The Diecast Dude's (Mostly) NASCAR Blah Blah Blog

A Child’s Bracelet

Diecast Dude — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 05:05:29 +0000

The northern edge of Indianapolis is much like the outskirts of many big cities these days, a recent absorption of farmland now buried underneath strip malls and lookalike housing developments. The usual satellite suburbs dot the landscape, enclaves for yuppiefied office dwellers who strive to be in the city but not of it. It’s tempting to subscribe to the cynic’s voice and decry the scene as ersatz country living, but such smug generalizations are as shallow as the man-made parks developers insist on building in such areas in lieu of preserving the patches of nature that were already there, legacies of the soil workers who handed down the land through generations until the current one cashed in their family history for a piece of Starbucks culture. Such places are what their residents make them to be, and should they choose SUVs and latte living, it is their right.

On one of the straight-edge streets that pass for major thoroughfares in such places, one sees what one expects to see: impressive homes separated from the road by massive front yards that make even the stoutest lawn tractor earn its keep, the occasional school here, the odd store or gas station or apartment complex for yuppie wannabes there. A few yards away from an intersection, a driveway somewhat wider than the norm presents itself, flanked on both sides by stonework signs bearing bronze plaques announcing the location.

Oaklawn Memorial Gardens.

The gravesite of Kenny Irwin Jr.

We were there on a sunny Saturday afternoon in late September of 2001, my brother and I. In all honesty I shouldn’t have been there at all, so far from my California home. The horror of September 11th had caused me to cancel a business trip to Atlanta that week, thereby also eliminating a plan to swing through Indiana on my way back. However, family must come before all, so I reached into my own pocket to pay for a weekend flight so I could fulfill my promise to visit my mother and oldest brother after the now-abandoned trip.

It had already been a long day for my brother and I, starting with my first visit to our beloved father’s grave since his passing away in May of 1999. The emotions were still raw as a few hours later we made our way from sleepy Greencastle through thirty miles of quiet farms and tiny towns until we reached our destination. We both noted earlier in the journey having glimpsed what would be the next day’s eagerly anticipated place of visitation: the RCA Dome, where I would finally see my Colts play a home game. However, this was for tomorrow. Today was for another purpose, a purpose that as soon as I knew I was going to Indiana became a personal obligation owed to someone I had never known.

The pleasant woman inside the cemetery office smiled at my inquiry as she handed me a map and circled our destination. We walked up the path she told us to take, commenting how the relative newness of the cemetery — it was opened in the early ’50s — left it minus the ostentatious crypts that marked most Indiana graveyards, which usually date back to the nineteenth century. It could have used some more trees, but it was impeccably maintained; all in all as pleasant a place as could be designed given its thankless task.

We continued up the gently curving path, following the map as it led to a tree isolated in a small island marking where the path became two. All was quiet; with the exception of one car off in the distance we had the place to ourselves. We went to the left, walked a few more yards, and then left the path by stepping onto the thick green grass, quietly gazing upon the brass markers below. A few more feet, and we had arrived. Now absolutely silent, we saw what I had come two thousand miles to see. Rather, not what, but who.

The late Kenny Irwin Jr., killed in an accident during practice at the New Hampshire Motor Speedway on July seventh, 2000.

Kenny Irwin Jr.’s grave marker is a simple bronze slab. A photograph of an awkwardly smiling youth is mounted underneath a glass seal, with a swinging bronze cover providing additional protection from the elements. Some mention is made of his racing career, but no listing of his accomplishments is given: USAC Sprint Car Rookie Of The Year in 1993, USAC Silver Crown Car Rookie Of The Year in 1994, USAC Midget Car Champion in 1996, NASCAR Craftsman Truck Series Rookie Of The Year in 1997, NASCAR Winston Cup Rookie Of The Year in 1998. Instead, prominence is given to personal traits: son, brother, friend. Then and only then, race car driver. Beneath this, words from a hymn: “Our God is an awesome God, He reigns from heaven above with wisdom, power and love.”

Some crumbling mementos lay at the top of the marker, left there by the loving few. A 42, the car number he drove when he died, cut out by hand of white rubber and sitting on a base of oval discs in the colors of the Bell South sponsored car that was his. A faded photograph of a broadly smiling young woman, wearing her obviously hand painted “happy birthday Kenny” t-shirt. A weathered Winners Circle logo pin. Last and most touching of all, a handmade child’s bracelet, its string broken, spelling out I MISS YOU KENNY 42. I knelt down and carefully moved the bracelet, rearranging its message into place where the letters had begun to shift out of line.

So why was I here? I had already dealt that day with visiting the most personal, painful burial place imaginable. Why remind myself of others’ loss? And I wasn’t there because I was a Kenny Irwin Jr. fan. Oh, he seemed like a nice enough kid; I remember a brief appearance he made on QVC once during the Batman and Joker special paint scheme promotion he ran with then-teammate Dale Jarrett where he came off as polite, well-spoken and pleasant. But a fan? No. That wasn’t why I was here. Paying respects to a member of the sport I dearly love? Possibly, but there are many other fallen drivers to who I could go and pay my respects. So why was I here? Why was I now fighting tears?

I knew why.

It was the right thing to do.

When Kenny Irwin Jr. died in an accident during practice at the New Hampshire Motor Speedway on July seventh of 2000, the racing community and overwhelming majority of fans who before that day had derided him as a hack driver who shouldn’t be in a Winston Cup car collectively clucked their tongues, said “gee what a shame,” and then checked their schedule to see what time the race would start that Sunday. There was no tribute lap, no silence at lap 42, no one holding up four and two fingers as they stood to honor him. No massive floral displays of his car number, no one wearing his team hat, no plans for a memorial in his home town, and other than small stickers on the cars during the next race, no mention that he had ever been alive. There was no intense study of the fatal accident, no safety mandates from NASCAR as a result of the crash. No one — no one — save his team owner Felix Sabates and to the surprise of many Tony Stewart, Irwin’s arch rival across the dirt tracks of Indiana where they both honed their craft, seemed to really care all that much that a young man was dead.

Long after the fact, an embittered Kenny Irwin Sr. spoke. He told of the people he never knew existed who had contacted him after his son’s death, telling him of his son’s generosity and charity work on their behalf. He talked about how this news surprised him not in his son having done so, but in that his son, not only a son but also a best friend, had never mentioned he was doing these things. He spoke of the pride he felt the day in 1997 his son was announced as the driver starting the following year of the #28 Texaco car, the car made famous by the late Davey Allison and then Ernie Irvan. He talked about how his son took his eventual dismissal from the ride far better than he did, reassuring his Dad that it’d be all right. Above all, he spoke of his son: his best friend, a young man of faith, and how that shared faith had carried him through the unspeakable agony of performing the act no father in his worst nightmare envisions: not preparing for the eventual, inevitable day when he would be buried by his son, but rather burying his son. It wasn’t fair.

It still wasn’t fair, and never would be fair. It never will be fair. The racing world had demanded the rest of the world stop when its favorite son died at turn four of its most cherished racetrack in February of 2001, not ceasing its caterwauling over the single greatest tragedy in the history of mankind (or so it would seem given the never-ending maudlin sap parade at every race) until September 11th… and even then the meaningless tributes and ghoulish merchandising continued unabated. Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Irwin grieved alone, politely ignored by the racing world in which their son had lost his life, a loss to which the response seemed to be “we don’t care.”

As I knelt down beside the marker and carefully rearranged the child’s bracelet, many emotions stirred deep within. Shame, at how callously and flippantly I had once viewed the men and women who risked death every time they strapped themselves into a race car. Resolve, a dedication to never again take these people for granted. The knowledge that it was no cliché to say I would never watch racing the same way again, now forever mindful of the very real, very fragile humanity behind the machines and high-speed competition. But above all else — far above all else — I felt a quiet emptiness at the realization, the full impact of the reality before me. This was no longer an image on a television or pictures on a Web page. This was cold, final truth. A young man’s body laid in the ground beneath me, a young man who loved to race cars that I watched every Sunday, cars of which I collected little diecast metal replicas. Now he was dead, and I would never see him race again. His family would never see him again. And no matter how fervently one believes in eternal life for those who believe, the quiet emptiness of loss remains.

I said goodbye to Kenny Irwin Jr., told him how by the grace of our God I hope to meet him in heaven one day, and asked him to forgive me. I then stood up as my brother said goodbye to him as well, and then we left, my brother and I. I felt shaken, yet I was okay with that. It was good to be shaken. For I had done what I knew I had to do.

I had done the right thing.

The Kenny Irwin Jr. Memorial Foundations operates the Dare To Dream Camp in New Castle, Indiana. The camp offers a permanent year-round, racing-themed location accommodating underprivileged, at-risk, neglected and abused children between the ages of 6 to 17. For more information about the camp and the foundation, please visit their Website at http://www.kennyirwinjrfoundation.org.

Danica Derangement Syndrome

Diecast Dude — Sun, 27 Jun 2010 05:06:32 +0000

A while back, yours truly mused on the tangible connections between Danica Patrick and Sarah Palin. I have no idea what, if any, political leanings or interest in the genre are part of Mrs. Hospenthal’s persona. Rather, I reference the ability for both to evoke irrational responses both yea and nay. ‘Tis something to behold. Preferably from a safe distance.

I classify myself as an unashamed Danica fan, albeit one who embraces reality. She had a miserable day in today’s Nationwide race at New Hampshire, won by Kyle Busch (yawn). Not a small part of her difficulties stemmed from inexperience in understanding the physical nature of stock car racing at shorter tracks. Although as mentioned yesterday NHIS doesn’t fully qualify as a short track, it’s a far cry from the previous tracks where Danica has run in Nationwide (Daytona, Auto Club and Las Vegas). Not a whole lot of intentional fender rubbin’ at those places. Other than between Carl Edwards and Brad Keselowski, that is. But I digress.

Another element to consider is how Danica is definitely going about her stock car racing career the hard way. More than a few expert open-wheel racers have tried going into NASCAR full-time only to find themselves perpetually struggling, with results far poorer than what they had previously enjoyed (for example, Sam Hornish Jr.) or, for lack of a more genteel description, washing out altogether (Dario Franchitti). And that’s focusing exclusively on stock cars. Trying to learn NASCAR in-between IRL races while doing the latter full-time? Yeepers. For that alone, Danica ought to be admired.

Ought to be.

However, this is Danica we’re talking about, one to whom the laws of logic and this amazing commodity known as “having a clue” routinely are not applied. Hence, displays of dumb such as today’s Twitter stream by Jeff Gluck.

Gluck, more than any other traditional media person presently covering NASCAR, embodies DDS (Danica Derangement Syndrome). He writes and tweets about her incessantly, whining all the way about how he’s only doing so because she’s a Hot Topic. Although you’re far more likely to find a Twilight t-shirt than one for the GoDaddy.com car at one of their stores. But again I digress.

Gluck’s lack of knowledge when it comes to the sport he covers seldom fails to make its presence felt. Today he snarked on Twitter after early race contact between Morgan Shepherd and Danica, one of those situations either driver could have avoided but chose not to, that Shepherd is known for dumping people (/sarcasm off). If he knew the least little bit about Shepherd, he’d know that unlike the present era, which casts him in the role of a quaint old coot in his Jesus-sponsored car, back in his day Shepherd was a good driver not averse to the rough stuff. Guess knowing that’d be too much to ask.

And so Gluck kept on, and on and on and on, about Danica. He openly feuded with some fans of hers who chided him on Twitter, labeling her “an embarrassment” and publicly sulking like a thin-skinned twerp over it all. There are few things more pathetic than those who troll for sympathy by retweeting slams against them. Yes, Gluck did just that. Shocker, eh?

Here’s some helpful advice for the Jeff Glucks of this world, the ones who snark and snipe under the guise of speaking truth to power then cry like spoiled brats whenever called out on same. Read carefully the earlier paragraphs in this post about Danica’s performance today and overall effort thus far in NASCAR. Note the honesty minus personal animus. Instead, a balanced presentation of facts. It’s called reporting. You know — what you get paid to do?

An additional tidbit of wisdom. You’re not the show. Never have been, aren’t now and never will be. Ever.

Racing fans are about the racing. Drivers, cars, tracks, stuff like that. To date there has yet to be a single recorded incident of a fan buying a ticket to a race so they could watch a reporter. Go figure, huh?

The best reporters know this. They gather information and present it in a form that both entertains and informs. They’re not about placing themselves at the center of a personality cult. Their primary goal isn’t gathering applause and shouting “look at me” every time their byline appears. The greatest compliment a reporter can receive isn’t being told what a great story they’ve written. It’s being told by an appreciative reader, listener or viewer how they’ve provided previously unknown knowledge about someone or something. Period.

Yesterday, Dave Weigel, who had been writing a column for the Washington Post about conservative politics, was forced to resign after several vicious comments he had made about some of the people he was reporting on, made in a private e-mail list group of liberal journalists to which he belonged, came to light. While Weigel’s political views were a known quantity all along, he has asserted he was sufficiently professional to put these aside and report with integrity. His unguarded comments indicated otherwise.

The sole difference between Weigel and Gluck is that the former believed his opinions were being expressed privately, whereas Gluck displays his bias in public for all the world to see. A reporter who is openly derisive of someone or something they have been assigned to cover cannot be believed when they bleat it doesn’t matter. Yes, it does.

Gluck’s anti-Danica bias isn’t a professional opinion. It is personality and celebrity-based, bordering on if not completely within the realm of misogyny. He can protest to the skies this is not the case. His own words betray him.

Gluck’s goal is to make a buck. Fair enough; we all have to earn a living. He could do this through accurate, unbiased reporting. Instead, he has chosen to be a pretend tough guy by insulting someone who does what he never could do.

Namely, be a professional.

Weekend In New England, Yatta Yatta Yatta

Diecast Dude — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 15:34:22 +0000

This weekend, while the truckers take a nap the Cupsters and claims jumpers will be making their first visit of the year to New Hampshire.

New Hampshire is a dreary track, partly because of its configuration — at a tick over a mile, too long to be a short track, and far too flat to generate much in the way of racing excitement — but mostly due to its history. Ten years have not erased the stains off its walls where first Adam Petty and then Kenny Irwin Jr. died.

Back to the present. The Nationwide race, unless you’re transfixed by the points battle between Brad Keselowski and Carl Edwards (and who is… er, isn’t), will be noticeable mostly for the presence of Paul Hospenthal’s wife, somewhat better known as Danica Patrick. While her being there will, but of course, bring out the haters in full force — here’s looking at you, Jeff Gluck — it also puts fans in the seats. And viewers in front of televisions. Which, be it directly or indirectly, pays the salaries of said haters who are members of the media. So perhaps they should STFU. Or prove they’re big tough boys by, instead of belittling Danica, ripping on Dale Earnhardt Jr. and not hiding their fat face from fans at NASCAR races.

As to the Cup side of things, the overriding theme this weekend seems to be who’ll wreck who, who doesn’t respect who, blah blah blah. Whatever. While certainly drivers cannot allow themselves to be pushed around, it would be preferable for cooler heads on all sides to prevail. In case no one’s noticed, neither the #45 Sprint nor the #42 BellSouth cars will be in the race this weekend. Best to avoid stupidity running the risk of their being a third car on that last.

Enjoy the weekend, everyone.

Twilight Or First Rays Of The New Dawn For Bobby Labonte?

Diecast Dude — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 05:38:38 +0000

Bobby Labonte. As if you didn't know that.

The news that Bobby Labonte has severed ties with the #71 team and is now free-lancing, this weekend at New Hampshire running Robby Gordon’s #7 car while Gordon is occupied elsewhere and then taking a couple of turns in the #09, invokes a sense of relief rather than ruminations on a career reaching an end.

Outside of maybe Kurt Busch, Labonte is the least recognized champion of the modern era. Some of this may be due to how his title run in 2000 thwarted what turned out to be Dale Earnhardt’s final run at an eighth Winston Cup, although given how he won by 265 points in those pre-Chase days it’s not like he squeaked in. The fact that Labonte leans toward being a laconic, laid-back person probably contributes to his low-key standing. It’s not that Labonte lacks for fans; one would be hard-pressed to find anyone in the stands or garage who doesn’t like him. He’s just cool like that.

The hope is that Labonte can give some peer pointers to Gordon, who hasn’t been setting the world on fire this year, although his second place finish at Infineon this past Sunday was a pleasant change of pace. Whether he’ll be able to wrestle anything out of the car at New Hampshire remains to be seen.

The other hope is Labonte isn’t turning into a scuffling journeyman, wandering from team to team. A good showing this weekend would go a long way toward dispelling that notion. If he’s a rolling speed bump, though, one has to wonder.

Now Playing At A New England Household… Multitude Of Them, Actually

Diecast Dude — Wed, 23 Jun 2010 15:13:52 +0000

“Honey?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Why is our daughter running around the house making zoom-zoom noises?”

“Oh, she’s just pretending she’s Danica.”

“Since when does yogurt make sounds like that? And why is she pretending to be…”

“No, dear. Not Dannon. Danica.”

“Who?”

“You sound like Amanda Brookman.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Danica Patrick, dear. She’s a race car driver.”

“Since when has our daughter cared about race cars?”

“Since she found out there’s a woman driver… and what a woman…”

“What?”

“Nothing, dear. Anyway, Danica’s her new hero. We’re going to see her this Saturday.”

“See here where?”

“At a race track in New Hampshire. She’s racing.”

“There’s a race track in New Hampshire?”

“Yes, dear. It’s an oval.”

“You say that like it’s supposed to mean something to me.”

“An oval track is… well, oval-shaped.”

“So everyone drives in a circle?”

“Pretty much.”

“Oh, that sounds like a challenge. Tell this Danica person to try maneuvering a SUV in and around fifty others when it’s time to pick your kids up from school.”

“Yes, dear. Try driving at a hundred and thirty miles an hour with cars on all sides inches away from you. Anyway, Danica’s racing at New Hampshire this weekend, and I’m taking Chelsea. It’ll be some daddy-daughter time.”

“More like ‘daddy wrapped around daughter’s little finger’ time. So what kind of racing is this, anyway? Is it like what that cute Helio does? I loved him on Dancing With The Stars.”

“Well, Danica does race in that series. But it won’t be at New Hampshire this weekend. Next year, though. No, this is a different series.”

“Which one?”

“Um… well… NASCAR.”

“What?”

“NASCAR.”

“WHAT?!!”

“Er… NASCAR.”

“You’re taking MY child to NASCAR?”

“Now, dear, she wants to see Danica, and…”

“And nothing! I absolutely forbid it!”

“Now, dear…”

“Don’t ‘now, dear’ me! Under no circumstances will I allow my child to be in a crowd of beer-swilling, foul-mouthed, uneducated, unshaven, unkempt, trailer-trash, redneck…”

“Go ahead and say it, dear.”

“… REPUBLICANS!”

“And you know all this how?”

“I’m well informed!”

“You can’t believe anything you read in the New York Times, dear. Regardless of what you’ve ‘heard,’ the overwhelming majority of NASCAR fans can read and write, have day jobs and don’t change toothbrushes by switching fingers. Also, there are going to be a lot of dads there with their daughters, just like Chelsea and I, to see Danica. I won’t be bringing our daughter home with two tattoos and Budweiser on her breath, promise.”

“Well… if she has her heart set on it, all right. But I’m still not happy about it.”

“Here, dear. I have an idea. Why don’t you come with us to the race?”

“Have you lost your mind? I’d be bored stiff! What possible reason could I have for going?”

“The skill… the competition… oh, and this guy will be driving.”

“So what do you say, dear? Dear? Are you in there? What do you say?”

“BOOGITY BOOGITY BOOGITY!”

“Works every time.”

Someone Doing You Wrong Doesn’t Mean You Can Do It Wrong

Diecast Dude — Tue, 22 Jun 2010 14:54:58 +0000

Robbie Loomis, back when he was Jeff Gordon's crew chief.

Speaking of looney tunes, about last Sunday…

One of the fundamental cliches in sports is “don’t beat yourself.” Running parallel to this is the axiom about how if your opponent seems bound and determined to beat themselves, by all means let them. Regardless of the sport involved, both of these factoids ring true.

That said, in auto racing the latter tidbit is oft imperiled by the minor detail of how drivers beating themselves usually invite their fellow drivers along for the ride. Which usually ends where the wall begins. Drivers who are bound and determined to beat themselves by beating their car into an unwinnable condition need something, or to be more precise someone, against whom they can pulverize their paycheck. Almost invariably it’s a situation where aggression and/or temper tell common sense to get in, sit down, shut up and hang on. Why? Because it’s on. Never mind it puts the possibility of winning, or more often than not so much as finishing, firmly in the “off” position.

Such was the case at Infineon, where Juan Pablo Montoya and Jeff Gordon done did themselves and everyone else wrong by driving like everyone else on the track would be better served through trying things off-road style. Let’s focus on Gordon, since he was the one who invoked the greatest amount of wrath among his fellow competitors, many of whom were of the correctly stated position that they had no dog in this fight so why are you turning my car into a mangy mutt.

Being an unashamed and unabashed Gordon fan, it’s more than a bit painful watching a four-time champion run a course he used to have in his back pocket like his sole driving experience was Tuck and Roll’s Drive’Em Buggies. He was out of control, and all the mea culpas issued after the race don’t atone for the fact Gordon would have been far better off letting Ella drive this past Sunday.

So what was the deal?

Earlier this year, in an interview (will link to it if I can find it) Ray Evernham, he who was Chad Knaus to Gordon’s Jimmie Johnson before Knaus and Johnson were… well, Knaus and Johnson, made the comment, in reference to Gordon, that he suspected part of the reason why the drive for five has been stuck in-between gears since 2001 is the lack of a crew chief willing to talk to Gordon during the race in something other than reverent hushed tones. Even the greatest of drivers need a voice at the other end of the radio reminding them of the basics: watch your speed on pit road, don’t spin your tires on the restart and while you’re at it don’t hit the guy in front of you either. That, and when called for the occasional tongue-lashing regardless of cost. Lance McGrew temporarily entered the witness protection program after telling Dale Earnhardt Jr. to not lay down on him at Bristol earlier this year, but the message served its purpose.

Ever since Robbie Loomis’ outside distractions (illness in the family) started him on the downward spiral in terms of effectiveness as a crew chief, Gordon hasn’t had that kind of voice in his ear. Steve Letarte has enough problems hitting the setup at most races. Not exactly dealing from a position of strength when it comes time to reel in his driver. Which, even when the car is running well, he either will not or cannot do.

So what to do?

Pleasant dreams about Evernham wanting back in the game sufficiently to where he and GEM are able to work out a release from his contract with them and put him back atop the #24 pit box aside, Letarte needs to borrow a can or two of AMP from his teammate and tell Gordon to junk the funk when he gets in one of his moods. Gordon is too young to have lost any of his driving ability. What he does need to lose is a penchant for antics such as what we saw this past Sunday at Infineon. Fast. Otherwise, going fast will remain elusive. Someone doing you wrong doesn’t mean you can do it wrong. If you’re hoping to get it right, that is.

A Looney Tunes Day For The Tasmanian Devil

Diecast Dude — Tue, 22 Jun 2010 05:34:10 +0000

Races such as what we witnessed this past Sunday at Infineon have far too many subplots and subterfuge (or at least accusations thereof) to possibly run through in a single blog post. Therefore, won’t try. Instead, let’s tackle one topic at a time. First up on the list is how the fickle finger of fate turned into a foot and kangaroo kicked Marcos Ambrose.

Leaving aside for now certain drivers, to be named in a later post, who seemed bound and determined to take themselves out of competition along with anyone within wine bottle throwing distance, the only drivers who had a legitimate shot at winning this year’s Toyota Save Mart 350 at Infineon Raceway were Jimmie Johnson and the aforementioned Mr. Ambrose. At first it seemed that Johnson had it in the bag, or box as in boxed wine which can occasionally be found in Napa Valley being sold on shadowy street corners to kids who’ve graduated from Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill to the next level. But I digress. Anyway, Johnson was being… well, Johnson; the überking of California cool who along with his partner in trophy hoisting Chad Knaus were taking a leisurely Sunday drive, enjoying the view. Of no one in front of the #48, that is.

Then along came Ambrose, figuring since not only was he carrying the colors of local company Clorox — you know their headquarters are in Oakland, correct? — his car, being numbered 47 and therefore being one lower than the Lowe’s machine, should rightly be one spot higher in the running so as to avoid any feelings of inadequacy requiring a group hug by everyone attending the race in tie-dye. Now, for the benefit of those whose familiarity with Ambrose extends only to his NASCAR career, Ambrose won two Australian V8 Supercar championships before deciding to try his hand at stock car racing American style. Along the way he earned the nickname Tasmanian Devil, which has nothing to do with any affection he may have for Warner Bros. cartoons. The epitome of positive cheeriness out of the car, once behind the wheel Ambrose immediately flips his Jekyll/Hyde switch to the nasty position and has at it. No quarter, no mercy and I don’t care who you are; the only way around me is… uh, wait, there isn’t one if I can possibly help it.

And oh yes, he’s great at road course racing.

Ambrose, unlike certain drivers to be named in a later post, was determined to not beat himself at Infineon. He was rewarded by being in the lead during a late race caution, with only Johnson to possibly worry about. However, Ambrose had demonstrated during the preceding stretch of green flag action that he was going to be the better of Johnson this day. Victory, his first ever in Sprint Cup, was within reach. All he had to do is…

… conserve fuel in case there was to be any green-white-I’d-like-to-thank-my-sponsors action, which given how certain drivers to be named in a later post were comporting themselves seemed darn near inevitable. And so, Ambrose did what countless drivers have done before in countless races, and doubtless more than a few behind him were doing that day. He switched off the engine for a moment, content to let the car coast. He’d then turn the engine back on and resume regular driving activity. Everyone’s done or is doing it. No problem.

There was a problem, though.

The car didn’t restart before coming to a dead stop.

Now, NASCAR was in a pickle. The rule book, or at least the portion not kept in a hiding place so secret it makes finding the Ark of the Covenant seem like working a junior edition of Where’s Waldo, says the leader has to maintain a reasonable speed when the race is under caution. Or at least be faster than Scott Speed. It was hard to read the whiteboard upon which all rules are written when it’s in full sun. Anyway, NASCAR decided to follow the letter of the law. To seventh place with ye on the restart! Ambrose wound up finishing sixth on the day due to NASCAR’s ruling.

A ruling that managed to be simultaneously correct and wrong.

Did Ambrose maintain a reasonable speed? No. That duly noted, was he able to re-fire his car without assistance while the caution was still going? Yes. So why penalize him for a situation that in no fashion impacted the active portion of the proceedings, either before or after the caution? If there’s a situation where picking nits deserves to be punted, this is one.

However, as Ambrose noted following the race, it is NASCAR’s house and NASCAR’s rules. Still, one wishes in this instance NASCAR would have done as it has dome more than a few times in recent years: embrace the philosophy of no harm, no foul and let things slide. Would it have hurt the sport’s integrity? Not in the least. But they didn’t see it that way. Ah well.

And the final insult?

There was no green-white-I’d-like-to-thank-my-sponsors finish.

Allow Me To Re-Introduce Myself

Diecast Dude — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 20:45:01 +0000

The Diecast Dude’s (Mostly) NASCAR Blah Blah Blog has been in existence at assorted locations since August of 2003, thus making it — well, me — something of a grandfather in terms of NASCAR blogging. Or a godfather. Although I’d rather cry “Abba, Father.”

Although most of my NASCAR blogging was at Restrictor Plate This on behalf of SportsBlogs Nation between April of 2007 and November of 2008, this site remained active. Before I started my gig with SBN, this was quite the rollickin’ place, with daily dissertations on all things NASCAR. Plus the occasional disappearance down rabbit holes, and sometimes into polar bear habitats.

Alas, life has not been prone toward lending me sufficient time for this place in recent months… er, years. The book God’s Not Dead (And Neither Are We), which is soon to be re-released under the title First And Forgotten, was the main reason why I left SBN. My intention was to resume normal operations here once the book came out, which it did back in April of 2009. But, as has been noticed by more than a few, hasn’t happened.

Yet.

I’ve come to deeply miss this place. I richly enjoyed mixing the silly, sardonic and sacred as I strove to inform along with entertain NASCAR fans, while providing those yet to be fans with something hopefully standing on its own as reading material worth the time to… well, read. I didn’t enjoy as much the frequent battles brought on by my penchant for speaking the truth, as I saw it, to power. I’m working on changing that to speaking the truth in love. It’ll be just as blunt, but hopefully done for the right reasons.

I’ve also come to falling back in love with NASCAR and IRL and NHRA, enjoying the skill and competition and stories each league tells. I’d lost that for a good long while. It happens. I’d also lost much of my burning passion for writing. Happens as well. Fully recovered I am not (speaking in Yoda-ish, I am). But I’m at least off life support and breathing on my own now.

So much of what I have today in terms of online friends, communications made and lives touched by the grace of God working through rumbling stumbling bumbling fumbling me to help others stems from this blog’s first go-round before RPT. While I don’t regret the experience, I do regret losing my voice as I tried mightily to be a “real” sportswriter. I’m not. Oh, I can do it; churning out written product to be consumed by the masses. But I’d much, much rather tell stories among a small circle of friends.

That’s the story. Whether getting back to the me writing-wise I once was will be a permanent or brief event I do not know. This I do know: I need to do this. I need to walk this road once more. Now more than ever. Hopefully, prayerfully, you’ll be interested in my modest scribbles as they appear along the way.

June 21, 2010

P.S. And now, to answer the 64¢ question… from whence the nickname “Diecast Dude” originated. It goes like this: in a previous life I worked at a department store. I was in charge of toys, which could be quite a challenge given all the yelling, screaming and temper tantrums. But enough about the parents. Anyway, one of my co-workers was, for whatever reason, fond of referring to us department heads by the name of our department followed by “dude” — snacks dude, OTC dude and so on. Which led to me being called the toy dude. Given my fondness, now mostly subsided, for collecting diecast cars, I said “shouldn’t that be ‘diecast dude?’” Which sounded cooler. And thus the nickname was born.

Man, Am I Relating To This Song Right Now…

Diecast Dude — Sun, 20 Jun 2010 06:00:03 +0000

… especially in terms of trying to get back into writing this blog.

Jeff Gordon, Jimmie Johnson and Dale Earnhardt Jr. Come Together in an Initiative to Refresh America’s Communities

Diecast Dude — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 19:28:54 +0000

(From a PepsiCo press release)

Jeff Gordon, Jimmie Johnson and Dale Earnhardt Jr. Come Together in an Initiative to Refresh America’s Communities

Hendrick Motorsports Drivers to Campaign for Pepsi Refresh Project Ideas on NASCAR.com

PURCHASE, N.Y., June 4 — Starting today, Jeff Gordon, Jimmie Johnson, and Dale Earnhardt Jr. are asking fans to join them in making a difference in America’s communities through the Pepsi Refresh Project. Now through June 23, NASCAR fans are encouraged to visit www.NASCAR.com/PepsiRefresh to vote for the idea they believe should receive a grant from the Pepsi Refresh Project.

Each of the three Hendrick Motorsports drivers has outlined an idea for a project about which they are passionate.

  --  Gordon: establishing a program to support the treatment, care and
      protection of abused children
  --  Johnson: providing financial relief to pediatric bone marrow
      transplant patients
  --  Earnhardt: building a computer lab for elementary students

The driver’s idea with the most votes by 6:00 p.m. EDT on Wednesday, June 23 will receive a $100,000 grant from the Pepsi Refresh Project to fulfill their idea.

Gordon’s initiative would support abused children through treatment, care, and protection at the Children’s Advocacy Center (CAC) at Jeff Gordon Children’s Hospital in North Carolina. The grant would fund a new Child Life Program that aids physically and sexually abused youth by supporting them through age-specific therapeutic play and rapport-building. This child-sensitive approach emphasizes early intervention, coordinated investigations and allied responses to this growing community problem.

“One in five boys and one in three girls are sexually or physically abused in the United States, which is a shocking and ugly statistic,” said Gordon. “With the Pepsi Refresh Project, we’re hoping to help the long-term physical and emotional health of these innocent children.”

Johnson’s project focuses on providing financial relief to pediatric transplant patients by assisting with uninsured expenses after transplant through the Be The Match Foundation’s Transplant Grants for Kids program. On average, marrow transplant families experience a $1,472 shortfall between their current monthly income and monthly expenses due to increased medical bills and often the loss of a parent’s income.

“With the Pepsi Refresh Project, it is easy to make a difference, all you need is an idea,” said Johnson. “While a marrow transplant can be a life-saving treatment, it takes a significant financial toll on a family. This project gives us an avenue to help families with their uninsured expenses.”

Earnhardt is hoping to secure the grant to support technology needs at Shepherd Elementary School in Mooresville, NC, a school that desperately needs better equipment to help enrich the lives of its many students. Funds will be used to build a new computer lab, purchase 20 new computers, and a SMART board.

“Our future lies in the hands of our children but they cannot acquire the skills they need to compete in a digital world when they don’t have the essential tools,” said Earnhardt. “A Pepsi Refresh grant is a quick and easy way to make a positive impact on America’s communities.”

The Pepsi Refresh Project is a groundbreaking effort to foster innovation in social good that will award more than $20 million this year to fund great ideas that help impact the world. Throughout 2010, Pepsi will fund ideas that will move the world forward in six categories: Health, Arts & Culture, Food & Shelter, The Planet, Neighborhoods and Education. The Pepsi Refresh Project, which launched Jan. 13, features significant social engagement around people and the power of ideas. People are encouraged to submit their ideas and to cast a vote for their favorite ideas at www.refresheverything.com.

About Pepsi

Pepsi is a product of PepsiCo Beverages Americas (PBA). In addition to the Pepsi trademark, the PBA portfolio includes the Mountain Dew, Sierra Mist and Mug trademarks in the carbonated soft drink category. PBA is a division of PepsiCo, Inc., which offers the world’s largest portfolio of billion-dollar food and beverage brands, including 19 different product lines that each generates more than $1 billion in annual retail sales. Our main businesses – Frito-Lay, Quaker, Pepsi-Cola, Tropicana and Gatorade – also make hundreds of other nourishing, tasty foods and drinks that bring joy to our consumers in more than 200 countries. With annualized revenues of nearly $60 billion, PepsiCo’s people are united by our unique commitment to sustainable growth, called Performance with Purpose. By dedicating ourselves to offering a broad array of choices for healthy, convenient and fun nourishment, reducing our environmental impact, and fostering a diverse and inclusive workplace culture, PepsiCo balances strong financial returns with giving back to our communities worldwide. In recognition of its continued sustainability efforts, PepsiCo was named for the third time to the Dow Jones Sustainability World Index (DJSI World) and for the fourth time to the Dow Jones Sustainability North America Index (DJSI North America) in 2009. For more information, please visit www.pepsico.com.

Source: PepsiCo North America