By MONTE DUTTON

When I was a kid, I thought Daytona was such a pretty name. It sounded racy.

Later I realized that they just took a guy named Dayton and added an “a” at the end. Besides, there is no city named Daytona. It’s Daytona Beach, just as there’s no Hilton Head – it’s Hilton Head Island – and there is a Tampa that borders Tampa Bay. Green Bay is a city and a bay.

I never attended a Daytona 500 until I was 29. By then I’d seen at least a dozen races at Darlington and a half dozen at Charlotte. No telling how many I’d seen at Greenville-Pickens and the dirt of Laurens.

For my first Daytona 500, won by Bobby Allison, my brother and I slept on the floor of a motel room that some friends from Clinton could afford. We all visited Fireball Roberts’ grave at midnight after a couple too many beers. This was after we met a rumpled fellow at a bar who told us his daddy helped dig the grave back in 1964. He showed us the way after we bought him a beverage.

One of our friends tried to pick up a pregnant woman at the dog track, which then adjoined the speedway. Brack and I prevented a fight because the woman’s husband was there with her.

I remember a night at the Boothill Saloon when a buddy of mine was trying to quit smoking on a night when other friends were starting.

I was there when Derrike Cope won because Dale Earnhardt had a flat tire on the final lap, when Earnhardt finally won it and when Earnhardt died. I wrote about the race for 20 years straight.

Twenty-five years ago, newspapers and NASCAR were still big. I was one of many covering the race but one of few covering it alone. When Earnhardt hit the fourth-turn wall, it looked like one of hundreds of times someone crashed and walked away. Michael Waltrip won and Dale Earnhardt Jr. was second.

Ken Schrader walked over to Earnhardt’s wreckage and started waving his hands urgently. Earnhardt Jr., congratulating Waltrip, suddenly left victory lane and started running. Something was dreadfully wrong.

The biggest name in NASCAR was dead. It made no sense, but I knew it.

Many said Earnhardt had a premonition on the final day of his life. He was a different man, friendlier than I had ever known him to be. I don’t believe he saw it coming. I think it meant a lot to him to pair with his son in the Rolex 24. I had been there for that, too.

In the IROC two days earlier, Earnhardt had made the greatest save I ever saw after Eddie Cheever bumped his car from behind. When the race was over, Earnhardt had confronted Cheever. Fifty thousand fans expected Earnhardt to punch Cheever’s lights out. Instead, he put his arm around Cheever’s shoulders.

Earnhardt and I had our differences over the years. Every time I interviewed him, no matter what the question was, he growled, “What the (bleep) you mean by that?” After I finally figured that out, I cussed right back at him. He smiled that crooked smile of his, and we got along from then on. He was the same out of the car as he was in it. He didn’t respect you till you stood up to him. He started summoning me when he was mad at NASCAR. I think he thought I could raise hell about it better than anyone else.

The Intimidator was larger than life. He was larger than the sport, which hasn’t been as large since he left.

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