In search of the ‘real’ story at Hendrick Motorsports
Dawn is fast approaching as I crawl in the dark through a wooded area near the Hendrick Motorsports complex in Harrisburg, N.C. I’m crawling, in camoflage fatigues, because I don’t want anyone in the vast Hendrick conspiracy to see me.
This is thankless work, but as a journalist, I feel compelled to find out the real story. Sure, I’d rather be home, with a hot cup of coffee, but as I crawl through the mud, moving ever closer to the Hendrick empire’s nerve center, I’m inspired by the huge bundle of NASCAR fan mail I carry in my knapsack. I’m haunted by the questions posed again and again in those letters:
• “Why does Rick Hendrick give all the good stuff to Jimmie Johnson?”
• “Why is Hendrick cheating Jeff Gordon out of another championship by giving Johnson the best engines?”
• Why does Dale Earnhardt Jr. get the leftovers at Hendrick?”
• “Why does Hendrick want Junior to fail?”
Those thoughts bore into my skull, until I can’t stand it anymore. I want to scream, but don’t, because Hendrick security forces might find me. Even though I’m on a farm next to Hendrick’s shop – I offered the farmer two tickets to next year’s Daytona 500, for permission to play commando on his property – I’m not taking any chances with a race team that some fans say is involved in so many terrible conspiracies.
Finally, I arrive at a clearing with a full view of the engine loading area at Hendrick Motorsports. With my powerful binoculars and directional microphone, I can see and hear everything. I also pull out a video recorder and start recording.
I watch as crewmen, wearing white gloves, use an engine hoist to place a shiny new engine in a No. 48 Chevrolet.
“Jimmie’s ready for Talladega,” one of the men says.
Nearby, another crew takes a gleaming new engine toward the No. 24 Chevy driven by Gordon. Suddenly, the hoist tilts and the engine smashes into the ground. Pieces fly everywhere. Crewmen panic.
“That’s OK!” a foreman shouts. “Jeff probably won’t need all that horsepower anyway.”
I watch in horror as they install Gordon’s mangled engine into his car. A thoughtful crewman gathers all the wayward pieces into a large trash bag and throws it in a trash bin.
Next, a crew carefully loads Mark Martin’s engine in the No. 5 Chevrolet. They pull it off flawlessly. Some of the lines on the engine look a little old and wrinkled, yet seem to be in exceptional shape.
Finally, the moment I’ve been waiting for. Crewmen roll the No. 88 Chevrolet out. Now they’re standing around. No engine in sight.
“Elmer!” someone shouts. “Where’s Earnhardt Jr.’s motor?”
“Still fixin’ ’er up!” comes a gruff reply.
Across the parking lot, a greasy old man emerges from beneath the hood of what looks to be a 1978 Chevrolet pickup truck. I can’t tell for sure, because the grille’s all smashed in, from a crash. Incredibly, crewmen take a hoist, lift the rusted engine out of the pickup, and place it in the No. 88 Chevrolet.
Someone shouts, “Junior’s ready to go!”
I’m so excited, as I realize I have the story of a lifetime. Pulitzer Prize, here I come! I leap up … and am suddenly confronted by the old farmer who’d let me go on his land for two Daytona 500 tickets.
“Sorry, but Hendrick gave me FOUR tickets to the Daytona 500,” the farmer says. He grabs my tape recorder, video recorder, notes and knapsack and stomps them into the mud at his feet, ruining everything.
“The letters!” I cry. “Don’t ruin the letters!”
“Go home,” the farmer says. “Get some coffee.”
Tears in my eyes, I trudge home, thinking back to those letters in my ruined knapsack, especially recalling one heartfelt letter: “NASCAR wants Johnson to win every championship. It’s a conspiracy. Why doesn’t the media report that?”
