I am not a sports super-fan.
This fact does not come as a surprise to anyone who knows me.
We won’t even begin to discuss my failed attempts at playing childhood T-ball, baseball, and that one horrible time I tried football. Just know that I know very little about the world of sports, the rules and regulations of most games, and I very likely have no idea who the popular players are these days. Unless they’re cute. I know the cute ones. (Hey Drake Maye!)
Don’t get me wrong, though, I am aware of the world around me. I am, culturally speaking, a fan of many teams solely by virtue of where I was born and where I now live. I cheer on the Panthers and the Hornets. That one Charlotte FC game I attended was pretty fun. My hometown college football team is Wake Forest, an obvious choice for a Baptist kid from Winston-Salem and a former member of Wake Forest Baptist Church. Those Demon Deacons, ride or die. But, from time-to-time, I’ll root for App State, too, out of respect for my in-laws and little brother. And, yeah, I’m a proud North Carolinian, so some Carolina shirts and a hat somewhere have made it into my wardrobe.
I recently got to think deep and hard about another sport with deep, cultural ties to North Carolina — NASCAR. Yes, that one where the cars go round and round in one big circle really fast and really loud and for a really long time.
I was helping out an old work friend and penning an article for an upcoming magazine project they’re working on. It was fun, putting my old interview skills back into practice and writing out the feature — another way to help me dust off my old writing skills, something I’d thought I’d only be doing here in this new space on Substack.
Like my other experiences with sports, I really don’t know much about motorsports either. (Except for the cute drivers. I know them.)
My little article for my friend rustled up some old memories — and maybe the thought that motorsports and NASCAR is more culturally ingrained in me than any other sport. Though I’m no racing aficionado, I reckon now that I’m actually a bit ahead of the curve than many.
When I was a kid, my aunt and uncle owned a little country diner in Winston-Salem. Viv’s Grill, it was called, and it was not unlike any number of small, family-owned restaurants that dot the South. It was, in all respects, relatively unremarkable, save my aunt’s and uncle’s status as racing super-fans. Their passion for the sport transformed that space into a little miniature, informal version of a NASCAR Hall of Fame, long before the real thing would be built in Charlotte. The grill was located just a mile down the road from Bowman Gray Stadium, an old NASCAR track originally built in 1937 as a stadium to host football games and other sports, which it still does today.
Rings of cigarette smoke from the regulars munching down on breakfast or lunch rose up against the restaurant’s walls plastered with old Winston Cup memorabilia — signed portraits, prints, and other mementos were framed and carefully hung on every square inch. Drivers and their teammates stopped by to eat every now and then. Workers, many of whom were family, went in with regular customers on weekly race pools; if your guy won the race, you won the pool and the winnings along with it.
My favorite car back then was the No. 17 Tide car. I don’t know why. It’s probably because the thing was so bright you couldn’t miss it going around the track. I knew nothing about its driver, Darrell Waltrip, other than his name. And it didn’t matter that the Tide car got a new number and new driver at some point when I was a kid.
There’s a picture of that car, stuck in an old photo album of mine, dated June 1990. My best guess, after studying the photo and doing a quick little googling, was that it was taken at the April 29, 1990 Winston Cup race at Martinsville Speedway. I don’t even remember why I have it, who took it, who gave it to me (probably my uncle), or why little four-year-old me would have even wanted it. The internet does tell me that my favorite No. 17 Tide car came in fourth place in that race, though.
I’ve spent my whole life in what some people call “NASCAR Valley,” surrounded by racing lore, with the constant droning of loud engines from TVs or radios filling the air at weekend family gatherings. Unbeknownst to me, I probably sat at my aunt’s and uncle’s grill as some NASCAR royalty waltzed in for some breakfast or lunch. Mom swears Richard Childress was a regular customer.
These days, I watch exactly one NASCAR race each year. Without fail, my TV will be tuned to Charlotte Motor Speedway and the Coca Cola 600 on every Sunday each Memorial Day Weekend. I honestly can’t imagine my unofficial start to summer without it. It’s probably the strongest, most indelible remnant of the southern sports culture of my childhood. Except for those times Carolina plays Fake Carolina at football. I get pretty excited about that, too.
This little writing assignment for my old work friend made me realize that even for me — someone so un-sporty — you just can’t escape it. It doesn’t matter that you’ve never played or raced. It doesn’t matter that you know next to nothing about any of these sports, the players, or the drivers (except for the cute ones).
As I get older, I’m beginning to better appreciate just how much sport can be a significant, even meaningful, cultural marker — a touchstone to one’s past and living moments of fellowship with one’s community, friends, and family. Special memories of my uncle and me going to Wake Forest football games or races at Bowman Gray. The swell of excitement I felt when my high school team went to the state basketball championship, and I travelled, my two youngest brothers in tow, down to Raleigh to watch the game. (We lost, by the way.) So many other times in my life spent with family, as some game or race played in the background.
I’m never going to be able to rattle off game stats or some random football history fact.
I’m okay with that. I accept the things I cannot change.
I am not a sports super-fan.
But I am a fan of community, connection, and family.
And, maybe, actually, after all, I do love sports.
