Folks in NASCAR had their own name for what Dale built. They called it the Garage-Mahal. By 2000, DEI was running two NASCAR Cup Series teams and one Busch team out of this massive, ultra-modern facility in a rural part of North Carolina. And all of them were winning. Dale Junior, the two-time Busch Series champion, had moved up to Cup and was winning in his rookie season. Steve Park, Dale’s other Cup driver, had won too. I completely agreed with Dale that I could be winning if I were driving one of his cars. But it didn’t look like there was room for me, and another year was about to be over. It was September 2000, and I needed to make some decisions of my own about 2001. But man, I was frustrated. All these kids—first it was Gordon and Labonte, now Dale Junior and Park—showing up and getting these great rides and winning. Meanwhile, I just kept logging laps.
Nineteen-ninety-nine and 2000 were the two worst years of my career. My patience was wearing thin, that was for sure. In two years, I almost won a couple of races, but that was about it. I wasn’t consistently competitive. I didn’t like what I was doing.
The team I was driving for didn’t operate out of a factory like Dale’s. They just put the pieces together. Go down the street, buy a car. Go up the street, buy an engine. Then just bolt it all together. Anyone could have owned a team like that. Just buy parts and pieces, put them together, and go race. That’s what we did behind the house in Sherrills Ford. But that was the Busch Series, which was bush league. If you wanted to win in Cup, you had to do it like Dale’s team was doing: make everything.
As the 2000 season wound down, the owner of the car I was driving, Jim Smith, offered me a new contract to drive his car again the following year. There were some other possibilities out there as well. A couple of owners had interviewed me and shown interest in my plans for 2001. But none of that had firmed up yet. And none of those opportunities was remotely close to what Dale Earnhardt could offer me.
I always loved it when Dale would say, “You’d win in my car.”
And I would think: Well, make it happen!
It didn’t look like 2001 was a possibility. We were less than five months away from Daytona. You can’t build a team that quickly, and I knew it. Looked to me like I was going to be signing a contract with a team I knew it would be nearly impossible to win with.
“I don’t feel good about this, Buff,” I told my wife. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do. If I sign with the same team for 2001, I’ll feel like I’m giving up hope of finally winning races, just signing to have a job. And I don’t want to do that.”
But I made my living racing cars. That’s all I knew how to do. You know, the whole sitting-on-my-butt thing. I had a wife and a couple of kids, and I had to provide for them. Whatever I decided would be a compromise. My desire to win, from what I could see, would have to take a backseat to just making a living, and that made me sad. I never raced cars just to make a living. But it felt like that’s what I was going to have to do then.
The truth is this had been a pattern with me, just staying with a team for stability, I suppose. I wasn’t confident enough—didn’t believe in myself enough to take a chance by putting myself out on the market. I’d been taking the safe route—or what seemed to be the safest bet.
But I was over that. I didn’t want to just sign or settle. Not yet, anyway.
I was waiting around as long as I could, although I kept wondering why.
Tick, tick, tick. A lot of time passed and it didn’t appear that one of the top rides was going to be offered to me. They never had been. Why did I think one would be now? Time kept slipping away. And I kept losing races, feeling stuck. 0–450. 0–451. I don’t know how many exactly. One thing I did know, I wasn’t expecting the Hall of Fame to be knocking on my door anytime soon.
Maybe I wasn’t the most sought-after driver, but I was good enough that I had people calling me. I was better than most of the drivers who were available.
What was the answer? I was so confused.
My thinking about all that was interrupted by the ringing phone.
“Hello,” I answered.
It was Earnhardt. “Did you sign that contract?” he demanded in that familiar tone. I laughed to myself. He was always so direct.
“No, why?”
“Well, don’t,” Dale said. “I’m tired of Busch racing. Makes more sense for my company to have three Cup teams. And I’m gonna fly down to Atlanta today and tell NAPA that. I’m gonna see if they want to move up to Cup, and I’m gonna tell ’em I want you to drive. I’ll call you when I get back and tell you how it went.”
Just that quickly he hung up.
What just happened?
I don’t think I got another word in after “No, why?” It was just Dale being Dale after that, telling me what we were going to do and how we were going to do it. Just like he always did. And I loved it.
Okay.
That’s a call I’d been waiting for. But I damned sure didn’t see it coming. As soon as we hung up, I called Buffy and told her about Dale’s call. We were both ecstatic. We knew if this came true, it would be my best chance ever to win consistently, or even at all. Maybe my last chance.
I’d be on a multicar team. Multicar teams were just beginning to become a trend in NASCAR. Owners like Dale had figured out that the more cars you had under one roof, the more cost-effective it was. For example, while a fabricator was stamping out a part or a piece in the factory for one car, he could just simply stamp out a couple more for the other cars. So if it took twenty people to build one car, maybe it only took ten more to build a second or a third—and so on. The owner then could take the money saved on the stampers and spend it on research and development or on testing to improve the team’s performance.
That’s a basic lesson on the modern economics of NASCAR.
Driving for my friend Dale was the opportunity I needed. He was wanting to take me under his wing at the ripe old age of thirty-seven. He wanted to show people I could win in his car. While Dale and his business guy, Ty Norris, flew down to Atlanta to meet with the NAPA people, all I could do was wait and wonder: Is my life about to change? Could Dale talk those guys into this? I figured NAPA was in for a million or two on Dale’s Busch team. I knew a season with a high-profile NASCAR team like Dale’s would be way more than that. And time! Was there time to do this? If so, Dale would need to know immediately in order to build the cars and hire the people.
In my mind, this sounded like a real stretch. But this was Dale Earnhardt doing the stretching. Maybe he could pull it off.
I could picture Dale in a corporate boardroom. I’d never seen him in one, but I could definitely picture him there. I wondered how he was doing at NAPA. This may have been a job that only Dale Earnhardt could tackle. He was smart. He was respected. He had a plan. And when he got there, Ty later told me, Dale was simply amazing. After a few minutes of hi-how-are-you’s, Dale told the president of NAPA, “We came to talk to you guys about moving up to Cup racing with us next year.”
“Next year?” one of the NAPA guys asked. “Like five months from now? Can you be ready by Daytona?”
“Not only ready. Ready to win. And I want Michael Waltrip to drive for us.”
Ty wondered how it would go over. That pink-elephant thing, you know. He was wondering if they’d mention my record. But the NAPA folks didn’t seem to mind.
“Can you get him?” the NAPA president asked.
“Yes, we can get him.” Then Dale summarized, matter-of-factly laying out the deal: This is how it’s gonna work, this is what it’s gonna cost, and Michael Waltrip will drive. Then he slipped in on them at the end: “Oh, by the way, I need to know by Friday.”
“Which Friday, Dale?”
“This one,” Dale said. “The one in a couple days.”
And with that, Dale and Ty were out the door and headed back to Mooresville.
Mike Rearden, the motorsports manager at NAPA, told me later that when Dale and Ty left the room, the company president looked at him and said, “Well, Mike, you
said we should be in Cup. Sounds like Earnhardt agrees with you. You have a couple of days to present your case to me and the board.”
On the plane back to North Carolina, Ty said he told Dale, “You didn’t give ’em many options there, boss.”
“There ain’t no options,” Dale said. “That’s the way it’s gotta work—or it won’t.”
When they landed, Ty called me and told me to meet Dale and him at DEI.
“You tell me, Ty. Tell me now. What happened?”
Ty told me to chill out. “It went good,” he said. “But Dale wants to share the details with you. Meet us at the shop in the trophy room at seven.”
I had been to DEI about a thousand times, but driving there that evening was different. My mind was in overdrive. I was thinking about what it would mean if this happened. Man, my daddy would have been so happy.
Dad was funny when he would talk about Dale. Darrell and I used to laugh at Dad. When we were at the track and Dale would drive by, every time Dad would say, “Boys, that damn Earnhardt is flying. I don’t think he’s even letting off in the turns.” Dad would say that no matter where we were.
Dale was good, but everybody had to let off the gas for most of the turns. Whether Dale was fast or not, it didn’t matter. He just looked fast to Dad.
And Mom had become a Big E fan too. She liked the fact that Dale and Teresa and Buffy and I were friends. She enjoyed hearing about the vacations we would take together. But Dale became a favorite of Mom’s the day after Dad died back in January when he drove out to Sherrills Ford just to hold Mom’s hand and tell her he was thinking about her. That was special to everyone in our whole family because it meant so much to Mom.
I was thinking, “If I go home and tell my momma I’m gonna drive for Dale Earnhardt, she’s gonna have a fit!”
And what about me? This was what I needed, and what I’d wanted for years. I couldn’t wait.
So as I pulled up to the Garage-Mahal, it felt different this time. Oh, did it look mighty! Is this where they’ll build my cars? I wondered. My cars, being built in a factory, not just being bolted together somewhere. It felt like a dream.
I went around to the back and up to Dale’s private entrance like I always did. Up the stairs and into a hallway that opened into the waiting room just outside Dale’s and Teresa’s offices. It also led to the trophy room.
The interior of the DEI headquarters was just as impressive as the exterior. Other than walking past a display of Dale’s trophies, you’d never know you were in the same building where they were building a bunch of race cars. The walk to the trophy room took you across a marble floor. The chairs were covered in fine leather. And I’d eaten there before too. The chef was world-class and he prepared health-conscious food. And they also had a mighty fine wine list.
When I walked in, there Dale sat, in the same place he always did, his favorite chair. When I said, “Hey,” the grin on his face got bigger.
“You ready to win some races?” he asked.
“Are we going racing?” I didn’t give him a chance to answer. “All right! This will be so cool!”
“Hold! Hold! Calm down there. NAPA didn’t commit yet. They need a few days.”
What! I thought but didn’t say out loud. Don’t do that, you teaser. “A few days”? What’s “a few” to Dale?
Then Dale started explaining to me how the deal would work if NAPA were to commit. Like he needed to, I thought. It would be just like it was with the Wood boys. “Just tell me what I gotta do and—check, check, check.” You think I was going to sit there and negotiate with Dale Earnhardt?
But he seemed to be into telling me about the terms of the deal, like the length of the contract, how much he was going to pay me, what I had to do—all the things that Dale as the owner felt like he needed to explain to me.
In my mind all of that was just a formality until he said: “And we’ll know by Friday.”
What’s today? I asked myself. It’s Tuesday. Friday seems like forever. That’s three days of wandering around with my future hanging in the balance.
Would I have to take a ride just to make a living for my family? Or would I be able to drive a car I could win with? The frustrating part was that the decision would be made in Atlanta. All I could do now was pray. And hope.
But now I had hope.
CHAPTER 16
THE DECISION
Three days. Just three days. That doesn’t sound like such a long time. When I hear three days, I think about Jesus and all that went down for him in three days. I knew my life might be very different after these three days. I had fifteen years of history to overcome. Fifteen years of trying too hard and coming up short. After fifteen years, people in the NASCAR world knew me better for what I hadn’t accomplished than for what I had.
The first day of waiting for NAPA’s decision wasn’t all that bad. Dale’s optimism in the trophy room was still all over me. It was like Ricardo Montalban was standing there and had just said, “Welcome to Fantasy Island.” And the dwarf, Tattoo, agreed. Dale was confident. Why shouldn’t I be?
But day two was a different story. I did not like day two at all.
It began with me obsessing over what was going on in Atlanta where the decision was being made. All the different scenarios were playing in my mind.
I hope the people down there know what a big deal this is to me, I was thinking. I feel like getting in my car right now, driving down there and telling ’em. I wonder if they know I’ve never gone three races in anything I’ve ever started without winning except for Cup. I could tell ’em this 0-for-four-hundred-and-whatever start I’m off to, it must be some kind of mistake. I know what I’d say: I’ve never lost one race driving for Dale’s team—or for you—and maybe you guys should focus on that. But they’d probably tell me they know what they have to do to sell auto parts, and they appreciate my input, but could I please leave now so they can continue their research.
This waiting was nerve-wracking and exhausting. Then I started thinking what a big disaster a “Thanks but no thanks” from NAPA would mean for me.
I didn’t want to just fade away as a footnote in NASCAR history—a guy who may have lost more races than anyone in Cup. I wanted to change that. I wanted to be a winner. I couldn’t stand the thought of how the Waltrip family history would read after NAPA’s “No, thanks”: One brother, eighty-four wins, three championships. The other brother, zero and zero.
Sure, I was the sweeter, taller, and better-looking brother, but they don’t put that in the record books. A-holes!
This career that had started with such promise could soon be ending in disappointment. Day two was dark. I couldn’t wait for it to end. It did.
Day three was Friday, decision day. I woke up in Richmond, Virginia, where that weekend’s NASCAR races were being held.
Day three could be a whole lot better, I knew—or a whole lot worse. Or the news from Atlanta could be: “We need three more days, Dale.” That would be better than an outright no, but how much better? Dale had made it clear he needed to know by Friday.
And he didn’t just make Friday up. That’s when he had to know by in order to get ready for Daytona.
When I got out of bed in my bus at Richmond International Raceway, I knew that this most likely would be the day I’d find out what my future looked like.
Would I just continue to be the so-so race-car driver laboring and hoping I’d win because everybody else ran out of gas like they did in Charlotte when I won for my dad? There could be worse things, I told myself. You can’t win if you’re not out there trying.
It looked like I’d be able to do something in 2001. But I didn’t want to do just something. I wanted to race for Dale. With that opportunity, I could define my career.
Come on, you bunch of folks down there in Atlanta who I don’t even know! Come on, NAPA! Come through!
Fortunately for me, being at Richmond meant being at the racetrack. Nothing takes your mind off the outside world like strapping yourself
into a seven-hundred-horsepower race car. That’ll grab your attention. For me, most of that Friday I knew I’d be focused on the race and my car.
After making a couple of practice runs, I looked up and Dale was walking toward me. He leaned in and asked how I was doing. I went right into telling him about my car.
“I can’t get it to turn,” I said. “And when it does, the back end won’t stay under me. Same old stuff you fight at Richmond.”
Typical racer-to-racer chatter. But Dale didn’t come over to ask me about my car, and I think it’s funny that I didn’t realize that. Dale had come to tell me NAPA had called.
But I was making it hard for him to deliver the news. Before he could get around to telling me what he’d come over for, I asked him: “What’s your car doing?”
“Which one of mine?” he asked. “The one I drive, or the ones I own?”
Then suddenly it struck me: Oh, yeah. He does own cars. And it’s Friday, NAPA day. I forgot. How could I do that? “Right. Your cars. Am I gonna be driving one of them next year?”
He nodded and then gave me that big Earnhardt grin. “Yep. NAPA is in. I’m going to race three Cup teams next year.”
“Well, congratulations, car owner,” I told him.
“You too, driver.”
Do you know how many guys in the world would want to be addressed by Dale Earnhardt like that?
“Driver.”
That’s who I’d just become, the one-in-a-million guy.
I wanted to jump for joy. And I tried to do so, and to grab Dale too. But I was strapped in. I could barely pump my fists. But I was happy. Another answer I wanted to hear.
The crazy thing was, I couldn’t tell anybody. It wasn’t like I could push the radio button and tell my current team that Dale Earnhardt and NAPA had just hired me. After all, I was in Richmond to race for their team.
In the Blink of an Eye Page 10
