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The Politics of the PA System
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George Washington Could Not Tell
a Lie, but He Never Announced a Drag Race
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By Dave Wallace Photos by Rick Shute, Auto Imagery |
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| The author at work inside OCIR's state-of-the-art timing tower, circa 1974. Note the manual control box (lower right) that operated drag racing's first scoreboard. The gent in the sweater is track-manager Blaine Laux; the young lady is timeslip-writer Kelly DeLuca. (Photo by Rick Shute/Auto Imagery). |
I might've disputed Steve Parker's point, prior to the Saturday night I got "fired" for telling the truth. I'm using quotation marks here because I'm not sure whether a guy can "get fired," technically, from an unpaid announcing "job."
Besides, I've never considered myself an announcer. To paraphrase the old saying, I was born with a face made for radio, and a voice made for print. Nevertheless, I've been speaking into microphones since the early Sixties, when announcers still calculated miles per hour manually, using a conversion chart supplied by Chrondek. Neither my status as San Fernando Raceway's youngest staff member nor my high-pitched, yet-to-change voice disqualified this kid from relieving announcer Jimmy Scott for a brief lunch or bathroom break when no one else was available.
In 1968-69, I performed the same function at Lions whenever Sunday-announcer Jerry Hart (son of C.J.) needed relief. I gradually grew less intimidated by the mike, but still dreaded that call to the tower. I stuck to the assigned tasks of reading off times, calling the classes to the lanes, and reporting the occasional lost child or wallet. I couldn¹t wait to get back down to the photographers' area.
Evidently I didn't blow it too badly, because "Pappy" Hart subsequently installed me in the Orange County International Raceway tower for Wednesday grudge racing and Saturday e.t. brackets. This would be 1973, after Jim Tice and AHRA had assumed control. Because my small audience consisted almost entirely of racers and their families, I started to relax on the air.
I even invested some effort into gathering technical and personal information in the pits, which pleased a group of "little guys" unaccustomed to much public recognition under OCIR's preceding, pro-oriented regime.
Because I was already on salary (as publicity director) and on the premises for OCIR's monthly feature events, Tice "volunteered" me to back up the legendary "Voice of Drag Racing." Jon Lundberg was happy to have the help during sportsman runs, and gently coached me about everything from not losing one's voice (by speaking softly and keeping the throat moist) to the importance of selling crossover passes (The pit area looks like a BATTLEGROUND!), and souvenirs (When the official-event T-shirts are gone, they are GONE!), and hot dogs (We can smell that meat cooking from the tower!). I have since had the pleasure of working alongside pros such as Bill Doner, Steve Evans, Dave McClelland, Mike Lewis, John Drummond and Goodguys announcers Bob Beck and John Matijasic.
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Fast-forward to the 2004 Goodguys Nitro Nationals in Las Vegas. I was "doing color' for Nostalgia Top Fuel action, as I have since ex-PR-man Drummond invited me up into the Bakersfield tower many moons ago. The match that got me canned was the "B"-show opener, between Sean Bellemeur and Rick Rogers. Here's how Goodguys' own Web site described the race:
³(W) SEAN BELLEMEUR: 0.475 6.293 196.39
(L) RICK ROGERS: 0.583 6.215 No Speed
6:40 P.M.: HERE COMES THE FIRST PAIR OF TOP FUEL "B".
BELLEMEUR LAID A BIG
HOLESHOT ON ROGERS AND THEN HUNG ON TO THE MASTERCAM CAR. HE GOT
CLOSER AND CLOSER TO THE CENTER STRIPE AS HE APPROACHED THE FINISH.
THERE WAS SOME QUESTION BUT THE STEWARDS SAID PLAY ON."
Indeed, Bellemeur¹s drifting prompted track officials to run out and check his tire tracks. Although I was seated almost directly behind the car, from that distance, I couldn¹t see whether he'd touched the center line, and said so on the air. What I did not say was that Rogers wasn't as close behind as you'd expect in a 6.29-to-6.21 losing charge. Nor did I voice my suspicion that the absence of any mile-an-hour reading on Rogers's scoreboard might indicate that Bellemeur's tire had either touched a "cone" or come near enough to knock his trailing opponent¹s photocell out of alignment.
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While the workers were on the track, I filled the down time by
reading the incrementals displayed on my computer screen. When I
scrolled down to the 1000-foot readings for both
drivers, Rogers' was a 6.25 -- clearly indicating that his losing
e.t. of 6.21 was erroneous. I said something to the effect that
a timing malfunction had obviously occurred. At about the same time,
Robert Kornegay, Goodguys' competition director, confirmed Bellemeur
as the
winner. No sooner had I relayed this official decision than I was
ordered off the microphone by Kornegay.
When I asked Kornegay what I'd done wrong, he replied, "I get enough trouble from these racers as it is. They don't need to hear about problems with the clocks."
Said me: "So, you don't think they're gonna read their timeslips?"
"That doesn't mean you announce it to everyone else," said Jeff Norton, Goodguys' tech director.
I don't believe that this is any reason to knock an announcer off the air midsentence, and I told them so, on my way out the door. Ironically, news of this official's knee-jerk reaction only served to fuel rumors of some sinister coverup. One person who had been in a different room in the tower suggested that Bellemeur was given the win because of a new relationship with Goodguys and/or a pending team sponsorship from a downtown hotel-casino. Indeed, Bellemeur's car owners, Frank Hedge and Tom Shelar, had been displaying their brand-new, unfinished fueler in front of the Plaza Hotel all weekend, adorned with the company's logos. It was equally well known that the hotel's owner had been on hand to watch Bellemeur's Friday-night qualifying run.
I wasn't buying either scenario. No one could convince me that
Goodguys would jeopardize its 16-year reputation for clean competition,
for any price; not even in a "consolation" race. I¹d
prefer to believe that one official simply let his ego get ahead
of his brain, and made himself feel important by firing a lowly
volunteer. Ironically, I found myself defending
the honor of an organization that had sent me to the grandstands!
In the warm desert air that night, I was reminded that the noises, smells and header flames that drew me to Vegas are best experienced out in the open; not from inside some soundproofed building. Those front-motored fuelers put on one heckuva show in the dark! I'm looking forward to the next one, at Pomona. I'll be the old guy sitting right in front of a working loudspeaker, listening to everything that the announcer says -- and doesn't say.
