Just a few minutes ago I was watching television, flipping from station to station waiting for The Simpsons to come on. Then I saw that one headline, and an anvil fell on my stomach. "Breaking News: Earnhardt Dies in Crash." I never imagined I’d be writing a sports article, but here it is. No matter what you may have thought of him, the National Association of Stock Car Racing has lost one of its best.

Going into turn four of the 43rd Annual Daytona 500 (a sporting event that draws thousands more than the Super Bowl), Earnhardt's Chevrolet Monte Carlo appeared to scrape the Dodge Intrepid of Sterling Marlin and slid sideways. Ken Schrader’s Pontiac Grand Prix slammed into his car, forcing both of them into the fourth turn wall at speeds of about 180 mph. Both Marlin and Schrader hit the wall hard, but Earnhardt hit harder. Paramedics rushed to the scene and they knew Earnhardt was suffering from fatal injuries. He never regained consciousness and doctors pronounced him dead with his wife Teresa at his bedside. He was 49.

A native of Kannapolis, N.C., Earnhardt won seven Winston Cup championships, a feat previously attributed only to Richard Petty, arguably the only driver who could claim an equal talent. Earnhardt won 34 races at Daytona alone, his latest at the 2000 True Value International Race of Champions event. Up until 1998 the Daytona 500 eluded him, but in one of the most exhilarating sports events I have ever seen, Dale Earnhardt powered his No. 3 Monte Carlo across the finish line to clinch the victory that had escaped him for so many years. Crowds roared as loud as the 710-horsepower engines that carried each driver around the track at speeds of over 200 miles an hour.

How grossly ironic that the monster he had defeated killed him. I remember television interviews with Earnhardt where he spoke longingly of victory at the most famous of NASCAR tracks. You could see desire in his eyes and while he used a lot of technological terms to explain why the car did whatever in whichever turn, the tone of voice was that of a giddy child remarking lovingly of his first dirt bike. Any human being knows that feeling. He loved what he did. And whatever mistake he had made before, he vowed to himself and to his fans that he would not make it again.

The irony not only lies in the track where he died, but the person who won, and the person who won second place. First place went to Michael Waltrip, whose car was owned by Earnhardt, and second place went to none other than Dale Earnhardt, Jr. It’s of no surprise that this rookie does not drive like one. He takes after his father. The race was Waltrip’s first victory in a points race. Waltrip, I’m sure, feels the victory is rather sour. Everyone lost today.

My family has been involved in NASCAR since 1993. My father got involved in the event almost overnight when he placed the Grand Home Furnishings logo on the #14 Chevy Lumina of John Andretti. Then Dad sponsored Jeff Burton, Phil Parsons, and Michael Waltrip. Dad cheered his lungs out when the car with his company’s name on it zoomed over the finish line that night in 1996. It wasn’t a points race, but that’s not the point, and neither was the publicity for my dad. Race car drivers, and believe me, us Davises have met and talked with quite a few, are damn good people. They really are dedicated to their fans. There are no John Rockers or Mike Tysons or Darryl Strawberrys in racing. These men (and a few women) are true role models. Fans connect with them.

I remember when my dad gave John Andretti a ride somewhere. Mom then took the car over to her friend Debbie, and told her to sit in the seat. She didn’t tell her why, but Debbie sat in the seat anyway. Mom proceeded to tell the biggest NASCAR fan she knew that John Andretti had recently sat in that seat. She was brought to tears. Debbie is now a John Andretti fan, but she was a bigger Earnhardt fan. My thoughts are with her tonight. My thoughts are also with Charlie, my grumpy old neighbor who worshipped the ground Earnhardt walked upon. I don’t know either of these people that well, but I know this about them: right now, they’re both crushed.

Racing is a misunderstood sport. It’s not as boring as you think. Yeah, I’m biased, since I watch them all standing on top of the Wood Brothers’ transporter. I know this much is true about all sports: the television and the real experiences are entirely different. On TV, stock cars go in circles and you don’t see much outside of who’s in fifth place. But if you can spare the average $55 to see a race, you will not forget the experience. Another myth that needs to be dispelled about NASCAR is its fan-base. It’s not all a bunch of Cleatus McGillicuddys with straw in their teeth going on and on about "hawspowah." I’ve seen fur-clad women step out of Jaguars and walk right into the festivities, not given a second look. It’s a real treat to go to a race, and if you’re not a fan before you see one, you will be afterwards. After my first race, I was hooked.

My thoughts are with people who didn’t like Earnhardt for the fact that he was the best driver on the track. If you’re above and beyond 41 other drivers on that track, daggers will spring from the envious eyes that follow you. I remember numerous driver introductions where Earnhardt was booed the second he came into view. Why. I’d like to know why people hate other people for having talent. I’m ashamed of my fellow fans who for so long brushed off Earnhardt, quipping "he sucks" even after examining his stellar racing record.

Earnhardt was a son, a husband, and a father. Once when I was waiting to exit the pits to enter the grandstand, my dad poked me in the shoulder and pointed to my left. Earnhardt and his wife Teresa were standing right beside me. It was a rainy day, and the couple was huddled underneath an umbrella. They looked a tad awkward, Dale in his black and white, flame retardant uniform and his wife in a blue pantsuit, but they also looked in love, deeply, deeply in love. I also remember a television interview where Earnhardt showed the camerapeople around his North Carolina farm, showing off his horses, bulls and chickens, and never has a celebrity looked so real. We often forget that we make celebrities famous. If it weren’t for us non-famous clods, there would be no famous people. I think Earnhardt knew that. I think they all do.

The track is going to look quite different this season. It’s a dangerous sport, perhaps the most dangerous sport. Piloting a machine at that speed takes all you have, and numerous men have lost their lives in those tiny cockpits, including Adam Petty and Kenny Irwin. But the drivers we still have are going to keep on driving, not because they are paid millions of dollars a year, but because they love it, and because people like me love to see them love it.