By MONTE DUTTON

Many of my favorite times as a sportswriter occurred during experiences I didn’t have to share with anyone. …

… NASCAR race mornings in the press box, chatting and sipping coffee with Benny Parsons or Buddy Baker. …

… Sharing a golf cart with Jimmy Spencer or Randy LaJoie. I’d have rather played with them than Tiger Woods, and it wasn’t nearly as ridiculous as I’d imagine a pairing with Woods would be … So you’re lying one, Tiger. I’m lying three. I’ve made many stupid moves, but one wasn’t giving up golf clubs for a guitar. …

… Spending a rainy afternoon in a Greenwood motel room with Bob Feller … Sitting on a plane next to John Prine. …

… Smoking cigars in a Fort Worth bar with A.J. Foyt and Walt Garrison. They’re the only cigars I’ve ever smoked. When those two say smoke a cigar, you smoke a cigar (Jim McLaurin was with me for that escapade). …

Those unique glimpses of humanity get more and more precious. Today it’s mostly story by crowded room. Titans of sport sit on a stage behind microphones. Mere mortals raise their hands and try to get permission to speak. Everyone hears what everyone else says. The next three days, word spreaders do similar stories in different orders. I liken it to entering the annual soil-and-water conversation essay in the eighth grade. Everyone has the same material. The winner is who assembles it best.

Once upon a time, I was walking between two NASCAR transporters in Fontana, Calif., and happened upon Jeff Gordon. I wanted to talk to him about a book I was writing about him, Jeff Gordon: The Racer, published in 2000. As of this morning, it’s ranked No. 6,616,592 on the prestigious Amazon bestseller list. It was part of the Sports Snaps series and wasn’t much of a chore. My job was mainly to accompany beautiful color photographs. I’m proud of what I wrote, but I wasn’t putting in a bid for The Grapes of Wrath.

Jeff Gordon: The Racer wasn’t my title. I’d have preferred something racier. It also was unofficial, which meant it wasn’t officially licensed. I did not then, nor do I believe now, in official biographies.

I had been looking for a moment to discuss, face to face, with Gordon why he wasn’t going to make a penny off the book I wrote, so I stopped him and mentioned it.

I said, “I have no intention in depicting you in any way other than the hero I consider you to be, but I’m confident somewhere in that manuscript, there is a paragraph, or phrase, or word that might rub you, or Brooke (whom he was soon divorcing), or Rick (Hendrick, car owner), or NASCAR the wrong way.

“In my opinion, if my copy starts having this cut out and that added, the main effect is that it will be worsened. I will not ask you to help sell it, and I haven’t asked you to help me write it. I don’t want it to be officially licensed because in my estimation, it would suck.”

I never knew Gordon to be particularly charismatic behind anything other than a steering wheel, but he doesn’t turn much besides that. I always thought his greatest virtue was never making the same mistake twice, on the track or off. Sergeant York never shot straighter.

“I’m glad you stopped me and explained it,” he said, “and I respect your point of view. I get what you mean.”

“Jeff, I doubt this book would make you a lot of money,” I said. “Matter of fact, I doubt it’s gonna make me that much, either. My motive is not selfless, but it isn’t greedy, either. Somebody wanted me to write a book, and I like writing books.”

We never exchanged another word about it. It’s been 10 years since we exchanged any other words. I think if I saw him tomorrow, he’d recognize me, but he might not remember my name. Sometimes I made him laugh. That’s about it, and it’s about enough.

Lots of my old NASCAR books are still available here. Two of them are novels.