The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Dillon understands No. 3 car’s legacy
Coca-Cola 600 win positions driver for shot at postseason.
The question lingered, deservedly so.
Did Austin Dillon deserve to drive the iconic No. 3 Chevy? Some NASCAR loyalists looked at it as nothing more than a hand-medown for a kid not worthy of carrying Dale Earnhardt’s restrictor plate. But he was also family, the grandson of Earnhardt’s dearest friend, Richard Childress, the team owner.
“I didn’t want to put just anyone in the 3 car,” Childress said in the wee hours of Monday at Charlotte Motor Speedway. “I probably never would have brought it back.”
Childress talked to the guy whose opinion mattered most back in the fall of 2011: Dale Earnhardt Jr. was fine with it, and so Dillon began lugging the number and tradition along in the then-Nationwide (now Xfinity) Series in 2012. Then came the Cup Series, where the kid toughed it out for 132 races without a victory.
The kid finally delivered with a victory in the CocaCola 600 late Sunday, getting a fortuitous twist of fortune when leader Jimmie Johnson ran out of gas with two laps remaining. No matter. It still counts. Big time. “Now to be able to deliver a number that is legendary and has stats that are untouchable — just to add to those numbers is something that him and his best friend were able to create,” Dillon said. “It’s very special.
“And to all those fans that have supported it, too, ‘cause there’s always haters out there. There’s a lot of support, too.”
NASCAR, for all of its fancy machinations over the last decade, remains a sport raised on traditional values, with a shot of moonshine. Fans are fiercely loyal and don’t take kindly to pretenders.
Hence, the “haters” reference. And some haters still may hate, given that Dillon won on a calculated fuel-mileage gamble. He ran out of gas only as he passed the finish line.
Whatever. It counts. Mightily.
Dillon, 27, now has put himself in position for the postseason. It took a while for that to sink in for everybody.
Childress looked up at the electronic scoreboard, signaling the end of the longest night of the year. At 600 miles, the Coca-Cola is NASCAR’s most grueling race. And there was an extra hour and 40 minutes of waiting tacked on because of a rain delay.
Through the mist of the night, Childress still couldn’t believe what his eyes told him.
“I didn’t really get incredibly emotional because I was still in shock,” Childress said. “I looked up and saw the 3 at the top of the board at the Coke 600, knowing my grandson was in it and how special it was for all the fans.”
A burden had been lifted, for both grandfather and grandson. It’s been a long ride for Childress, dating to the day when Earnhardt died on the last lap of the 2001 Daytona 500.
Devastated and despondent, Childress stood on the deck of Bill France Jr.’s dock in Daytona — ready to walk away from it all — two days after the accident.
Then he remembered a hunting trip to New Mexico with his best buddy in the 1980s. And Dale Earnhardt’s feisty voice came to life right then and there.
They were climbing a mountain. Their horses were bridleless. Dale’s horse started slipping and started rearing up, back toward Childress, who had no choice but to jump off the mountain. The horse went flying with him, but they were both fortunate they were caught in a cluster of trees.
They were laughing about it later that night over a few beverages. Earnhardt called it the “great horse wreck.” And then things got serious.
“You know, Dale, if I got killed on the mountain today you’d have to race Phoenix,” Childress said.
They looked at each other pensively.
“If it ever happens to me,” Earnhardt said, “you’d better race.”
Richard Childress has kept on racing, and he’s kept it a family business.
There is no hate, only love.