Working Through Death of a Legend

Over the next two weeks, FanHouse will be covering the top sports stories of the decade. In this installment, Holly Cain gives a first-person take on the moments surrounding Dale Earnhardt's untimely death at the 2001 Daytona 500.

I vividly remember the sickening feeling when I first realized that Dale Earnhardt might be seriously injured.

Using binoculars from a seat in the Daytona International Speedway press box -- seven stories above the famous track's finish line -- I watched driver Ken Schrader climb frantically from his car and run a few feet over to Earnhardt's Chevy. It was the final lap of the Daytona 500 and the cars had collided and hit the Turn 4 wall before coming to rest on the infield grass.

Schrader's urgent gestures to the safety crew and then his body language -- turning away from the wreckage -- was unusual for the normally controlled veteran.

Once the rescue workers arrived at Earnhardt's famous black No. 3 and assessed the situation, it felt everyone was moving too slowly. The ambulance -- headed to the hospital just across the street -- left the scene -- and wasn't rushed. The wrecker was in no hurry.

Then, the telltale sign: track workers unrolled a large tarp. After a decade of covering the sport, I knew the tarp was used to cover and cloak race cars in fatal accidents.

I will never forget watching a then 26-year old Dale Earnhardt Jr. running down pit lane towards his dad's car a good half-mile away.

Things weren't moving in slow motion that Sunday, Feb. 18, 2001, but it remains the most surreal day I've ever had as a sportswriter.

The greatest, most famous competitor in his sport dying on the last lap -- crashing in the final corner -- in the biggest event of the season.

When people ask, I liken it to Michael Jordan suffering a career-ending injury on a last-second jump shot in Game 7 of the NBA Finals ... only this wasn't merely career-ending. There really is no comparison.

And that's the difference in reporting on stick-and-ball sports and the high-risk world of auto racing.

You can pat a driver on the back and wish him good luck on pit road and then three hours later find yourself having to write a story about his death -- feeling a great responsibility to do justice for the person and his family while juggling the intense emotions of the circumstance yourself.

I had been monitoring Earnhardt on his team radio as I usually did when it came to the final few laps of the Daytona 500. He was typically an important element in the outcome and, frankly, the driver I most enjoyed listening to during any race.

I scribbled on my notepad, "stay in line" -- direction he was offering Michael Waltrip and his son as they raced to the finish line to give his team, Dale Earnhardt Inc. an incredible 1-2 finish. It was the maiden victory for his good friend Waltrip after nearly 500 Cup Series starts.

So many things were going on simultaneously.

Checking on the injury report of Tony Stewart who had been hospitalized after a frightening crash earlier in the race. The likable Waltrip making his first trip to victory lane -- completely unaware of the seriousness of his team owner and friend's accident. Earnhardt Jr. nearly winning the Daytona 500 in only his second try and of course, the increasingly worrisome accident scene in Turn 4.

The longer it took for NASCAR to give us an official update on Earnhardt, the more obvious the outcome.

When Waltrip came into the press box for his victory press conference, he struggled with tense -- referring to his friend Earnhardt alternately with the words "was" and "is.'' It was a heart-breaking scenario listening to Waltrip on what should have been one of the happiest days of his life.

By the time NASCAR President Mike Helton finally gave word that evening that Earnhardt had died from his injuries, we already knew.

Some in the room -- surprisingly some hard-core veteran racing journalists -- declared they'd never cover another race. This was simply too much.

Earnhardt was the fourth NASCAR driver to be killed in a year's time and ironically, on the front page of the local Orlando Sentinel on race day had been a story about NASCAR's need to improve safety. The day after Earnhardt died, the paper declared it "Black Sunday."

I often find myself wondering, 'What would Dale think?' about today's NASCAR. He would be 58 now, possibly the sport's only eight-time champion and as his team owner Richard Childress has insisted, long-retired.

Would Dale Earnhardt Jr. be a champion? Would Jimmie Johnson be a four-time champ? Would Brian France have been able to convince Dale Earnhardt the Chase for the Championship was a good idea? Would he like the COT?

Earnhardt was the sounding board, and the guy who sounded off. And no one has ever stepped up to fill that role since.

His death was arguably the blackest day in NASCAR history. But it also marks a new era in the sport -- a time when safety will not be compromised and innovation is the mode of operation. It marked the day NASCAR had to declare itself pro-active, not reactive.

A lot of good has come from something bad. And that's just what Dale would have insisted upon.