There's an Iggy Pop song called "Gimme Danger." The tune is haunting, although the words have almost nothing to do with what I'm about to discuss.
Those two words came to me every time I thought about what to write on a touchy subject, and I'll admit to some reservation in writing it at all.
Arguing with aggrieved NASCAR fans is like trying to explain something to your ex-wife -- you cant win.
Another quote brings it closer to home. Former world champion Jackie Stewart recalled a pre-season drivers meeting in the 1970s and looking around and wondering, en brogue, "which of these men I wouldn't see at next year's meeting."
Yes, friends, the possibility of death on the track loomed large then, and before, not just in Grand Prix racing but in midget and sprint-car shows in the Tommy Hinnerschitz days. The Nurburgring, that 16-mile monstrosity through the German forests, was billed as the world's most lethal track. Anyone remember Langhorne Speedway, outside Philadelphia? Bill Vuckovich? Eddie Sachs?
The now-gone Indianapolis News annually published the "official" record book of the 500-Mile Race. On a full page in the back was "Died at the Speedway", a list that included not only drivers and crewmen but spectators and innocent bystanders.
The most moving moment before any Indy 500 is the playing of "Taps." The tune began as sort of a lights-out signal during the Civil War. Through time, it became a salute to fallen heroes, a reminder of the ultimate sacrifice. Something about "Taps" brings a respectful hush to the quarter-million people in the stands, and the 33 drivers ready to risk it all on the bricks.
To sum it up, danger and death always have circled motor tracks with the racers -- a dark presence just over the horizon, a devil that could rise and strike at any time. And, without getting too Hemingway, and whether the customers admit it or not, that is some large part of the appeal of any sport that crosses the edge of safety.
Don't get me wrong. I don't want to see anyone die. I've seen a few fatal racing wrecks, and you find yourself surprised how the effect of death diminishes the more of it you see.
We call our racers heroes, but every hero will tell you there's no such thing as a hero. I saw my duty and did it, they say, or anybody else would have done the same thing, or, as blinded Peter Griffin said before fainting, "That place was on fire?"
To most of us, speed is dangerous. To racers, it's just part of the game. The object of the game is to win the race, and he who goes fastest is likeliest to win. How many times have you heard a racer say, You don't notice the speed until you hit something.
But let's get real here. Speed kills. Yes, the racers say, you could die falling out of bed in the morning. Yes, he died doing what he loved to do. Blah, blah, blah. That's how racers -- men not noted for their description skills -- rationalize death and danger.
But the customers want to see heroes, and hence they want to see danger, and hence, deep down, they understand that amid all the noise and color and finish-line action and parking-lot cookouts, they want to see men step willingly over that line.
What they've done though, as have (to a lesser degree) the moguls of the NFL, is to move the edge of danger outward, out past a limit where mere games end and true heroism kicks in.
The idea for this commentary came to me during football season, when it hit home that modern NFL football isn't football the way I remember it. The NFL delivers a good product, with suspenseful games and well-matched teams for the most part. But the latest regs on hitting -- when and on whom and on what parts of the body -- have sissified the game. The old Jim Brown/Dick Butkus/Johnny Unitas kind of football is gone.
As I say, I don't want to see anyone die, or be badly hurt. Soft walls, improved seats, HANS restraints, and yes, even some of the safety aspects of the "car of tomorrow" (such as moving the driver toward the center of the vehicle and away from the doors) certainly have kept many drivers healthy and ready to race another day. I'm all for it.
On the other hand, NASCAR continues to worry about declines in ratings and attendance, and it constantly tinkers with the product (such phony devices as green-white-checkers and the like) to keep tension in the game.
What they've done though, as have (to a lesser degree) the moguls of the NFL, is to move the edge of danger outward, out past a limit where mere games end and true heroism kicks in.
Heroism, no matter what the heroes tell you, comes from looking death in the eye and staring it down. In its essence, it's a long, cold-blooded look, as between a hunting dog and a bear, with no attempt by either side to laugh it off or make light of it.
Racers accept it, although part of their defense is in a simple "it won't happen to me." They believe this, and that settles it.
But from time to time, they all have to face it. Mark Martin, one of the true old pros, has been taking these kinds of risks all his life. He recalled once in the early 1990s at Talladega. His car was put out of control at 200mph and skidded toward a narrow gap between two concrete wall abutments. "I knew I was going to die," said Martin, who does not talk this way very often. He and his car made it through the gap with a couple inches to spare on either side.
Really, the way the cars race these days, there is far more excitement inside the cockpits than is apparent from the
grandstands. "You think this is boring?" Michael Waltrip asked the press after a particularly boring race a few years ago. "Then try driving it."
True. Listening to driver descriptions of the two-car push-packs at Daytona last week brought that back to mind. The fastest way to go was to nose up under the bumper of a car in front of you, thus neatly cutting a 40-car field into a field of 20 racing unities.
The problem was that the driver behind could not see in front of him and therefore had to rely entirely on his spotter to tell him what was ahead of the car in front. You couldn't get me to do that at 60 mph, much less 200.
The great Earnhardt put his finger exactly on it in one of his frequent protests against restricted racing. "Move the stands back, take the plates off, and let us race," he'd say. Bill Elliott would say that 230 or 240 mph probably was the limit of coordination in a "stock" car, but drag racers would scoff at that, at least for a quarter-mile. It's not just speed that makes heroes.
No, it's that spectre, that dark-robed figure who may or may not be present every time they drop the green flag.
NASCAR, and everyone else has debated the apparent sag in the popularity of motorsport, which peaked in the late 1990s. Some point to the economy, some say the death of Earnhardt, some believe it has to do with the retirement of some of the older heroes and the present group of colorless players.
(Colorless? What more color do you need than Kevin Harvick, say, or Kyle Busch?)
Racers look for the edge and sometimes cross it. The customers also tread a fine line. When racing is just another game, do we take it as seriously? Do you like it fine, what it's become? Or ...
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