Happy Birthday, Davey

Today would have been the 50th birthday of my first racing hero. It’s hard to fathom, as those of of us who loved him look at and remember him as forever young.

In his all-too-brief NASCAR career, David Carl Allison cemented his place as one of the sport’s top talents, scoring 19 victories, including the 1992 Daytona 500, and just missing that year’s championship.

He was on his way to being a champion, perhaps many times over, and without doubt a racing icon, just like his father Bobby before him.

Of course, he was tragically taken from the world - and legions of fans - at the age of 32, dying of injuries sustained in a helicopter crash on July 13, 1993. The crash occurred in the infield of his beloved home track, the Talladega Superspeedway.

I was but a child when Davey died, so it took a long time for me to truly realize just what I had lost.

Now, like everyone else who loved Davey, I can’t help but feel a little empty when I see a Texaco Star or the number 28, and both symbols are precious to me, as are the number of toy #28 cars my parents bought for me both before and after his death and the figure of Davey I bought in 2005.

I never got to meet Davey while he was alive, but I’m not so sure I haven’t met him quite recently.

Last July, I visited Talladega’s International Motorsports Hall of Fame and the Davey Allison Memorial Park. I wrote about my experiences that day last year, titling the story “A Day with Davey.” That title was more literal than folks could imagine.

Davey’s white and black #28 Ford, nicknamed Superstar, that he had driven to victory at Dover in his 1987 rookie season, sits prominently at the Hall of Fame. Crazy as it sounds, I could feel a strong, almost life-like bond to that race car while I was inside the building. There was one point where I could sense I was being watched. I looked around a corner, and there, peeking halfway around the same corner at me, was Superstar. It was sitting in it’s normal place, but I couldn’t help but feel it was keeping an “eye” on me.
Later that day, as I strolled along the Texaco Walk of Fame that creates an oval around the park in downtown Talladega, I heard what I thought were footsteps. I assumed someone else was also looking at the plaques lining the Walk. When I reached the plaque of Bobby Hamilton, another lost hero of mine, I stopped to read it. Out of instinct I decided to glance around and see where the other person was in relation to me.

Nobody was in sight.

Perhaps I’m a self-righteous loon, but I can’t help but wonder if it wasn’t the spirit of Davey Allison, taking a trip down from Heaven to spend some time with one of his biggest fans.

Happy birthday, Davey. We love you, and we miss you dearly.