From high above Talladega Superspeedway

That's right, children, your Uncle Jim is advance-blogging Monday's post from the pressbox at Talladega Superspeedway. Why? Because I love you big galoots, of course! It has nothing to do with the fact I've spent three long (but fun) days at the track, and will probably sleep late tomorrow. Nosirree, that's not it.

I had not planned on being here, since the Birmingham News, like every other paper and magazine, has cut way back on freelancing. Up until last spring's race, I hadn't missed a Talladega race for five or six years. Then I took a sabbatical with the impending birth of the Jakester, taking myself out of the rotation. I figured it would be a one-race suspension, if you will, but that fall, the axe came down. No dogs allowed, so to speak, and my 'Dega days were over.

Until this week, when the fine folks at the track's PR department gave me a call and asked if I'd help run the pressbox. I didn't want to appear too eager, so I gave them the cold shoulder for at least two picoseconds before giving them what was no doubt an ear-shattering yes. What started out as just an assignment to help the sportswriters with releases and questions turned into a spell in the very minor spotlight when I was asked to lend my mellifluous voice to the pressbox communications. Here's how that works. When a NASCAR race is over, they bring the top three finishers, the top-finishing rookie, and maybe a couple other people into the infield media center, which is where most sportswriters watch the race. In a time of multiple television screens and broadband connections (a few things that weren't present only a few years ago), it's not really necessary to watch the race from the pressbox, although a few beat writers (not beat writers, Daddy-O) still do. Questions are asked of the drivers and others from the majority of writers, situated in the media center.

Then Kerry Tharp, the illustrious potentate of NASCAR communications (a thin, tanned, nice guy you can see in a minor role in "Talladega Nights") will say, "Now we'll go upstairs to the pressbox." At that point, yours truly, who's standing on a mid-pressbox platform, looks expectantly at the raft of sportswriters sitting above him, most of whom are steadfastly not paying attention to him, because they're on deadline and have already gotten the information they want from the already-asked questions. But if a writer raises his or her hand (there are more than a few female beat writers; Jenna Fryer is the main AP beat writer), I sprint toward him or her with a wireless mike that I thrust, Jerry Springer-like, into his or her face. I then retreat to my podium to once again cast puppy-dog eyes on the assembled personages. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Hopefully interesting aside: The vast majority of the writers covering the event watch the vast majority of the race on TV screens. You can't see but about five seconds' worth of action from the media center, and even if you're in the pressbox, it's just easier to follow on television.

That's what I was prepared to do. But I was also asked to take the role of pressbox announcer, which is a cat of a different color, as a friend of mine used to say. To fulfill that role, I sit next to two NASCAR stat/PR people. Periodically, they look at me and say something like, "The No. 7 was sent to the rear of the field for an engine change," or, "The No. 82 received a pass-through penalty for doing work before the green flag." I grab a CB-looking mike, key it, and relay that info to the pressbox and media center. Once the race starts, I also say things like, "The caution was for an accident in turn two. Involved were the 12, 17, 24, and 31. Caution laps were 12-14."

Granted, that's not exactly Don LaFontaine-level voice work, but it is fun. And there's an element of stress, too, since sportswriters can be pretty belligerent when something is omitted or ambiguous. But the weekend went pretty well, except for a few miscues. Saturday, I gave some information while a driver was being interviewed on television, which is bad mojo, but didn't cost me my assignment.

Sunday, I made a verbal faux pas that didn't so much get me in trouble as it did earn me some horse laughs. (See aforementioned belligerence.) I was told to give the names of drivers involved in a crash, and to say that they had been evaluated and released from the infield CARE center. That's what I was supposed to say. But what I said was that they had been evaluated and released from the infield MEDIA center. And sportswriters are rarely, if ever, also doctors. So the guffawing commenced immediately, which in turn made me momentarily stumble over some other announcements. But hey, it ain't like I ever claimed to be a professional. And in my defense, the NASCAR PR folk did say that it was a pleasure working with me, and wanted me to keep doing it. So maybe my puppy-dog eyes overcame my ineptitude.

And my announcing wasn't the only first for me. I've seen something around 15 or so Winston/Nextel/Sprint Cup races here, and I'd never before seen a wreck with my own eyes. Until today, when I saw part of the big wreck, although it was a pretty good piece from me. And then I saw the ending wreck, which was about 50 yards away from me, and which I'm not ashamed to say gave me the heebiest of jeebies, to quote Peggy Hill. I was never in danger, but seeing a 3400-pound car get airborne at 190+ MPH and then head toward a grandstands will make the iciest of ventricles flutter, I promise. Especially if said ventricle belongs to someone who remembers Bobby Allison's wreck, in about the same location on the track.



Carl Edwards, the driver who got some hospital air during the crash, was fine. He even got out of the wreckage and jogged across the finish line, like Ricky Bobby did in "Talladega Nights." But eight people in the stands were not so lucky. Six were evaluated and released in the infield CARE center, and two were airlifted to Birmingham with non-life-threatening injuries.

It's a bone of contention amongst sports fans as to whether or not racing is really a sport. I submit any activity that pits knowhow and physical performance against the immutable laws of mass, friction, heat, and gravity, is either a sport or something that is far and above what are called sports. If Tiger Woods hitting a golf ball amid zillion-dollar homes and rigidly enforced silence is a sport, racing is darn sure a sport.

In conclusion, I'd like to thank the boys back in the shop for making the Summer's Eve/Count Chocula Pontiac run real good.