Dale Earnhardt: What Princeton can never have

This column is about the late Dale Earnhardt.

Most people in this country, NASCAR fans or not, sports fans or not, saw replays of the man's death two weekends ago. Clipped by the car immediately behind him, Earnhardt's famous black No. 3 veered right, climbing the bank of the race's final curve.

We saw his powerful Chevrolet meet the wall at well over 150 miles per hour; we saw it decelerate to zero, then we saw it forced into reverse by the impact.

In that short clip, millions of people watched the last few instants of a man's life, and we all saw the cataclysmic moment of his death.

"No one on this campus cares about Dale Earnhardt," a few of my friends told me when I said that I might write about him.

No doubt, they're correct. We here at Princeton are well separated from the Mason-Dixon line by miles upon miles of fine highway supplied by the fine states of New Jersey, Delaware and Pennsylvania, with significant fees paid to the fine people sitting in tollbooths along the way.

I do not address the Northerner's fear that a NASCAR crowd represents the Confederate army reborn, however. No, I don't aim to make fun of Johnny Reb or even to apply flame to his cherished Stars and Bars.

In fact, the distinction I draw between Dale Earnhardt and Princeton is not one of geography or cooking style, but rather one of attitude.

In the days after his death at the Daytona 500, ESPN, among other networks, devoted a considerable portion of its airtime to eulogizing the fallen racer. To demonstrate his character, the network replayed an interview Earnhardt had given after winning a race last year.

Earnhardt sat to the left of the coat-and-tie clad ESPN reporters in his fire-resistant racing suit, GOODWRENCH emblazoned across his chest. His thinning hair unstylishly resisted gravity, rising above his head in a ridiculous but defiant cowlick.

His manner matched his appearance. His sentences were short. His were words small by choice. I do not mean that he had little to say, or even that he was not long-winded. He simply spoke his mind effectively.

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Yes, this was a man who placed function over form.

My purpose is not to make my reader to grieve this man's loss. I cannot speak for the character of a man I did not know and will never meet. It is altogether possible that whatever reputation he has for goodness off the track is undeserved, the product of media spin. All I can do is take the few excerpts of the man's life I have witnessed on television and expand them in my imagination.

I imagine Dale Earnhardt emerging from his car after a race, shoving his pit crew aside and setting to work preparing the machine for the next week's race himself.

Smeared in oil and grease, he reluctantly heads for the ESPN booth to make a few snide comments for the cameras. Then he heads back to the garage to work into the late evening. Finally, he leaves the course to find his rest. Maybe he has the chance to shower, maybe he doesn't.

Function over form. The phrase is awkward for me to type, though it involves the same three words as its more famous mirror image. It is as if my fingers doubt my mind wished to write such a thing.

Function over form.

Walk out of Princeton's front gate onto Nassau Street, follow it up to Palmer Square. Wander down either side of the square, looking at the stores as you go. I challenge you to find a single one of those stores that sells an item that is useful beyond its form.

I can tell you right now that there is one useful store on Palmer Square. It sells ice cream.

The fact is that our realm at Princeton is an austere environment. Regardless of your background, you will be sterilized upon entry. Whether you remain within the confines of Firestone's C-floor or brutalize yourself in a vicious game of rugby, you will revert to the same form — squeaky clean Princeton students, never Dale Earnhardt.