THE LUNAR REPORT - "VALENTINE'S DAY" February 8, 2010
This Sunday will be a very special day for me. It's all about love. About passion. About the uncertainty. About power. About the sound of your heart beat as you go round and round in a relationship with your favorite. About the feel of blood rushing to a thunderous roar. Each year it represents to me something new, a rebirth, a hope for great things ahead. It's such a rush to me. Call me a hopeless romantic if you will. I don't care. This day is special.
That's right. The 500. The DAYTONA 500. The green flag falls Sunday! And I love it!
This is huge. The Daytona 500 has for some time represented to me the “unofficial” beginning of spring. The unofficial beginning means you can go to central Florida and get a sunburn. In North Carolina, the unofficial season begins around ACC Basketball Tournament time. God knows when it begins in New Hampshire or Montana. In the Deep South, it’s Daytona and the ACC Tournament.
I have a friend. And I love him. He's like a brother. His name is Marc. We call him, Manc.” Ever heard of the band, “Doug Clark and the Hot Nuts?” I think they started doing clubs and bars in the Deep South in the late 50’s. Maybe the early 60’s. They started their act in the Chapel Hill-Carrboro area of North Carolina. Their music is a bit risqué. And Marc became good friends with them. He was so into these nuts that they gave him a “Doug Clark and the Hot Nuts” black satin jacket with his name embroidered over the left breast. The problem was the embroiderer sewed the name in cursive. So - “Marc” became “Manc.”
Years ago, after the wife and I split, Manc would come over on Sundays to do his laundry and watch the Sunday political news shows and NASCAR at my house. He had no washer and dryer back then. When this routine began, I was an anti-NASCAR snob. NASCAR is not a sport and not worthy of my time. I am educated, you know. I grew up in an urban environment. There was no way I could accept NASCAR. Ever. Well, Manc never has been able to persuade me to agree to the radical political views he argued during those news shows. But he did turn me on to NASCAR.
When I was 12, I think, growing up in Jacksonville, Florida, I had a paper route. From time to time, The Jacksonville Journal Circulation Department would hold subscription contests to generate new subscriptions. One such contest gave us paperboys a chance to go to the Daytona 500. Our task was to comb the neighborhoods and the paper routes in our general area. I did okay. I got all the new subscriptions I needed to go to that year’s 500. My best
friend, James was falling a bit short. So, James decided to simply walk my route and just write down addresses without actually securing new subscriptions. He, too, made it to the 500. I had to pay for all those papers I delivered to the bogus subscription houses. I got screwed. Like being bumped into the outer wall on turn 3 by Richard Petty. But we had a good time.
At that year’s 500, my one and only time there, I pulled for Cale Yarborough. I don’t know why exactly. I think I liked his gold colored car. Mostly I pulled for wrecks. Hey. I was a kid. I am human.
To this day, however, I have a hard time thinking of drivers as athletes. So much depends on the car with these guys. Tell me how many athletes from all the other sports consistently blame their poor performance on their equipment?
When Michael Jordan had an off day, did he blame his shoes? When Tiger Woods, or his wife for that matter, screwed up, did either of them blame the clubs? Of course not. So – is it the car or the driver? If all drivers had to pull their cars off a dealership showroom floor like we all do, then, maybe, I can give the drivers all the credit.
And what about bus drivers? They have to drive 8 hours every day. Not 3 or 4 hours on Sunday like NASCAR drivers do. And bus drivers do more than just turn left all day. They actually have to stop every couple of blocks and pull a lever to open the doors. Not to mention railroad crossings. Occasionally they turn right. Does anyone consider bus drivers to be athletes? And they don't have pit crews to clean their vehichles.
Nevertheless. I love the sounds of 43 engines racing around Daytona Speedway. I can still smell the gasoline fumes from my one and only visit to the track with my friend James. And I thank my friend, Manc, for taking me back there.
Look. I’m not totally heartless here. There is something I like about Valentine’s Day whether it lands on 500 Sunday or not. The color red. I like that color. After all, Dale Juniors' first car was red. About the same color red as my face when Manc and I talked politics.
I kind of wish Manc had never gotten his own washer and dryer. I miss those Sundays.
That's right. The 500. The DAYTONA 500. The green flag falls Sunday! And I love it!
This is huge. The Daytona 500 has for some time represented to me the “unofficial” beginning of spring. The unofficial beginning means you can go to central Florida and get a sunburn. In North Carolina, the unofficial season begins around ACC Basketball Tournament time. God knows when it begins in New Hampshire or Montana. In the Deep South, it’s Daytona and the ACC Tournament.
I have a friend. And I love him. He's like a brother. His name is Marc. We call him, Manc.” Ever heard of the band, “Doug Clark and the Hot Nuts?” I think they started doing clubs and bars in the Deep South in the late 50’s. Maybe the early 60’s. They started their act in the Chapel Hill-Carrboro area of North Carolina. Their music is a bit risqué. And Marc became good friends with them. He was so into these nuts that they gave him a “Doug Clark and the Hot Nuts” black satin jacket with his name embroidered over the left breast. The problem was the embroiderer sewed the name in cursive. So - “Marc” became “Manc.”
Years ago, after the wife and I split, Manc would come over on Sundays to do his laundry and watch the Sunday political news shows and NASCAR at my house. He had no washer and dryer back then. When this routine began, I was an anti-NASCAR snob. NASCAR is not a sport and not worthy of my time. I am educated, you know. I grew up in an urban environment. There was no way I could accept NASCAR. Ever. Well, Manc never has been able to persuade me to agree to the radical political views he argued during those news shows. But he did turn me on to NASCAR.
When I was 12, I think, growing up in Jacksonville, Florida, I had a paper route. From time to time, The Jacksonville Journal Circulation Department would hold subscription contests to generate new subscriptions. One such contest gave us paperboys a chance to go to the Daytona 500. Our task was to comb the neighborhoods and the paper routes in our general area. I did okay. I got all the new subscriptions I needed to go to that year’s 500. My best
friend, James was falling a bit short. So, James decided to simply walk my route and just write down addresses without actually securing new subscriptions. He, too, made it to the 500. I had to pay for all those papers I delivered to the bogus subscription houses. I got screwed. Like being bumped into the outer wall on turn 3 by Richard Petty. But we had a good time.
At that year’s 500, my one and only time there, I pulled for Cale Yarborough. I don’t know why exactly. I think I liked his gold colored car. Mostly I pulled for wrecks. Hey. I was a kid. I am human.
To this day, however, I have a hard time thinking of drivers as athletes. So much depends on the car with these guys. Tell me how many athletes from all the other sports consistently blame their poor performance on their equipment?
When Michael Jordan had an off day, did he blame his shoes? When Tiger Woods, or his wife for that matter, screwed up, did either of them blame the clubs? Of course not. So – is it the car or the driver? If all drivers had to pull their cars off a dealership showroom floor like we all do, then, maybe, I can give the drivers all the credit.
And what about bus drivers? They have to drive 8 hours every day. Not 3 or 4 hours on Sunday like NASCAR drivers do. And bus drivers do more than just turn left all day. They actually have to stop every couple of blocks and pull a lever to open the doors. Not to mention railroad crossings. Occasionally they turn right. Does anyone consider bus drivers to be athletes? And they don't have pit crews to clean their vehichles.
Nevertheless. I love the sounds of 43 engines racing around Daytona Speedway. I can still smell the gasoline fumes from my one and only visit to the track with my friend James. And I thank my friend, Manc, for taking me back there.
Look. I’m not totally heartless here. There is something I like about Valentine’s Day whether it lands on 500 Sunday or not. The color red. I like that color. After all, Dale Juniors' first car was red. About the same color red as my face when Manc and I talked politics.
I kind of wish Manc had never gotten his own washer and dryer. I miss those Sundays.
Please visit the sites of some of my friends.
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