“After this weekend, you’ll never want to go to another baseball game again,” he told me.
Well, as I have told everybody who has cared to listen for the last 21 years, Bill Feeney, who went in place of my date (it wasn’t the same) and I had a great time. Great bus trip down and back, great barbecue while we were there and, best of all, the greatest fans you could ever want to be around. Everybody was so nice and so hospitable, and so eager for a novice such as myself to learn all I could about their sport.
Those fans, both on the bus and at the track, taught me many things about racing that weekend, with “Racecar is racecar spelled backwards,” seemingly the only thing to stick all these years later.
The tailgate was better than any NFL tailgate I’ve been to, and during the race, Bill and I sat a few seats down from Bob, who was wearing his red headset so he could listen to the pit crews or something.
“Whatever you do, “ he told me, “don’t watch the leader. You won’t be able to follow the race if you follow the leader. You have to follow the middle of the pack to gain full appreciation for what’s going on.”
And, he added, “Once the race begins, and they come around the third turn full throttle, you’re going to hear a roar like no other you’ve heard before.”
Right. Got it. Watch the middle of the pack, soak in the roar from the third turn, watch the middle of the pack ... Okay, I can do this.
I watched the middle of the pack, although I didn’t know what I was watching. So I listened to what everybody around me was saying, but that proved to be as beneficial as watching the middle of the pack.
Bob let me listen to what the pit crews were saying in his red headset. Greek.
Then Bill and I took turns pointing out weird people in the stands (it’s what we do), and then we watched them throw empty beer cans and chicken bones off the screen surrounding the track. That we could relate to.
As for the field coming around the third turn in full throttle, Bob was right. I have still not heard a roar that compares to that one. It was very exciting. So exciting, I just wanted to stand up and roar right along with it.
It was all very exhilarating. Problem is, once your ears adjust to it, once that roar becomes a deep steady hum, and as you sit in the warm sun somewhat sedated by what was in those empty cans now on Chicken Bone Alley, watching something you couldn’t possibly understand, it also becomes very soothing. Very relaxing, actually.
In fact, it became so relaxing, I fell asleep for about 20 minutes, which did not sit well with my once gracious host.
Bill’s left elbow to my right rib cage jolted me awake, and he pointed down to our right, where Bob, his face now as red as his headset, was leaning forward shooting me a glare that would be the envy of any Charlie Lattimer shot an official.
After he accused my parents of not being married when I was born, then called me a couple of other names, one starting with the word “rat,” the other one ending with a word that rhymed with the second word of the first name, he said. “I’m never taking you anywhere again.”
I did see the end of the race, which Bill Elliott won, and then proceeded to try to suck up to Bob for the rest of the weekend, which he would have none of. And, true to his word, he’s never taken me anywhere again, although he did send me to Game 6 of the 1997 American League Championship Series in a stretch limo with his wife and father-in-law.
The Orioles were eliminated that night by the Cleveland Indians in what was a gut-wrenching, depressing loss that kept me awake for weeks, and triggered 14 straight losing seasons by the Orioles.
Aside from Bob still calling me the name that begins with the word “rat,” which I actually take as a great compliment, I’d say we’re even.
Mike Burke is sports editor of the Cumberland Times-News. Write to him at firstname.lastname@example.org
I am so excited about today’s Daytona 500. Not.
- Mike Burke - Sports
Terps need to move and move quickly
The good news is Maryland will never have to play another basketball game in the Atlantic Coast Conference. Goodbye, good riddance, sayonara, smell ya, no more of you, stay classy, we won’t let the door hit us on the way out.
Until we see you in court.
Then again, he’s manager of the Yankees, and I’m not
I went to bed confused Wednesday night, which in itself is nothing new. But having
watched most of the Orioles-Yankees game, including the final three innings, earlier
in the evening, then watching the late Baseball Tonight before I turned in, I was under the impression that the Yankees had won the game when I was pretty sure before watching the show that the Orioles had won.
At times we all should allow for a little flex
Other than when I was a student in the Allegany County Public Schools System, I’ve always believed the most thankless job there is — or at least one of the most thankless jobs there is — belongs to the person who ultimately hits the switch on whether or not to call off school because of the weather. You’re slammed if you do, you’re slammed if you don’t. No matter what you decide it’s no win, but, like managing a baseball team or running a bar, everybody knows they could do it.
A treasured member of the family of baseball
When a former professional football player from our past dies, he is most often remembered as being one tough son of a gun, or a wonderful runner or pass catcher, or as a brilliant quarterback.
Bob Giffin believed in the goodness of us all
The first time the Giffin family exploded onto my radar was at a Fort Hill basketball game years ago in the old Fort Hill gym. Believe it was a City game, which meant the place was packed, the walls were sweating and the smell of popcorn permeated the atmosphere. And through it all marched the family Giffin in perfect formation, tallest in the front, shortest in the back, led by father Lew, mother Donna, oldest son Bob, second son Tom, third son Donnie and fourth son Johnnie.
Redskins do that voodoo that they do so well
This time last year the Washington Redskins were in the midst of a seven-game winning streak on their way to the NFC East title. Mike Shanahan was being hailed as the perfect football presence the franchise had sorely needed for so long. Quarterback Robert Griffin III in the sprint option was being hailed as the single greatest invention since the wheel, and beleaguered Daniel Snyder, the little owner who couldn’t, was being hailed for not even trying as he allowed his two-time Super Bowl winning coach and lord of all things football to pull the strings on all things football.
Fort Hill’s approach is all-inclusive
After Fort Hill opened everybody’s eyes last season in what was supposed to be a rebuilding year (*1), it was a pretty sure bet that the Sentinels, given all of their returning resources, would be making a run for the state championship this year (*2).
What resource will the O’s allocate next?
In November 1993, Dan Duquette, then the general manager of the Montreal Expos, traded second baseman Delino DeShields to the Los Angeles Dodgers for a young pitcher by the name of Pedro Martinez. According to a story in last Sunday’s New York Times, upon completing the deal, Duquette, now general manager of the Baltimore Orioles, told Neal Huntington, then a member of the Expos front office and now the general manager of the Pittsburgh Pirates, “This trade is going to be hated in Montreal.”
No month of Sundays this Friday
With Fort Hill comfortably in control Friday night in its eventual 46-7 1A West Region semifinal victory over Manchester Valley, and with score updates from the other semifinal pouring in from nearby Washington County, Greenway Avenue Stadium was abuzz, for the unthinkable was about to take place — Fort Hill was going to play Hancock.
Ty Johnson works hard, and makes it look easy
Any summer day you might go to Greenway Avenue Stadium to get a little exercise you are likely to see any number of high school athletes there working out — football players, soccer players, basketball players, any kind of player you might want to think of.
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