By Kyle Jorrey
Sports Editor
This past weekend’s Daytona 500, stock car racing’s biggest event, had to be stopped short because of rain for just the third time in its 45-year history.
And at the same time, for the 20th consecutive year of my history, I neglected to watch.
Of course I had a more important schedule planned that Sunday to tend to — sleep, play video games, sleep, microwave pizza, sleep, talk about doing homework, watch TV, pet dog, schedule time to do homework tomorrow, sleep — but that isn’t the issue here.
The real issue here is simple — who exactly does watch stock car racing? Obviously people do, just look at the hoopla that precedes every race. Plus, I keep hearing how it’s one of the fastest-growing spectator sports in the country, and how guys like Jeff Gordon, Dale Jarrett and Tony Stewart are becoming big stars. But I just don’t get “it,” and I can’t seem to find anyone, at least in Southern California, who can explain “it” to me.
Maybe I should blame my parents. I guess if I had lived in the South, in a place like Tennessee or Georgia, and had known more kids named Dusty, Ricky and Kenny, then maybe I would be NASCAR’s biggest fan.
Can’t you just see me — smiling wide (a couple teeth missing in the front) with “Dale Earnhardt Lives Forever” tattooed on my chest and a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in my hand? Heck, I might even be sporting a mullet, wearing one of those cut-offs that reads, “burn rubber,” and yelling at my kids to put daddy’s 12-gauge back where it belongs — in the back seat.
Now I’m not trying to label stock car racing as a “white-trash” thing, but let me tell you, I haven’t seen more intoxicated Caucasians in one place since I caught the George Thorogood “Bad to the Bone” Tour in Rapid City, S.D.
When I don’t get a negative response, people I’ve asked tell me stock car racing is a lot like hockey it isn’t that great unless you get to see it live. They say that half the fun is getting to meet the thousands of followers who flock to the races, traveling from venue to venue like some sick, drunken political convention, and getting to party with them.
I guess all the socializing helps to take your attention away from the ear-piercing roar of car engines and the out-of-focus flashes that keep zipping through your field of vision. I mean, I just don’t see what’s so great about watching unidentifiable automobiles flash by 
your face again and again for 200 laps.
If I wanted to do that, I’d have someone hit me with a brick and go sit over the 405 Freeway for a couple hours. Only then there wouldn’t be any checkered flag, milk-chugging ceremony or Tony Stewart fistfight.
All right, maybe I’ve got this all wrong. Maybe NASCAR is the next big thing and I’m missing the point. Maybe I should go rent “Days of Thunder” and spend a weekend indoors.
If that is the case, please, please, drop me a memo. Because until then, I’ll keep making off-colored white trash jokes and turning the channel. . .
—Got some explanations for Kyle Jorrey? E-mail him at kbj34@hotmail.com
February 20, 2003