Birth of a Passion

The main activity that my dad and I shared together was motor racing. I was carried into a short-track (may have been Old Bridge, NJ) when I was 2 or 3 years old. It was a NASCAR race and the noise was too much for me. I screamed bloody-murder and my dad had to take me out to the parking lot.
That was my one and only negative racing experience. As I grew older, I remember watching what little racing there was on TV with my dad. My earliest memories of televised racing were of the “Wide World of Sports” stuff – like tape delayed Indy 500 coverage and I believe they carried the finish of the 24hrs of Le Mans live back then. I can see Chris Economaki in those thick, black plastic glasses holding that skinny silver microphone like it was yesterday.
My next memory of a live racing experience was going to the US Grand Prix at Watkins Glen in 1964, I was six years old. I guess the memories of that experience at Old Bridge years before were still fresh in my mind, because I remember asking my dad before we left, “Is it going to be loud?”
“Nah,” he answered. “They sound sorta like bacon frying in a pan.”
Don’t ask me where he got that analogy from, but it was effective enough to allay the fears of a six year old.
I remember getting ready to leave for the Glen in the darkness of the early morning. As the family was gathering by the door to leave my father pointed to a picture and story in a newspaper that was lying on the table. It had something to do with where we were going and it just added to the mystery and excitement.
I know that each one of us has powerful memories of some overwhelming sensory event that took place in our young lives. For me it was the sound of Formula 1 engines echoing off the hills and color splashed trees of upstate New York in 1964. It was the most awesome sound I had ever heard, as musical as it was powerful. It touched something way down deep in my soul.

The Greatest Spectacle.

The clunk of the mailbox lid closing came at just the right time. The fact that this day was rapidly declining into "one of those days" was just starting to become apparent to me.
The day had begun with such promise. I was my first opportunity to have some time to myself in three days. The first two days of the weekend were filled with family time and obligations. I love my family without question or reservation, but I think even the most family-oriented among us admit and realize that we need some of what I call "independent study" time sometime. Time free from responsibility and obligation, to let the mind wander – to rest and recreate.
Well, my time was here and my motor just would not start. I wanted to spend some time reading, and then go for a bike ride. I usually love to read, but I was so worn out from the work week and the hectic weekend that followed that I just couldn’t follow the words on the page .
Disappointed and mildly annoyed, I put down the reading material and thought about my next move. My bike needed to be cleaned and lubricated before my ride. Normally I fine these simple maintenance tasks enjoyable and relaxing, but today my butt just wouldn’t become unstuck from the chair. My frustration was just beginning to rise when I heard kathunk outside the front door.
"Hmmm," I thought. "The mailman is early today."
I was desperate for anything to distract me from the way I felt, so I rushed to the box like a little kid – hoping for some sort of surprise.
"Daddy, did you bring me anything today?" Forty-seven years old and I still thought this way. Do we ever really grow up?
I opened the door to a neck-snapping surprise to find the mailman still standing there, holding a box wrapped in brown paper.
"Here you go Mr. Legier...just need you to sign for this."
I was startled to find my hand shaking with anticipation as I signed the pink card.
"It’s just a box," I thought, "Probably just something from Julia’s family."
My wife, Julia was from Germany and her family still lived there. She was constantly getting packages like this from her Mom and brother, usually filled with pictures or stuff that her nephews had done in school.
I felt mildly guilty and selfish for wanting something for myself and for being disappointed that this package was probably for Julia. I thanked the mailman and felt the blood drain from my body as my eyes darted down to read the handwritten address on the box
"Oh my gosh...it’s Dad’s handwriting!"
I staggered backward, my eyes transfixed on the distinctive handwriting. My dad had little confidence in the neatness of his cursive handwriting when he was a kid, so he developed the most distinctive printing I had ever seen. He had a font all his own that could never be duplicated. This package couldn’t be from anyone else. There was only one problem...
Dad died six years ago!
Everything began to fade to white as my shaking legs took several feeble steps backward from the door. Finally the arm of the love seat brought me to a stop, and I sat down. This was the most securely wrapped package I had ever tried to open. I cursed out loud as I tried futilely to remove the tape, mind racing....
"Oh dear God what is this? How could this be!"Finally, a focus that could only come from God came over me. The shaking stopped, my vision cleared. Strength returned to my legs and I stood up.
"Razor knife," "I need a razor knife to get this blasted package open."
I went to the kitchen drawer to get our utility knife, my heart still pounding-- but now the confusion and fear was replaced with anticipation. I had never wanted to open a package so badly in my life and now this sucker was coming open.
I slit the tape along the seams...come on...come on!! Finally the flaps popped open. I dug through the old newspaper wrapping and what I saw made me gasp and release an involuntary cry...
Laying in the box were two shiny rectangular tickets to the 1960 Indianapolis 500!! I barely had time to record this image in my mind when the phone rang.
The baritone voice was instantly familiar.
"Matt...It’s Dad."
By this time I was beyond questioning whatever was going on.
"Oh Daddy, it’s so good to hear from you." I cried.
"Daddy?" He laughed, "You haven’t called me that since you were eight years old."
"But you don’t understand...you...I...oh never mind.
"What’s the matter Matt, Julia and the kid driving you crazy?," he joked.
"Yeah," I let out a long slow breath, continuing to come to grips with an unbelievable situation, "Yeah, that’s it. A rough weekend."
"Did you get my package?" he asked.
"Wow, did I ever!" Are we really, finally going to go to Indy together."
"You got it pal, life’s too short. We’ve got to get this done." he said firmly.
Act II
The day before Memorial Day, 1960 finally arrived. I woke in the darkness of the early morning hours. As agreed with Julia, I got out of bed and readied myself as quietly as I could. Our 11 month old daughter, Carly was sleeping peacefully in her crib. I would successfully get my early start without disturbing them.
I saw the headlights of Dad’s car swing into the driveway, the distinctive overhead cam six cylinder purred smoothly. Dad was in the car I remembered most fondly from my youth, a 1960 Jaguar Mk II sedan. It gleamed under my garage spotlight, it’s chrome cat hood ornament looking poised and ready to leap out onto the open road .
I opened the passenger door and the interior light came on, revealing Dad’s grinning face, "You ready for this, pal?"
"More than you can ever imagine." I replied.
He backed out of the driveway and shifted the Jag into first. As we pulled way it was all coming back to me, the whine of the transmission, the smell of the leather seats, the classy wood instrument panel.
The twelve-hour trip to Indianapolis slipped by in what seemed an instant. It had been so long since we’d talked. He told me about how much he loved my mom, how he was so grateful that she had put up with him and stuck by him all those years. He spoke with melancholy about how me and my sisters had driven him crazy, made him lose most of his hair and that he was proud of us anyway.
Most of all he told me how proud he was of the day I’d finally gotten married. He congratulated me on what a good choice I had made in Julia, how much he reminded her of my mom. And of course what a proud grandpa I had made him at the birth of Carly.
His familiar voice combined with the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the pavement lulled me off to sleep, the last thing I remembered seeing was the dimly lit speedometer climbing to 85 as he shifted to overdrive.
"Should be there in no time at this rate..." I thought as I drifted off.
Act III
I shifted in my seat as we waited in the darkness. The leather interior of the Jag was nice, but after 12 hours my but had had all it could take. I moved every which way I could think of, but the pain just wouldn’t subside.
No matter though, we were sitting in a never ending line of cars waiting for the detonation of the dawn aerial bomb that would mark the opening of the gates to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. It was Memorial Day, 1960. As I’d heard Sid Collins say so often, it was race day in Indianapolis.
I took stock of where I was as the horizon started to glow over the massive grandstand. I was finally at Indianapolis with Dad. Year after year we had listed to the race on the radio, drawing a mental picture of what was happening fueled by Sid Collins’ distinctive voice coming over the kitchen radio. In later years we wore my mom out, listening to the race on the radio, then watching the tape-delayed telecast later in the evening.
All that exposure had made me want to see it so badly in person. Not just to see the race, but see it with my Dad. It was a yearly bonding experience that transcended all the bumps, bruises and pain that a father-son relationship endures through the years.
Now we were here, waiting with hundreds of thousands of others in the darkness – on the ultimate father-son adventure.
Suddenly, I was shaken from my reverie from an earth-shaking KA -BOOOOOOMM!! My Dad hit the ignition; it was time to go!
The ritual of heading for the admission gate of a racetrack with Dad was so familiar. If I bought the tickets, he bought the race program. This time it was my turn to buy the program.
We took our seats in the pitside grandstand just as the crews were rolling the big-old roadsters to the front stretch. They were brilliant flashes of color, each one seeming to be at top speed as the crews pushed them to the line at 3 mph – silver and white, cherry red –splashes of chrome – beautiful expressions of mechanical excellence.
Dad and I, we didn’t talk much for a while. The unfolding spectacle defied description anyway. The grandstand was sparsely populated when we’d first arrived. But now the as sun rose and grew in intensity in a huge, cloudless Indiana sky – it was beginning to fill up. You could literally feel a reverberation of human energy as 300,000 souls gathered together around the 2.5 mile oval.
My chest began to heave as the marching bands came by and the familiar pre-race traditions played out – culminating in the playing of taps. It reminded us of what Memorial day was all about. I glanced over and saw my Dad , an ex-Marine, (there are no ex-Marines) wiping a tear from his eye.
Then, Tony Hulman stepped to the mike and exhorted, "Gentlemen... Start yerENGINES!!" Accentuating each word with a raised hand that seemed to be turning an invisible key.
All those beautiful Offies growled to life, barking and popping – smoking and finally clearing as they rolled away. They disappeared to the backstretch side, but the mechanical roar was replaced by a human one. When they came past the grandstand on the first pace lap I stopped fighting it and let the tears flow...
Act IV
The race was a blur of color and excitement, culminating in a pass for the lead three laps from the end, the silver Ken-Paul Special of Jim Rathmann roaring into immortality.
As the Jag headed east, I couldn’t believe it was over already. Again, I began to fall asleep, but I distinctly remember Dad saying, "Son, I love you...you make me proud.."
Suddenly we hit a bump that shook me and I woke up. It was Julia shaking my shoulder.
"Have you been asleep in that chair all day?......

7/7/05


Today was a big news day. Terrorist action that has been feared and anticipated since 9/11 has occurred again.

I first became aware of it as I backed out of my driveway this morning. The volume was down on my dashboard radio, but I faintly heard Michael Smirkonish say, “London is under siege this morning.”

I wish I could describe the feeling that went through me in reaction to this statement, but I can’t. No one word or phrase can capture it. Fear, of course, is one word. A photographic memory of 911 leads to a deflated spirit. A heightened sense of the need to protect my wife and daughter. A question goes through my mind, “Is this the attack that sets off a series of attacks that really throws the free world into chaos?”

The next news story that immediately followed was of Tropical Storm Cindy, which made landfall in Louisiana and hindered oil production and refining. Then the sports report chronicled the Phillies shutout of the Pirates, it seemed so silly, so insignificant in light of the day’s events…
Whenever this type of news hits it seems to shake me out of my “All-American complacency bubble.” I think all the elements of American life that are good -- peace, security, prosperity -- can lead to us becoming self-centered, self-absorbed. Often our biggest concern is whether our weekend activities are going to be rained out.

Don’t get me wrong. I am a proud American. I am not one who believes we have to hang our heads in shame for having what we have and being who we are. I do not believe that America is responsible for all that is wrong with the world, quite the contrary. I don’t think there is a braver, more compassionate nation on the face of the earth.

What I do think, is that with our affluent lifestyle we can get lost in the fantasy of American life. It’s all about our stuff, our entertainment centers, our sports and games. We forget that there are moms and dads, husbands and wives, and sons and daughters of military personnel who go to bed every night wondering where their loved ones are, praying that they will survive another day.

Then a day like this one comes along and makes us realize how big the world is, and how small our little worlds are.

Where do we go from here? We should honor our troops who are still fighting this war by getting behind them, really supporting them, rather than just paying them lip service. Our politicians need to set aside their agendas and quit telling our troops that they are failing in Iraq. We owe it to the ones who have already died and their families to give the troops a strategy rooted in unwavering resolve to fight the enemy of world-wide terrorism and the resources they need to win

Super Dirt Series

Negativity seems to be the way of the world these days. Local news bludgeons us with screaming exposition of the worst the mankind has to offer. Print media headlines are no better. Talk Radio drones on for hours with a seemingly endless stream of name calling and whining. In the arena of sports talk radio no athlete or team ever achieves anything. Somebody won because the other guy or team screwed up.

What does this have to do with the Advanced Auto Parts Super Dirt Series (SSD) event at New Egypt Speedway on Jun. 22? Everything.

Local short-track racing is not immune to negativity. In fact it’s a breeding ground for it. Fans, journalists, "internet experts", and even competitors have a deep reservoir of opinions on, "what’s wrong with short track racing?"

While I’m not going to sit here and draw you a Walt Disney-like picture of how great everything is in short track racing, there is much going on that still point to signs of life in the sport.
In my view the SSD event at New Egypt Wednesday night had all the elements of a good entertainment experience. The event was billed as the "Garden State Gunfight," pitting NES’ "Fast Five" vs. the Super Dirt Series "Elite Eleven."

New Egypt has one of the strongest fields of Big-Block Modified stars in weekly northeast racing including: Billy Pauch, Frank Cozze, Keith Hoffman, Ryan Godown and Jimmy Horton. However truth be told, the NES stars have mostly fallen flat when the DIRT traveling pros have come to town. These guys have succeeded at numerous tracks all over the northeast. The fact that they’ve been spanked repeatedly on their home turf can not sit well with them. This added a great story line to the "’Gunfight." Were these proud local hot-shoes going to fall again, or would they defend the home turf?

The car count for the show was not overwhelming, 36 modifieds. The nabobs of negativity would spring to life, "Only 36 cars for a Super Dirt Series race!" they would shout. We’re not going down that road.

36 cars for a big mid-week show is not an impressive turnout, no question. However with DIRT’s "Elite Eleven,"-- Brett Hearn, Billy Decker, Tim Fuller, Steve Paine, Gary Tomkins, Pat Ward, Vic Coffey, Matt Sheppard, Stewart Friesen, Chad Brachmann and Justin Haers on hand, along with traveling pros Jeff Strunk, Doug Hoffman, Rick Laubach, Craig VonDohren, Kyle Strickler -- the quality of the field cannot be questioned.

Time trials were inconclusive. Three of NES' "Fast Five" timed in the top ten with Frank Cozze the fastest garnering fourth spot.The heat races gave a hint of things to come with Pauch, Cozze and Godown all taking wins.

The third heat had a moment that typifies what local dirt racing is all about. Northeast legend Kenny Brightbill had a race long battle for the last qualifying spot. He made a couple of unsucessful bold charges that cost him momentum, and it looked like he was on his way to the last chance race . On the last two corners of the last lap he defied physics, made up a seemingly impossible gap and grabbed the spot. Brightbill is without a doubt one of the most popular racers in the northeast. Here he was grabbing the last qualifying spot in a heat race and the whole grandstand came to it's feet, fists pumping. You would have thought he just won the biggest race of the year from the crowd reaction. That is what short track racing is all about.

The 100 lap feature had more of the same in store. The top 3 finishers in each heat race got to draw for the top 12 starting positions. Sixty-plus year old Jack Johnson, another icon in dirt modified circles drew the pole, local kingpin Billy Pauch drew fourth and the chase was on...

Johnson ran strong in the early laps, showing that age has not diminished his ability. Billy Pauch knows the NewEgypt bullring better than anyone, and he showed it by blasting out from the start with a sense of urgency-- knowing it's important to get to the front early, before the traffic of lapped cars complicates the issue.

Pauch took the lead from Johnson, but 100 laps at NES with 30 cars on the track means you have to fight every inch of the way. Eventually the NES top guns all found there way to the front with Pauch, Godown and Cozze running 1,2,3. Where were the touring DIRT pros?

The hometrack regulars made it their own private fight, with lapped traffic turning the D-shaped oval into an obstacle course. Pauch was the first victim, ironically tangling with Godown's brother Brian, while Ryan took the lead and Pauch dropped to third.

Lapped traffic would be Ryan Godown's undoing as well, while he was tangling with a lapper, Frank Cozze bolted for the lead, only to jump the cushion, putting Billy Pauch back on top. While this clash of the titans was going on the grandstand was roaring louder than the racing engines. It's times like these that I wish all the whiners who never have a good thing to say about racing would just shut up and get caught up in the moment like me and a couple thousand of my best friends did that night.

The NES regulars carried the torch well sweeping the top three positions. That rarely happens to the touring DIRT drivers these days and the local fans were justifiably proud.

The pride wasn't limited to just the grandstand as Ryan Godown said in victory lane, "I don't even care that I didn't win, it's three New Egypt guys up front!" I wouldn't have believed him if he wasn't grinning from ear to ear.

Then for many, it was off for a stroll through the pits. The sleek mud-streaked modifieds sat cooling in the humid night air, the tension of a battle well fought slowly winding down. Grinning fans reran the race, talking and laughing. It was a good night at the local track, and for a little while all was right with the world.