The Unseen Here and Now . . .

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Stuart Revercomb

Stuart Revercomb is a marketing consultant and joyously married father of four children. He seems to remember someone once telling him he ought to be a writer. "The Unseen Here and Now" -- Thursdays.

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March 01, 2001

Death Does Not Belong

Death does not belong in Sports.

But when it appears, grotesque and out of place at the dinner table like some long lost drunk and disheveled Uncle, everyone in attendance is nervous and uneasy and affected.

Even those in the kitchen can't escape his presence. They can hear the awkwardness and the pain in the next room. And somehow they lament the party's ending as well. Maybe not as personally as those seated around the table, but they feel it nevertheless.

Last week it was I who heard the gasp go up in the next room as the #3 car of Dale Earnhardt bit heavily into the concrete wall of Daytona International Raceway. My 7 year old son George was watching in the den.

"Dad, come quick," he yelled with urgency, "There's been a terrible wreck".

I have never been big fan of stock car racing, or any kind of auto racing for that matter, but I have watched part of enough races to know its allure and sense its attraction to the untold millions of dedicated fans. It is an intriguing mix of blue collar ethics and big corporate money - a place where bright colors and speed and bluebird skies move carefree and easy behind the fast talking announcers and pretty girls. A place where fashion, fame, tradition and folklore are all offered up in equal measure.

And that sells big.

Very big.

So when death appears brutal and sudden on the race track to the number one figure in the sport, the very fabric of America ripples - and even those of us on the fringes feel its powerful and destructive movement. A million hearts and more rip open at once and we all sense the loss of what, as a minimum, clearly meant so much to so many people.

Son George took it hard. He had watched the race from beginning to end, during which the announcers spoke personally of the primary contenders, giving background and context to the individuals that gripped the steering wheels of the impossibly fast moving cars. In the short 2 hours that he had been watching he made a remarkable connection with several of the leading drivers.

Early in the race he began pulling for Dale Earnhardt's black number 3 car because he liked the looks and the number, but he switched to Sterling Marlin's number 40 after hearing that Earnhardt had a reputation for being an overly aggressive driver and playing on occasion "outside of the rules".

For a 7 year old, George has a healthy disdain for those who refuse to play fair. But after the race, as we left to celebrate my wife's birthday at a local restaurant, he was concerned for the driver's condition, asking me repeatedly if I thought Earnhardt was going to be O.K..

"I'm sure he'll be alright son", I responded. As NASCAR wrecks go it had looked pretty mundane, certainly not life threatening.

But a couple of hours later as we were leaving the restaurant we heard the news. Auto Racing had lost its biggest star and somewhere a family no different than any other mourned the loss of a son, a father, a husband, a friend.

George was uncharacteristically quiet on the way home. He didn't say a word as I asked him to go upstairs and brush his teeth and get ready for bed. A few minutes later I found him sitting cross legged amongst his pillows and stuffed animals. His eyes were full of tears.

"What's wrong son?" I asked.

"I'm sad Daddy", his voice cracked, and his lower lip began to pout.

"Why George?"

"A - bout...about Dale Earnhardt".

"Are you sad about his family and friends missing him?", I asked in an effort to show I understood.

He nodded silently in agreement, the tears now flowing freely down his cheeks. I let him cry for a moment, pausing to collect my thoughts, but before I could speak again George stammered, "Dad - I ... I'm just worried he might be in hell..."

I was caught completely off guard. I wasn't even sure of what George's idea of "hell" really was. We had never spoken of it except in the vaguest of terms as a place where we are apart from God. I suspected, however, that friendly discussions at Sunday School and beyond had given him a more traditional view of torment and anguish. The only response I could give was one that I had heard in a class I had taught some years earlier.

"The Bible tells us that Jesus will go even to hell for us son - so if you're right, and I'm not sure you are, I bet old Dale is walking with him now. I suspect that he knows Joy that you and I can't even imagine." George's eyes perked up a little, but I could tell he still wrestled with these, his earliest contemplations of death.

He thought a moment longer and then stated simply while wiping a tear from his eyes, "I hope you're right Dad."

I too "hoped" I was right - "knew" I was right - and then "hoped" again.

I told him how proud I was of him for caring so much about others as he had, and he nodded again silently. I pressed my hand in his and whispered in his ear, "Sleep well pal - the morning sun is surely on its way."

And sure enough, Dad was right.