"Closure"
By Jessi Zeller (RockOn15NAPAChevy)
August 13, 2004 2:29:18 AM--October 10, 2004 11:54:41 PM

Disclaimer: This is based on the events of the Pepsi 400 on July 7th, 2001. What happened in the last six laps is as accurate as I could make it by carefully studying the tape of the race, except for the thoughts and radio communication of Michael and his team. The events in the second chapter are all made up by me. Michael Waltrip, Dale Jr., and any other person that a NASCAR fan will recognize are real people, which I have hopefully done a good job at portraying realistically. The fans in the grandstand are not based on anyone I have known or seen.

Summary: The last six laps of the 2001 Pepsi 400 and until about five in the morning the following day.

Dedication: To Michael Waltrip, Dale Jr., Steve Park, and everyone who was emotionally affected by this race.

Rating: PG

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Chapter 1


Caution.

Michael Waltrip gripped the steering wheel of his #15 NAPA Auto Parts Chevrolet in anticipation of the last laps of the Pepsi 400. There was electricity in the balmy night air—he could feel it all around him. It made him tense, ready, eager. Every miniscule vibration made by his car’s motor coursed through his body like liquid fire. The restart would be soon now.

He glanced once in his rearview mirror. Elliott Sadler, in the #21 Wood Brother’s Ford, scrubbed his tires behind him, swerving smoothly in and out of the mirror’s range. During the pit stops just a few minutes ago—after Mike Skinner and several other drivers wrecked entering pit road, bringing out the second caution of the night—the young driver had beat Michael to the line. But instead of taking his rightful place of fourteenth, he had slowed and waved on the 15. Michael had felt a strange sort of reluctant pride at that moment. His spotter told him that Elliott wanted Michael in front of him. “He says you’re going to the front,” the spotter had reported. “And he wants you to pull him with you.”

Reminded by his newfound drafting partner’s tire-cleaning behind him, Michael took the wheel tightly in his hands and yanked it back and forth. Most drivers scrubbed with wide, graceful sweeps, but he preferred quick and rigorous jerks. To and fro, the NAPA Stars and Stripes Chevy went as they plodded along—plodded, as in above the speed limit for most United Sates highways. But it felt like a plod to the two score NASCAR Winston Cup drivers that had survived one hundred and fifty laps of door-to-door hardcore racing. When the green flag was flown, they would be hurtling forward at nearly two hundred miles per hour. Seventy just doesn’t seem fast anymore when one’s been at those speeds.

“The green’s this time around,” the spotter said in Michael’s radio. “Get ready.”

Oh, I’m ready, Michael thought. I am ready. I wanna go.

Another voice greeted him. “Hey Mikey,” crew chief Steve Hmiel said.

“Yup,” Michael replied.

“Just take it easy out there. It’s gonna be wild.”

Michael silently agreed. “Where’s Dale Jr.?” he asked. “I can see him scuffing the tires, but I can’t judge exactly where he is.”

“Eight cars ahead of you, in sixth. Is the 21 gonna stay with you?”

Michael shrugged, even though Steve couldn’t see him. “I think so. He let me pass him on the apron, because he says I’m going to the front. And I will. I’ll try.” After a pause, he added, “I will.”

“Turn 4,” the spotter broke in. “There’ll be six to go when you come to the line.”

“All right man,” Steve said. “It’s up to you now. Good luck out there.”

“Luck?” Michael said. “I don’t believe in luck. I make my own.”

Steve chuckled. “Whatever you say, Mikey. Race hard, race clean, and keep your eyes open.”

Wide open, Michael thought. Keep ‘em wide open, run it wide open.

Seemingly glowing under the bright lights of the track, he could see the start/finish line under the flagman’s stand as the field entered the tri-oval. All his senses became sharply acute. The green of the flag held in the flagman’s clutches was like a beacon. The fans in the grandstands were distinct and detailed as he passed them by. Red, blue, white, yellow they wore, shouting and pumping their fists as thousands rose as one. One girl wearing red, with a 9 on her hat. One small child whose hero was Dale Jarrett. One scruffy man, all in black, a large, bold 3 sprawled out on his T-shirt, watching him intently as he drove by. Michael’s eyes lingered a little longer on him. His heart began to pound in his chest, and his fingers trembled slightly as he flexed them one more time before curling them around the steering wheel. He swallowed hard and said a small prayer in his head.

Then he riveted his eyes on the back bumper of Todd Bodine’s #66 Ford. Out of the corner of his eye, he could just see his friend, Johnny Benson, come around the first turn of the tri-oval. The flagman raised the green banner wrapped around its handle, looking down on the cars slipping toward him. A second later, he leaned over the side of the stand and unfurled it. It waved through the air.

“Green green green!” the spotter shouted in Michael’s ear.

Michael’s right foot pressed down on the gas, and the NAPA Chevy lurched forward with a zealous roar. The engine was robbed the horsepower that it normally had on non-restrictor plate tracks, but it screamed and surged with force nonetheless. The thrill and exhilaration of it all flowed through Michael’s blood. But he was also oddly calm. He laid back a bit and shifted into third gear as the warning light on the tachometer flashed. Following Bodine, he made sure to keep an eye out, as Steve had told him. Elliott Sadler stuck to him in the 21, like he had said.

Thirty-one degrees of banking loomed up before him, and he dove down to the bottom of Turn 1. It was like falling off a cliff. When Michael was young, it had frightened him, but now he craved the suddenness of it. In the center of the corner Michael shifted into fourth. The car was fast. He was already gaining on Bodine, and knew that he would be able to pass him soon. But not yet. He’d let himself get up to speed before he started to claw his way to the front.

“Clear all around,” the spotter said. “You’re coming up on the 2, 28, 99, and the leaders.”

And he was. The world leveled out again as they swooped onto the backstretch. He saw a glimpse of white far ahead of him. Was that Dale Jr.? But that didn’t matter at the present. Before he could start worrying about him, he needed to get there first. He eyed the pack of cars in front of him. They were stacked up two-wide going into Turn 3. Michael took his car up high, tucking up behind Rusty Wallace and Ricky Rudd in the tri-oval. They passed Bodine, and then, seeing an opening, Michael shot down again, slipping by Wallace and Rudd like it was nothing. Wow, he allowed himself to think dully. Jeff Burton went up high in front of Rudd, and Michael set his sights upon his brother Ward in the bright yellow-and-black Caterpillar car. He had made it into the lead pack, which was pulsating with movement. His spotter gave him eyes he could not have in a comforting monotone. “The 28’s up high, up high. Now it’s the 99. Keep digging—you’re almost there.”

As they came out of Turn 4, Michael swung low, skimming the yellow line. A puff of brown smoke was kicked up as he drove through some quickie dry, but this he ignored. He got a nose under the 22 and gently forced him to the right. The elder Burton reacted with a jerk, which caused Michael to hesitate for a split second, and then the yellow car slid into the middle and almost immediately began to fall backwards. “Three-wide, you’re on the bottom.” Michael’s windshield was full of the neon orange of Tony Stewart, then quickly replaced by the equally neon green of his teammate Bobby Labonte as the latter ducked down to the bottom. Above, the pack heaved and receded, though all Michael could see were single cars or sometimes pairs in his side window. Ahead, Stewart made it three-wide with Dave Blaney and Jeremy Mayfield. Blaney, stuck in the middle, dropped like a stone, forcing the 7 car of Mike Wallace back with him. “Stay low, very low!” the spotter said urgently. “Three-wide!”

Michael smiled grimly at the excitement in his spotter’s voice. The black and yellow of the 7 car darted by his window, and then the white of Blaney. And then there was nothing but open space and the wall.

“Clear above,” the spotter announced. Then, with clear joy, “Dale Jr. just took the lead!” After that, all back to business, “Car high, car high,” as Jeff Burton rode up beside Michael.

The tri-oval racing was wild. The 99 Citgo Ford suddenly became larger in Michael’s side window, and Michael instinctively pulled down lower, even as Labonte did in front of him. To avoid slipping below the yellow line, Michael pulled the car back up, moving a half a lane higher and nearly touching the younger Burton’s side panel with his own. Just as he did that, Stewart dipped below the forbidden line to pass Johnny Benson for second. Benson got caught in the middle and began the inevitable freefall. “Car high, high. Three-wide! You’re on the bottom. All clear, man, all clear. Five to go.”

They were at full speed now. Michael swiftly scanned what was happening in front of him when he reached the semi-relaxation of the backstretch. A white car in the lead, snug against the wall. Junior, Michael realized. An orange car behind him, Stewart. “NASCAR’s black-flagging the 20,” the spotter relayed. “You’re in fourth, Mikey, great job.”

Black-flagging him, huh? Michael thought wryly. Don’t look like he’s driving like he’s been black-flagged. I’d love to hear what he’s saying on his radio now.

Michael remained behind Labonte for a lap, waiting for his moment. On the last stretch of the back straightaway, entering Turn 3, Stewart didn’t dive down quick enough. His teammate got a run on him and forced him upstairs. “Two-wide ahead o’ yah!” Labonte’s green Pontiac blew by Stewart’s, but not before he, too, passed below the yellow line, but just barely. Michael laughed to himself as he followed Labonte and Stewart faded into his rearview mirror. If he gets black-flagged too, it sure won’t be a happy Monday in the Gibbs shop.

“You’re in third! The 18’s in front o’ you, 25’s behind. The 8’s just one car ahead!”

Michael glanced in the mirror. Where’d Sadler go?

Through the tri-oval, one hundred ninety miles per hour. Every few seconds a bit of a white bumper, laced like a baseball, would pop into Michael’s view. He was searching for a line, maybe, or playing with Labonte, killing his momentum each time he veered off to the side. Michael could almost see the wall of air that assaulted the front of the 18 as Junior darted left, then right. “He wants you,” the spotter said. “The 8 knows you’re coming. Three to go.”

“Tell him I’m working on it,” Michael replied, the first time he’d spoken during the entire run.

In Turns 1 and 2 Dale ran amazingly high. Labonte stayed low, but had nothing for him. Michael waited patiently and attempted to make a pass on the outside as they shot onto the backstretch. Labonte skillfully blocked him, but just barely. Michael swooped down low again, hoping that he could use the momentum to get by, but Labonte was there in his way. Gritting his teeth in frustration—he was so close—he checked his rearview mirror and raised his eyebrows in surprise. Ward Burton had replaced Jerry Nadeau’s 25 car behind him sometime in the tri-oval, and on exit of Turn 2 he had gone high to pass Michael. Now an open slot appeared, and was promptly filled with the familiar red of the 21 Motorcraft Ford. There you are, Michael thought. Thought I’d lost you.

“The 22’s up high, tryin’ to pass! Stay low, the 21’s gonna push you by.”

Just in the nick of time. Michael grinned the best he could under his helmet. Sorry Ward. Good-bye.

As if on cue, the Caterpillar car fell out of sight as the backstretch was left behind them. Turns 3 and 4 had Michael staying low, close behind Labonte, and Elliott close behind him. The tri-oval opened out before them. Again, Dale Jr. popped out of line, and Michael swung high, Elliott following. But this second attempt to get by also failed, and they fell back into formation. Michael growled inwardly. Next time.

He allowed the nose of the NAPA Chevy to get dangerously close to the bumper of the Interstate Batteries Pontiac in the corner. Elliott Sadler remained close behind him. Turn 2 dwindled away, and Michael tensed up. Here goes. He let the car drift up just a tiny bit to build up as much momentum as he could. There was a slight bump of contact as they blazed onto the backstretch….and he deftly tugged the steering wheel to the left. The #15 NAPA Stars and Stripes Chevrolet soared past Labonte’s Pontiac in one effortless but desperate motion. And the 21 of Elliott Sadler stayed with him, as Bobby Labonte fell back. White and red took up his sight, and there was a jolt as Michael put the nose of the car against his teammate’s bumper, pushing him down the straight. His radio was filled with shouts of delight as both his spotter and crew chief congratulated him.

Ha! Michael exulted triumphantly, watching as Tony Stewart strained to help Labonte on the high side, but to no avail. Got him on my third try!

Three’s a charm.

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Dale Earnhardt Jr. saw his mirrors fill with blue and yellow, and a huge grin formed on his lips. For two laps he had watched Michael battling with Bobby for second, popping in and out of line. Junior was having almost as much fun watching his teammate working as he was himself, out front of the entire field. Labonte had been doing an excellent job warding off Michael, but in the end, nobody could have kept the 15 car from the 8.

“You got him behind yah,” Ty Norris, Junior’s spotter said.

All night Junior had had a funny feeling. He knew he had the best car. The car was, in fact, phenomenal. It would go willingly wherever Junior put it, so, in fighting his way from sixth to first on the restart he knew he would have to take advantage of the awesome handling. As the car came up to speed after the green flag was flown with six to go, he had set his target on the leader. Sorry guys, he thought to the cars ahead of him. No offence to ya’ll, but hell no. I’m winnin’ this thing. In two laps he was beside Johnny Benson’s #10 Valvoline Pontiac. Tony Stewart hadn’t helped him greatly, blocking him as he tried to pass, but Junior merely slid back into line, hanging his friend out to dry. It was Mike Wallace who helped him on the high side. On the backstretch he was in third place, and then Jeremy Mayfield was behind him. It was he who pushed him by Johnny Benson for the lead.

Tony Stewart had taken Mayfield’s place in second, but not for very long. In his mirrors Junior saw Bobby Labonte on the low side and coming fast. He shoved Stewart up high, and green was all that Junior could see. Except for the fleeting glimpses of a NAPA-covered hood….

When Michael finally passed Labonte with a daring swing coming out of Turn 2, Dale had whooped with amazement. Even more so when he felt a bump on the rear of his car and then a solid shove all the way down the backstretch. He felt like he would never stop smiling.

“White flag, you got your teammate behind yah,” Ty Norris reported.

They dashed through the tri-oval. Junior spied a lap car limping around on the apron, and he tucked in his Budweiser Chevy behind it to receive all the extra draft he could. At the last second he swerved away and dove into Turn 1. Red and white appeared above and behind him. It was Elliott Sadler, desperately trying to cut off Bobby Labonte on the high side, who was getting a run on Michael. He didn’t make it in time, and dropped back onto the low side. Junior liked Elliott, and he hoped that he didn’t get stuck in the middle with no drafting help.

On the backstretch, he kept his eyes on the rearview mirror. Labonte was getting a heck of a run, with Stewart aiding his teammate. As he put his gaze back onto the track, he happened to see himself in the mirror. Squished by his open-faced helmet, a slightly babyish face stared back at him, but his eyes were gleaming coldly, ice blue and clear, like he had never seen before. Junior furrowed his brow. Those eyes weren’t his, but he certainly recognized him. Or were they his? He felt his throat tighten involuntarily, and he looked away.

“Clear, all clear. The 15’s still behind yah.”

The Gibbs cars lost it in the turn, and slowly faded back and out of sight. Ty Norris counseled him all through the last seconds of the race, but Junior barely heard him. Michael was stuck to his bumper like glue, and in his heart Junior knew he would stay there. However, on the arch of the tri-oval he flew high, just in case.

The start/finish line flashed by, the brightest line in the world.

“That’s unbelievable,” Tony Eury Jr. said on the radio. “That man behind yah did it boys, you gotta celebrate! I love you man—you did it.”

Dale Jr. let out a scream of complete and utter jubilance. I did it! I won! I got it! A huge 15 slid into view to his right. Michael’s hand was out the window, waving wildly at him. Junior hollered again and pumped his fists. His teammate and friend gave him a thumbs up and slowed, moving high to let other drivers congratulate him.

With shaking hands Junior unhooked the window net. Cars surrounded him. There was Elliott Sadler, holding up a thumb and a pinky, telling him to rock on. Tony Stewart, Bobby Labonte, Jeremy Mayfield. The Burtons, the Wallaces. Then his best friend, Matt Kenseth. Matt’s grin was clearly visible from within the dark cockpit of the #17 DeWalt Ford. Their cars knocked into each other, and their tires rubbed together, sending a jounce through the Bud Chevy and a puff of smoke into the air. Dale laughed joyfully. Johnny Benson, Ricky Rudd, Ken Schrader, Dale Jarrett went by, all waving. Everyone waved. Junior screamed again. It couldn’t get any better than this.

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Michael Waltrip could have become a two-time Daytona winner that night. It would have helped him in the points standings, brought in more money for the NAPA team, and ended his poor last few races. But he didn’t. Nothing could have made him pass Dale Jr. It never even crossed his mind.

After they blasted over the finish line, Michael brought the NAPA Chevy high, coming up beside his teammate. He wanted to stop the car right there and get out and hug him, tell him a million things. He wanted to dance, to jump around. But he only waved his hand and shouted. Junior’s young face was grinning as he looked at him. He was squirming in his seat and pumping his fists. His eyes were the brightest he had ever seen.

Michael let off the gas and coasted, getting congratulations from his competitors. But he wasn’t going to follow them into the pits. I am celebrating! Michael thought.

He hung back at a safe distance, watching Junior and Matt give each other donuts. He turned his head to look at the fans in the grandstands on the tri-oval. A sea of people were screaming, hugging, jumping around, waving their hats. Michael waved to them. He spotted the scruffy man dressed in black he had seen before the last restart, by coincidence, or maybe he was meant to see him. The man was clutching his Intimidator hat to his chest. He gazed at Michael as he drove by. He was crying.

Michael’s attention was drawn back to Junior, as the white Bud Chevy spun off the pavement and into the grass. The donuts weren’t very good, but Michael could sense his teammate’s joy, and by the sound of the crowd it appeared that that was all that mattered. He drove the NAPA Chevy onto the apron and waited a moment until Dale was finished. Then he gave the car some gas and drove forward, toward him. He slid the car beside his teammate’s as Junior crawled out and stood on his window, saluting the fans with jabs of his fists into the air. Then the young Earnhardt leaped awkwardly to the ground and ran to Michael.

“Did yah see that?” he yelled. “Did yah see me Mikey?”

“I saw ya, brother!” Michael replied. “You did great!”

Chocolate Meyers, a crewman for the GM Goodwrench team, appeared beside Dale Jr., tears streaming down his face. They embraced and then were engulfed by dozens of people, wearing Budweiser red and NAPA blue. Junior was grabbed by both crews, receiving enthusiastic raps on the helmet, and several from the NAPA bunch peeked into Michael’s cockpit, shaking him and grinning. Michael enjoyed this, but he needed to get out. He unhooked himself from the car. His helmet was off in no time and he slid out, sitting on the window and leaning over the roof to touch the hands of several more of his crew. Then he was all the way out, stepping onto the roof and raising both arms to the sky. The crowd went wild. He had never heard a noise so loud, and so exciting.

Michael turned to the main bunch of crew guys, in the middle of which was Dale Jr., getting his helmet off. They all looked up at him, and Michael bent forward, reaching out and slapping all their hands like he was a rock star on stage. Junior grinned up at him and got a gleam in his eyes. Before Michael knew what was happening, Junior had launched himself onto the roof and wrapped his arms around him. The roar of the crowd became awesomely deafening.

The two men on the roof of the NAPA Chevy hardly noticed. Michael rocked the young Earnhardt back and forth. “I love you, man,” he said softly. “I love you bro.”

“I can’t believe this!” Junior cried. “I love you too, Mikey.” He grabbed his friend’s head with gloved hands and gave him a rough kiss on the forehead, then patted him on the back.

They parted and looked down at their crews. “Yeah!” Junior hollered, his voice high and adolescent with exhilaration. “Whoo!”

But then they were hugging again, after Junior patted the NAPA logo on Michael’s chest. Michael brought Junior close to him, holding him tightly, gripping his suit in his fingers. “This is what it’s all about,” he murmured. “There is nothing better than this.”

“I love you man!” Junior squeaked. “It wouldn’t be like this without you.”

Michael grinned, and they parted again, arms slung over each others shoulders. Someone in the crowd held up three fingers, the salute to Dale Earnhardt.

The Bud crew bunched underneath them, and Michael pointed to them. “Go play,” he said.

Dale Jr. hurled himself off the roof and into the waiting arms of his crew-turned-mosh pit.

A few of Steve Park’s #1 Pennzoil team filtered into the crowd, grabbing Michael’s legs and shouting and laughing. Michael sat down on the roof, spying a few Winston Cup Officials making their way toward the cars with Tony Eury Sr. The race winner had to get into Victory Lane, though Michael was certain that he could have stayed there all night, partying in the grass of the tri-oval.

As he had figured, Junior slipped back into the white Bud Chevy, but half-way in he spotted Tony Jr., and leaned over the windshield to grab his hand. With that done, he disappeared into the car, the crowds of people swarming forward to get at him. The Official shouted orders, “Hey, get outta the way!” Junior started the car up and drove it slowly forward, a warning to anyone in its path to duck and run. When there was nothing but grass in front of him, the car sped forward toward Victory Lane, the crowd chasing after.

Michael waited for the masses of people to thin out and then got back into the NAPA Chevy, started its engine, and drove it to the pits. He crawled out once again. One of his crew members handed him a special Stars and Stripe hat that matched the paint scheme of the car, and he put it on.

Matt Yocum, a NBC ground interviewer, ran up to him, microphone in hand, with a cameraman in tow. He was grinning from ear to ear. “Great job, Mikey!” he said. “You guys were incredible out there.”

Michael hugged him. “Thanks!” he said. “This is like a dream, man!”

“Well, you’re not dreaming,” Matt said with a laugh. “Wait here for an interview?”

“Of course,” Michael answered, keeping an arm around him.

They waited a minute, listening to the sounds of celebration from Victory Lane, and then Matt patted Michael on the back and nodded. “And back in February,” he said professionally to the camera, “it was Michael Waltrip pushed to Victory Lane by Dale Earnhardt Jr. Did you pay back the favor tonight; was that the game plan Michael?”

Michael grinned. “I just wanted Dale Jr. to win so bad, and I wanted to be a part of it, I didn’t wanna finish tenth or twelfth, and the NAPA Auto Parts Spirit of America hotrod was runnin’,” he added, touching his hat. “I mean it was really fast, but I was committed to Dale Jr., just like he was to me in February, and I’ll tell you when I really learned a lesson, when I was runnin’ third, protecting Dale Jr. and Rusty, and that’s what Dale was doing in February, that’s—that’s a handful, they were all over me, but I stayed committed, I wasn’t about to bail out on him, and…Dale Jr. called me Monday morning after the Daytona 500 and he said, ‘I’m there for ya brother,’ and he was, and I….just wanted to be a part of it with him.”

Matt brought the microphone back to him. “On top of the car, you two embraced, and then you were talking in each others ears. What were you saying?”

Michael smiled and shook his head. “This is what it’s all about. We all—we both were excited about coming to Daytona. This place….is a part of our lives, more so than any other place in the world. We weren’t more emotional than normal, we were just normal….as normal as we can since we lost our friend, but um….we were excited about racin’, and to have it end like that….it was cool bein’ on top of the car with Dale Jr., but he’s young, and they butt heads—I think I’m gonna have a headache—and then he dove off the car, and I think I weigh more than everyone on my team, and I wouldn’t wanna hurt them—or me! So I crept off, and cruised over here. Thanks to Klaussner furniture, Ritz crackers, Coca-Cola, Chevrolet, Goodyear tires, and especially, NAPA Auto Parts, the greatest sponsor in NASCAR. Thank ya’ll.”

“A special night, a special victory for Dale Earnhardt, Incorporated,” Matt concluded.

Michael couldn’t agree more.