Here are the rules –

The field was seeded by reader vote. The participants are paired on the standard NHRA professional eliminations ladder. Each story represents an elimination run for the participant. The readers will judge each war story on the merits of (A) believability and (B) entertainment value. Please do not vote based on popularity. You are the judge and jury, so vote accordingly. Multiple votes from the same computer IP address will not be counted.

First round oting lasts for two days per elimination match. Once a driver advances to the next round, they must submit a new war story.

This is an event based on fun and entertainment value, and the rules are simple. The stories cannot describe any felonious acts (unprosecuted, that is) and you can't use a story about your opponent, against them. There is a one event win rule.

This is drag racing with no red-lights, disqualifications and plenty of oil downs minus the clean-ups. Please enjoy as each of our competitors tell their stories.

Here are the rules –

The field was seeded by reader vote. The participants are paired on the standard NHRA professional eliminations ladder. Each story represents an elimination run for the participant. The readers will judge each war story on the merits of (A) believability and (B) entertainment value. Please do not vote based on popularity. You are the judge and jury, so vote accordingly. Multiple votes from the same computer IP address will not be counted.

First round oting lasts for two days per elimination match. Once a driver advances to the next round, they must submit a new war story.

This is an event based on fun and entertainment value, and the rules are simple. The stories cannot describe any felonious acts (unprosecuted, that is) and you can't use a story about your opponent, against them. There is a one event win rule.

This is drag racing with no red-lights, disqualifications and plenty of oil downs minus the clean-ups. Please enjoy as each of our competitors tell their stories.

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RACE COMPLETED: LARRY SUTTON DEF. AL TUCCI


NO. 6 QUALIFIER – AL TUCCI
WAR STORIES CLAIM TO FAME – USED TO FIGHT AT THE BIKE RACKS AFTER SCHOOL

FIRST RD - REINSTATED FROM MATCH AGAINST DALE FUNK
SEMIS - BEAT FRANK HAWLEY

THE STORY OF: OLD YELLER, TUCCI STYLE

Anyone who carries a dog or a pet to the drag races will relate to the story I will tell. This story is about my shop dog Dammit, now his name is not a swear word but was inspired by one.

I was 14 years old when I happened across this Labrador mutt. He wasn’t a purebred, but he didn’t need to be. He was one of the toughest dogs I ever saw and lived for 19 years and I was his best friend.

He was a beautiful tan colored mutt. If you’ve ever brought a mutt home, you know that caring for the dog is not your biggest challenge. It’s getting your parents to let you keep it.

The minute I met this dog, I knew he was the dog for me. There was this connection.

Dad came home and saw the dog and asked, “What are you doing?”

I responded, “I’ve got a paper route, and I will take my money to feed him and I am going to be a freshman this year.”

My dad responded, “Dammit”.

And thus was born his name. I would call this Lab ‘Dammit’.     

From that point, there was no debate, I was keeping Dammit regardless.

This pup would go everywhere with me. He would visit the lake, the race shop and if need be, the race track. We had a connection.

At this point, one day transformed Dammit from a pet to a legend.

I had a fishing net which Dammit used to play with and one day I thought it would be fun to let him experience swinging around by holding onto this net in his mouth.

All of a sudden, in the middle of a swing, Dammit let go of the net and it was actually, sad to say, his teeth breaking which caused him to lose his grip. His smile looked every bit like a canine Jack-O-Lantern but he never missed a beat of wanting to swing more. I was; however, not willing to swing him anymore.

I loved Dammit and the fact he lost teeth broke my heart. Later, this one experience would show just how tough this shop/drag dog was.

Dammit would grow up to be a very beautiful dog and never had him snipped and even though I might have cost him his teeth, I wasn’t about to cost him his manhood.

Dammit would run the neighborhood and when it came to finding a dog in heat, he had an extra sense. One day after running the neighborhood, I looked up in awe as he trotted into the yard with a bevy of police cars in pursuit.

Dammit looked injured as he ran by.

The police officer barked out, “You’ve got to get him.”

Apparently the virile Dammit, had jumped a fence four houses down and did his business with an owner’s purebred and the owner was having no part of the business. The angry man delivered a puncture wound to Dammit’s chest, 1/8 inch away from his heart, with an ice pick. It was horrible.

Dammit healed up and went about his business as soon as he could.

He’d still manage to get out of the house and became a regular with the dog catcher … so much so, that they were on first name terms.

The years went on and as I turned 18 and became a man, Dammit was well into his doghood at 4. I worked at the local gas station and he’d go to work with me.

One day I’m pumping gas and in whipped my brother with his tires squealing and smoke billowing from under the bed of his pick-up. He had a grave look on his face and motioned for me to come over. Dammit is laying in the front seat, and he’s in bad shape. His tongue is hanging out and eyes are wide open.

“What is going on?” I ask.

Apparently Dammit had strayed far from home and my brother saw him, put him on a leash and put him in the back of the truck. Dammit wasn’t ready to go home and jumped out at 50 mph.

The leash wrapped around the tire and he went for the ride of his life.

I told my boss I had to leave, put him in the big block Impala and booked it out of there.

The vet performed the x-rays and Dammit had done some serious damage to his right leg. The doctor basically told us to take him home and in time he could tell if the nerve damage would heal.

Dammit came home and as it turned out, my dad, who was not in favor of the dog, became his primary caretaker. Dad would feed him hamburger and allowed Dammit to sit on the couch, a place where even the kids were forbidden.

Dammit would look at us as if to rub in his newly acquired status.

The leg never healed and we had to have it amputated making him a tri-pod, two hind legs and one front.

Dammit got around well and held up his end of the deal as shop dog.

Well my Aunt was impressed with Dammit and called up, wondering if we could pair my dog and her dog named Babe, similar in appearance Lab for a litter.

Of course, the three legs made it a challenge.
 
I took Dammit to my Aunt’s house, where the dogs occupied her garage for a while. Needless to say, the physical challenges made the objective rather difficult.

He was smoking the nails off of his hind legs if you know what I mean.

I figured for all that had happened to him to this point in life I ought to help him out. Cats have nine lives and if something goes wrong they get a fresh start. Dogs … well they have what they have.

So, I grabbed a strand of that clothesline string and made a harness which allowed him to do his business. He looked at me as if, “You’re the best friend in the world.”

The end result was a large litter and a beautiful son which we named ‘Darnit’.

Darnit looked just like his dad and the two used to run together and it was beautiful.

Dammit grew older and watched over Dad’s shop, barking and holding the fort down as only he could do.

I had already graduated school and it was the summer when I came to Dad’s shop on an extremely hot day, 90 degrees or so, outside of Chicago and Dammit came out to meet me and his head was swollen. He looked like a Macy’s parade float. He was wobbling.

As it turns out, a laundry truck had stopped in and didn’t check underneath when he got ready to pull out. Dammit seeking shade had found a nice resting place underneath. He sustained a canine concussion but survived nonetheless.

I brought him back and the next summer had another episode and there are certain noises which can annoy a dog and for Dammit, it was the sound of a Volkswagen. Well one day we had a VW up the road in front of the shop and Dammit lit out after him, rocks flying from underneath that fast moving front paw. As he got a little up the road, I heard the loudest yelp ever in his quest to attack the VW head on. The VW drove by with Dammit exiting from the back.

It was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen. The old boy was skinned from his head to his chest down to his man parts, but he was moving. I was frantic. I took him to the vet and they told me to let him heal.

Over the winter, he’d have some brush ups and slip down the stairs on the ice and hit his chin. But, he’d always get up and keep going.

Dammit persevered through the years and made his way to a 19^th birthday. He was still tough at 19. For a Lab, that was a long time.

One day after being gone at the races, I stopped by the shop to check in on Dammit.

Dammit had gone away with my brother.

My brother had taken him down to the farm convinced that Dammit, who by this time, was having a tough time making it outside to do his restroom business, shouldn’t have to live in that kind of pain.

I raced to the farm to check on Dammit but couldn’t find it, so I returned to the shop.

My brother arrived and had a potato sack with Dammit inside.

“I couldn’t stand to see him suffer, so I put him down,” he said.

My brother, being the cowboy he was, and obviously being poisoned by the memory of the Old Yeller movie, did it his way. He shot him.

It took me eight months to muster the strength to ask a friend who accompanied my brother what happened on that day. According to my friend, it was a tough sight to see.

He said, “Dammit was leashed to the tree when your brother pulled out the gun and let him have it.”

Dammit ran around in a circle once the bullet hit him.

He stopped and the guy swore Dammit, looked at my brother and let out a yelp that sounded exactly like, “Why?”

I think it was his way of telling my brother he had a few more years left.

Of course my father didn’t take it well. He asked my brother if he planned to shoot him too when he got to that age.

But, really there isn’t a day that passes I am not reminded of my shop/strip dog. So pet lovers, if I am at a race and I stare at your pet, please understand I’m not really looking at you or your dog in admiration.

I’m just having a Dammit moment.

************** WINNER *********************   NO. 4 QUALIFIER – LARRY SUTTON
WAR STORIES CLAIM TO FAME – ONCE DROVE AN OUT OF CONTROL OUTHOUSE

FIRST RD - DEF. STEVE EARWOOD/DAVE DENSMORE
SEMIS - DEF. PAT MUSI

TELLING THE STORY OF: BETTER KNOW WHEN TO HOLD ‘EM AND WHEN TO FOLD ‘EM …

There are times in a weekend when it ought to be clear when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em.

This is an absolute true story because you can’t make up stories of this caliber.

Some of the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Exactly what weekend and year escapes me, but I took a weekend off as starter at Irwindale Raceway so I could go racing at Sacramento Raceway … competing in the Governor’s Cup.

This was a weekend that I had been looking forward to for a long time.

This weekend was to be nothing but concentration on racing and having fun, and not having the challenges of being starter and racing at the same time.

Our “fun” weekend started off with a towing snafu which should have been an indicator of things to come. So, we’re towing up the ‘5’ with our new trailer when the California Highway Patrol pulled over my partner Bill Carmichael for traveling 78 mile per hour in a 55 zone. Already, we are having fun at this point.

We arrive at a friend’s house who is complimentary of our trailer and offers, “Nice trailer … did you buy it with three wheels?”

Somewhere down on the ‘5’ we lost the right rear trailer wheel and tire.

We arrive at the track with the spare tire added and right now, we’re pegging the fun-meter.

It looked as if our weekend was going to turn around when we went out immediately and qualified well.

It was an illusion.

We returned to the pits and while working on our dragster and preparing for eliminations, two Funny Cars crashed on a qualifying run but not into each other.

One ran off the left side of the track, and the other went off the right – both igniting grass fires just past the finish line. The left side, aided by a strong head wind begins to burn out of control while the right, keeps a slower burn rate.

The fire on the left side quickly burns towards a pit area chock full of race cars and trailers. At this time, racing became secondary and everyone pitched in to fight the fire. I volunteered to ride the water tank being towed by a race official.

I volunteered to stand on to the back of the Conestoga-looking tank being pulled by a track official and holding on to a rebar ladder. Here I am standing on the rear bumper working the valve and almost had the fire out on the pit side when we ran out of water. Upon returning to get more water, the tank now lighter without the full load of water, starts to fishtail at 50 miles per hour, I am holding onto the ladder with a death grip. I was laid straight out and waving like a flag in the breeze. Contrary to what you thrill-seekers might believe, this experience was anything but fun.

I did manage to hold on and we did refill and got back to the pits to put the rest of the fire out but not before burning part of the track’s wiring.

At this point, only half of the pits are lit at night. Fortunately we were able to service the car and get it ready for the next day.

Of course the darkened half contained the track’s outhouses and my partner then had to go and relive himself. So Bill commences to doing what men do when they go to relive themselves, when he hears a soft voice, “Sir … sir.”

As his eyes adjust to the light of the dark, he notices this isn’t a board he’s standing on to relive himself but rather a woman who was sitting on the pot.

Figuring this was enough fun for one day, we called it quits and planned to return on Sunday and hopefully win the race.

With the bad juju out of the way, we won the first two rounds and reached the semis. We were racing a gentleman I will refer to as John Bootmaker. Bootmaker was from Sacramento and clearly a hometown favorite.

I did my burnout and backing up, the engine sounded a little rough. I had cracked the head on the burnout and there was Bootmaker sitting back and watching my car get hotter with each passing second. There was no water getting to the engine it was steaming rather obvious. I staged and Bootmaker was taking his time. He waited and waited as my car clearly took on the image of a rear-engine teapot.

He took his sweet time in staging and at the green, I was done … after all, my tires were wet. The tires went up in smoke at the hit and when I got back to the pits, I was hotter than the engine.

That’s about the time a well-known Top Fuel racer who I will refer to as Mike Kool-Aid. Kool-Aid was joined by his crewman Skinny. Kool-Air, egging on the situation, offered, “That was a monster of a burndown.”

Still fuming I offered, "I wish I had a shotgun.”

Kool-Aid instructed me to wait there and he quickly retreated to his truck where he returned with a shotgun, unloaded … of course. I double-checked to make sure.”

Armed with the empty shotgun, I walked the pits clearly letting it known I was looking for Bootmaker.

I caught a glimpse of Bootmaker walking to his trailer after weighing his car.

Bootmaker catches a glimpse of me with the 12-gauge, and takes off like an American eagle. For the record, his car was called “American Eagle”.

I think he got the message.

Just before we leave, Bill had to visit the outhouse which all of them were out of order at this time thanks to Kool-Aid and the boys. Apparently they had a batch of M-80s with a purpose. They dropped the M-80s into the holding tank and that was not VHT on the ground around them as Bill soon learned.

That’s all the fun we could handle and with Bill’s shoes stinking somewhat powerful, we contends we need to leave immediately. There was only one problem – the traffic out of the place was at a bumper-to-bumper standstill.

Bill can no longer hold it, so he grabs some red rags and heads to the dark field adjacent to the track. I feared for Bill’s safety thinking of the poisonous snakes and the good fortunes that had already beset us.

Bill returned going, “Oh, oh, oh …” and clearly in pain. He’d performed his own burnout in the field.

We are almost home and I awaken Bill from his sleep, “D***!”

“What now?” Bill asked.

Kool-Aid and Skinny pulled alongside of us on the ‘5’.

Little did they know when they rolled down the window of their truck that we had our own M-80 arsenal. At 2 AM, rolling down the ‘5’, we exchanged M-80 volleys and in doing so, performed a drag racing towing version of shock and awe.

Both trucks slowed to a crawl as M-80s were exchanged. To those cars behind us, it must have looked like the Shootout at the OK corral. It’s all fun and games until an M-80 ended up in the bed of our truck with the 5-gallon jugs of alcohol.

Fortunately, there was no explosion and I decided then and there to make the wisest decision of the weekend, I folded. Threw in the towel and gave up … hoping to make it home in one piece.

In closing, I would like to dedicate this final run to someone who became one of my dearest friends, the late John Shoemaker.

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