"Closure"
By Jessi Zeller (RockOn15NAPAChevy)
August 13, 2004 2:29:18 AM--October 10, 2004 11:54:41 PM

Disclaimer: This is based on the events of the Pepsi 400 on July 7th, 2001. What happened in the last six laps is as accurate as I could make it by carefully studying the tape of the race, except for the thoughts and radio communication of Michael and his team. The events in the second chapter are all made up by me. Michael Waltrip, Dale Jr., and any other person that a NASCAR fan will recognize are real people, which I have hopefully done a good job at portraying realistically. The fans in the grandstand are not based on anyone I have known or seen.

Summary: The last six laps of the 2001 Pepsi 400 and until about five in the morning the following day.

Dedication: To Michael Waltrip, Dale Jr., Steve Park, and everyone who was emotionally affected by this race.

Rating: PG

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Chapter 2


His NBC interview done, Michael Waltrip gave Matt a nod and a smile, wiped his face with a towel, and walked around through the pits, giving more interviews to other organizations on his way to the mandatory media meeting for the drivers that finished in the top five. On his way, he spotted Elliott Sadler, sitting near his hauler, looking exhausted but happy. “Hey, draftin’ partner,” Michael greeted, sitting down next to him. “Where’d you come from right at the end?”

Elliott chuckled. “I dunno, man,” he replied in his thick Virginian accent. “I laust yuh for a little while, but then I got yuh back. I was always near yuh, though, and took mah chance when the twenny-two got high, and I found yuh again.”

“You were doing a great job protecting us,” Michael commented. “You’ll win a restrictor plate race soon, I can tell you that.”

The young man gazed up to one of the many jumbo screens standing around the track. “Man, lookit him,” he said, gesturing to Junior on the TV. “He’s so happy. I wouldn’ta wanted anyone else ta win t’night.”

Michael smiled, watching Dale and his crew hug. “Me either.”

Fireworks exploded all around them, and they sat quietly together, their eyes on the sky. Then Marty Snider came trotting over with a cameraman. “Looks like mah innerview’s comin’” Elliott said.

Michael stood up, catching a flash of a yellow suit out of the corner of his eye. “I’ll see you in the media center,” he said, holding out a hand. “Nice workin’ with you.”

Elliott slapped his outstretched hand, gripped it firmly, and then released it. “A pleasure,” he said.

Michael jogged in the direction that he’d seen the yellow-suited man, and dashed around a corner between two haulers. The man was walking along, alone. “Steve!” Michael called.

Steve Park stopped short and turned to face Michael. “Hey, I was looking for you.”

Michael spread his arms. “Well, here I am,” he said.

“That was awesome what you two did tonight,” Steve said. “Dale’s so damn happy. I just got back from seeing him in Victory Lane. I’ve never seen a bigger smile on that kid’s face. Or yours, for that matter. Not since before….you know.” He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “I wish I could’ve been a part of your celebration, but I just couldn’t go at the end.”

Michael cocked an eyebrow at him. “We’ll all have our moments, Steve. Hey, don’t forget Rockingham. That was something, man.” He raised a hand, and Steve smiled, lifting his own. Like at the Rock, they brushed fingers, gracelessly, like they had reaching for each other in the cars, but with love and companionship. “We’ve all had those moments this year,” Michael said.

Steve glanced at him, his pale eyes reflecting the lights in the garage area, and then looked down, biting his bottom lip. “We have,” he whispered. The young driver’s hands were trembling at his sides. “I miss him, man.”

There was no question in Michael’s mind who Steve was referring to. Without saying anything, he gripped his teammate’s shoulders and pulled the young driver toward him. Steve made no protest, resting his forehead on Michael’s chest and sighing heavily. They stood that way for some time. Finally Steve sniffed and drew back. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I should be happy right now. It’s just that….Michael, I—I….” He laughed nervously. “Never mind. You guys did my heart good tonight, though. It was great to see you two on the car in the grass. I’m just tired and disappointed with myself, that’s all.”

Michael looked at him with some confusion and concern. He knew that he was hiding something that was weighty on his mind, but he didn’t press the issue. “I know what you mean, bro. I’m tired, too, and the last thing I wanna do is sit in the media center. Don’t trouble yourself, Steve. You were pushing Junior along pretty good at one point, and he was loving it. It’s the nature of plate racing—not being where you want when you want it. I’ve been in that position a lot during my career. So don’t get down on yourself. Hey.” He punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Remember, Steve. I’m there if you ever need to talk and get stuff off your chest. No matter how crazy or stupid you may think it is, you can tell me anything.”

Steve turned his gaze skyward for a brief moment and then looked back at Michael. He smiled. “Yeah, I know.” He yawned and stretched his arms, changing his composure to his usual plucky self. “Junior said to meet him at his motor coach later tonight, after all the media clears out. And the beer’s on him,” he added with a wide grin. “I’m gonna go take a shower now.” He sniffed his armpits and made a face.

Michael laughed. “You do that, bud. I’ll be there at the motor coach when I’m done in the media center. I suppose Junior’ll be the last one to arrive, though. So that gives me time to take a shower, hug my wife and kids, and call my mom.”

“Put some eye drops in before you go to the media center,” Steve said. “You’re all bloodshot.”

Michael grinned. “Nah, I’ll pass on that. It’s all about appearance. I’m a tired, satisfied racecar driver. I gotta look a little grungy.”





People surrounded Dale Earnhardt Jr. Newspaper reporters, SPEED Channel, and countless other media organizations flooded around the young Earnhardt, asking him questions in excited voices. Normally, he was leery of crowds shoving microphones and tape recorders into his face, but he felt like he could talk forever. So he talked to everyone who came up to him, and no matter how many times he answered the same question, it never felt old. It never felt less amazing.

Mixed in with the unfamiliar faces were some he definitely knew. His friends from Mooresville, the Dirty Mo Posse, swarmed him the first chance they got and hugged him, kissed him, and roughed him up. Ken Schrader came over for some congratulations, along with Mike Helton and Ray Holm, his sister Kelley’s husband. Then Dale Jarrett slipped in through the crowd and hugged him. “That reminded me of someone I once knew,” he whispered in his ear.

Soon Dale Jr. became restless. He wanted to go back to his motorhome and get changed, take a shower, and then get a group of his buddies together to hang out with and talk and drink. Budweiser was bringing tubs of beer to his coach, and when Steve had dropped by he’d told him to go around and invite anyone who wanted to come. But he didn’t want to be rude to the media, so he made small, polite hints that he was tired and ready to get some relaxation. A yawn here, an eye-rub there. The crew caught on and followed suit. A few went so far as to pretend to be dozing off. Finally, they were alone together. The track was quiet. All the fans had gone home (except those who had RVs in the infield—he could hear snatches of music and cheers if he tried hard enough). The fireworks show had been over for over an hour.

He draped an arm around Tony Jr. and his uncle Danny. “Let’s go drink some Bud.”

They plodded to the drivers’ area in a disorganized group, laughing, talking, and horsing around. A few drivers were sitting outside of their motor coaches, and called out more congratulations to him and the crew. Then the Bud guys arrived at Junior’s coach, where over a dozen people were hanging around. The Dirty Mo Posse, Michael, Steve, Matt Kenseth, Elliott Sadler, the Wallace brothers, Dale Jarrett, Ken Schrader, Kevin Harvick, Kyle Petty, and the music artist Edwin McCain were all relaxing in a loose circle, sitting in fold-up chairs or on the ground . When they saw the race winners approaching, they stopped what they were doing and began to clap, a few hoots and whistles added in.

Junior seated himself in between Steve and Matt on a chair they offered him. Matt punched him heartily on the arm. Everyone continued to applaud, all proud smiles. He felt himself blush. “Aw, guys,” he said. “You don’t hafta do that. I won a race. Ya’ll have won races too.”

Matt nudged him. “Oh, come on, man.”

“Don’t be modest,” Kyle said, grinning. “What you did tonight wasn’t just winning a race. You dominated, like nothing I’ve ever seen. You were meant to win.”

“Nothing but a wreck or rain would’ve stopped you, I think,” Kevin put in. “And you probably would’ve won anyway, with the way you were running. Everything was in your favor tonight, you and the crew.”

Junior nodded. “Yeah, I guess we were on top of things, huh?” He gave a grateful look to each one of his team members, to thank them for swift pit stops and excellent strategy.

“I’m glad I was here,” Edwin said. “It was awesome. There’s nothing else like it.”

“Try being in the car,” DJ laughed, shaking his head. “This wasn’t even the wildest it gets, not by a long shot.”

“And Michael!” Kenny Wallace exclaimed. “How’d you get up there right in time! You were just there!”

“Yeah,” Rusty agreed with enthusiasm. “I was ahead of you one second, and then I said, ‘Man, where’d he go in such a hurry? He sure ain’t behind me! So he must be in front! Wow, he’s got a hotrod!’ And you sure did, man. How’d you do it?”

Michael shrugged, a small smile on his face. “I dunno. My car just went, and I took the ride.”

Kenny laughed contagiously, causing a few of the others to giggle. “Yeah, sure. Like I believe that.” He gestured to Dale Jr. and Michael. “Boys, I think we’re talking to the two new best drafters in the world. Come Talladega—and all restrictor plate races—we’ll have to watch out for these guys, mark my words.”

“You learned from the best there was,” Ken Schrader said solemnly.

At that, they all became silent, deep in their own thoughts. Some glanced up at the sky wonderingly, several bowed their heads and prayed, a few wiped their eyes with the back of their hand, not letting a tear openly fall at the mention of the Intimidator, but coming close to it.

Eventually, Elliott broke the quiet. “Hey, there’s lauts of beeyah here, gettin’ warm.”

“I can concur, man!” Kenny said, reaching forward and grabbing a Bud, then tossing a few more to those around him.

Rusty suddenly laughed, looking at the can that his brother had given him. “I’ll get by butt whooped if Miller catches me drinking this stuff, I’ll tell you that. But I’ll do it for you, Junior. But if word ever gets out about this, I’m coming after every single one of you.”

“Let’s all drink to tonight, boys,” Tony Sr. said. “And to many more like it.”

“To the Earnhardt name,” DJ said. “And to everyone on DEI.”

“To family,” Kyle said, “because that’s what we all are.”

“To….restrictor plates,” Michael grinned.

“To Budweiser,” Junior finished.

Everybody honored the toasts, taking a generous swig of beer.

In the hours after the toast, the large gathering chatted idly about the race itself, races beforehand, and random stories of their lives. The Wallace brothers did much of the talking, but nobody minded, for everyone was content with each other. As time progressed, people departed on their own accord—most yawning or half-asleep—or were sought out by wives or family members, and the group became smaller, as did the amount of Budweiser left in the tubs. Soon it was only Dale, Michael, Steve, and Edwin McCain. The singer had entertained the party when conversation lulled, taking out his acoustic guitar and performing many of his songs. Michael had listened entranced to “I’ll Be” and from them on it has always been one of his favorite songs.

Now, as the three DEI drivers sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the ground, their backs against the side of the motor coach, Edwin strummed thoughtfully in a chair, facing them. He glanced up and flexed his fingers. “Well, it’s been awesome getting to hang out with you guys,” he said, “but I should be hitting the road soon. I’ll play one more song for ya. Pick any song.”

“ ‘Could Not Ask for More’,” Michael said without hesitation.

Dale and Steve bobbed their heads in agreement. “That’s good,” Steve said.

“All right then,” Edwin said. “This one’s for you guys.”

The notes of the guitar and the sound of the singer’s voice were clear in the mild night air. Although the orchestra that everyone was used to hearing in the CD version of the song was replaced by simple chords, it made it no less pleasing to the ear, no less spellbinding. Michael lapsed into the recent memories of racing behind Dale Jr. just hours before, committing himself entirely to his teammate, like he had back in February. He thought back to the first time he had seen Junior as a lanky, awkward boy, standing close to his father and taking in the world around him with inquisitive, slightly suspicious eyes. How when the boy had met his gaze, Michael somehow knew that that wouldn’t be the last time he saw him, nor would they be under the same circumstances. He always knew that Junior would follow in the Intimidator’s footsteps.

Snapping out of his trance, Michael looked sidelong at his young friend. Dale had his eyes closed and his head tilted back against the sheet metal of the motor coach, a small, happy smile on his lips as he listened to the music. His fingers tapped on one knee to the slow beat of the song. Michael turned his gaze to Steve, who was flanking the other side of the young Earnhardt, and found that he was also watching Junior. The two elder DEI drivers smiled at each other, and then Michael averted his eyes, staring off into the darkness, settling back into his thoughts.

They had been through so much this year, the NASCAR world. Not one person, whether he was part of NASCAR or a fan, wasn’t affected by Dale Earnhardt’s death. Outside of Turn 4 right now there were hundreds of messages from fans to Dale Sr., scores of flowers, and dozens of candles, all commemorating arguably the greatest driver in NASCAR history. Before the race, fans were crying in front of Dale’s souvenir rig. After the race, Michael hoped, they were still crying—but with joy this time. Maybe Dale Jr. winning the race and dedicating it to his father gave them closure. Maybe it gave everybody some closure.

Michael hardly realized the song was over, but he felt Junior sigh heavily beside him, and he brought himself back into the present. Edwin was slipping the shoulder strap of the guitar over his neck, and Steve was in the middle of saying thank you for hanging out with them. “Hey, thank you,” Edwin replied, standing up. “It’s not every day a dude like me can chill with guys like you.”

“And it’s not everyday dudes like us can chill with a guy like you,” Michael said. He held out a hand. “Thanks for the music. It was beautiful.”

Edwin shook his hand firmly, and did the same with Dale and Steve. “I’ll see you guys later,” he said, giving Dale an extra pat. “Don’t stay up too late.”

They said a few more goodbyes, and then Edwin walked off.

A comfortable silence fell in between the DEI teammates. All sound had died away. There was nothing to be heard from the infield or the garage; just the slight breeze floating into the track from the ocean. Michael smelled the distinct saltiness of the air mingled with the lingering scent of fumes from the race cars and the sour taste of Budweiser still in his mouth. He hadn’t drank very much—he wasn’t much of a drinker—but his younger friends had had their good share of the beer, and were a little less alert than he was. Steve was nodding off where he sat. Michael glanced up at the sky and noted that it was turning lighter. He checked his watch, and discovered with some surprise that it was four-thirty in the morning.

“You still awake, Junior?” Michael asked, nudging him.

“Mm hmm, yup,” Dale replied, shifting and stretching.

“How about you, Steve?” Michael inquired.

Steve didn’t make a spoken answer, but grunted softly.

Michael leaned forward and looked across Junior at the Pennzoil driver. “Hey, Steve, why don’t you go to bed? You can’t fall asleep out here.”

There was no response, and Junior chuckled. “He’s wantin’ to.” He lightly smacked Steve’s arm. “Wake up, man. We ain’t draggin’ you to bed.”

Steve’s eyes fluttered open. “Come on,” he groaned. “I was just gettin’ comfy….”

“Go to bed,” Michael said.

Only after some prodding by Junior was Steve awake enough to stand, and even then he did so lethargically. He looked off down the row of motor coaches. “Mine’s so far away.”

“What, are you gonna pass out before you get there?” Dale said with a laugh.

“Most likely,” Steve said. “If you hear a loud thud, come looking for me.”

Michael nodded. “We got your back, bro. If you fall, we’ll come pick you up.”

Steve smiled. “You know, that’s just like you to say, Mikey. We all got each other to look after one another, right?”

“Well, I was referring to you falling on your face as a result of your drunkenness,” Michael joked, “but yeah, we do all look out for each other.” He studied the Pennzoil driver with more scrutiny. Steve wobbled where he stood, causing Junior to giggle. “All right,” Michael said. “I’m starting to think you will fall on your face if you go alone, so to prove that I look out for you, I’m going to escort you back to your coach.” He got to his feet and put his hand on Steve’s back to steady him. “I’ll be back in a minute, Junior.”

“Wait,” Steve said. He turned to the young Earnhardt. “Junior, I love you man. You were awesome tonight. I know someone would have been real proud of you.”

Dale rose and walked toward them. He took Steve by both shoulders and leaned in close. “Bud, I hope you’re not too drunk to understand me, cuz you may not hear me get mushy very often.”

Steve shook his head. “No, man,” he said. “I’m fine. My knees are just really warm. I’m listening.”

“You’re like a brother to me,” Dale said, “and I love you like one. Daddy ain’t just proud of me tonight—he’s proud of all of us. You, Steve, you’re one hell of a driver. Why else would he have picked you to run his first car? And Michael…” He looked at his other teammate. “He had faith in you; he saw your talent and believed in you when no one else would. We’ve been through a lot together, all three of us this year. More than a lot of teams have in many. We’re there for each other. If any of you guys need to talk to me, I’m here. It’s the least I can do to repay you for the support you’ve given me in these past months. You’ve been strong, which makes me strong. So Daddy ain’t only proud of his punk kid. He’s smilin’ at all of us right now.”

Dale’s eyes were unfocused and his voice had grown softer as he spoke. To Michael it seemed like he wasn’t even directing his words toward anyone anymore; they reminded him of echoes, easily heard but coming from somewhere distant. He was deep in thoughts which couldn’t be expressed through speech, and which may not have been fully understood by him. It both perked Michael’s interest and unnerved him, for he had felt the same way several times that night. Steve, still facing the young Earnhardt, was staring at him in a mixture of realization and wonder. Just as Michael was about to say something, Junior shook his head and came back into reality. He smiled in his old way again and gently shook Steve. “See? Got mushy for a little while and now I’m normal,” he said. “Go to bed, man. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He gave him a quick, tight hug and let him go.

Steve smiled. “All right. Good night, Junior.” He turned to Michael. “Come on Mikey, let’s go. And make sure I don’t wander off or fall over.”

They walked away down the row of motor coaches, Steve leaning on Michael from time to time. Michael used the silence to think. There was something bothering both his teammates, but for some reason they declined to tell anyone. Far back in his mind, he knew it had something to do with Dale Earnhardt, but whenever he came back to that explanation his heart filled with pain and sorrow. When the reached the motor coach, Steve sat down on the steps. “Whoo, that was fun. It’s not so bad when I’m standing still, but walking is kind of weird.”

“That’s why I don’t drink too much,” Michael said, waving a finger at him. “I’m goofy enough without alcohol—I don’t need any to make me a complete idiot.”

“It’s not affecting my head,” Steve disagreed, “just my physical orientation. My mind is working fine.” He went quiet suddenly, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt and glancing at the NAPA driver a few times. Michael waited patiently, aware that his friend was about to confess. “Yours is too, thankfully,” Steve said at length. “Remember what you said to me a few hours ago? About me being able to talk to you about anything, no matter how crazy it may sound?”

Michael nodded.

“I need to talk to you about something really important,” Steve continued. “And it’s gonna sound crazy, but I don’t think it was a coincidence. I saw a guy in the grandstands. Out of all the people there, I saw one man wearing a three on his shirt. And it almost seemed like we met eyes, and then I couldn’t shake the feeling that Dale was here….Michael, I think he was here tonight. More than Rockingham or anywhere after he died. He was here. Like, right here. In the car with me. Beside me when I was walking around alone after the race. I actually thought I saw him standing in the shadows in the garage. That’s why I was so freaked out when you found me, because I actually called out to him, but he wasn’t there. And it doesn’t even end with that. When I went in the motor coach to change Harley was sitting really still and just staring at this picture I have of Dale on my wall. Then he looked at me and whined, but he was wagging his tail.” Steve shook his head, sighed, and looked up at Michael. “Do you believe me?”

Chills were running up and down Michael’s spine, and he swallowed hard. “Yeah, yeah I do. What did that guy in the grandstands look like?”

Steve shrugged. “I dunno. An older guy, kinda—”

“Scruffy. Your typical rustic Dale Earnhardt fan,” Michael finished.

“Yeah….” Steve said slowly. “But he was different….”

“Yeah, I know he was,” Michael said. “I saw him too. Under caution, before that last restart, I just happened to be looking at the crowd, and I saw him standing there. He was looking right at me, and I got a funny feeling. Then I saw him again, after the checkers. Again, he locked eyes with me, and he was crying. And again, I got that feeling that Dale was somewhere close. But he hasn’t been a constant presence. I haven’t sensed him or seen him out of the corner of my eye yet, though.” He felt a twinge of disappointment. “I wonder why?”

Steve smiled. “You’ve been busy. He’ll show himself when he wants to be felt. You know how he was, Mikey. When you’re alone, just relax everything.” He yawned. “I’d better get to sleep. So you don’t think I’m drunk, or going loony on you, right?”

“No,” Michael said softly. “Not at all.”

“Just making sure,” Steve said, getting awkwardly to his feet. “Good night, Mikey.” He opened the door to the motor coach but paused, looking back at his teammate. “Michael, Junior’s disoriented. I could tell when he was talking about Dale that’s he’s got a lot of stuff going through his head right now that he doesn’t know how to deal with. I’m worried about him.”

Michael nodded. “I know. That’s why I’m going back. I could fall asleep in the middle of a war right now, but I’m gonna go back and talk to him. He keeps things to himself that shouldn’t be, and I think it’s making him insane. I’ll coax it out of him.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “If you can’t do it, no one can.”

“Good night, Steve,” Michael said. “See you on the plane tomorrow….or that would be today, right?”

“In a few hours,” Steve said with a laugh. “Good….morning.” He stepped inside his coach and shut the door.

Michael stood there for a few minutes, breathing steadily, collecting his thoughts and gathering up some courage. Then he turned and began to walk back toward Dale Jr., wondering how he was going to make his young and sometimes stubborn friend talk.