BLACK HUMOR COLORS THE '71 WINTERNATIONALS

2/7/03

f you're up on your Winternationals history, you know that 1971 was the event that racing great Pete Robinson was killed in a qualifying crash and, in a separate incident, Top Fuel driver Dave Russell's wife, Kathy. She died in a freak accident in the staging lanes at the track, compounding the tragedy that enveloped the race. Adding to the screwed up nature of this race was that the L.A. Examiner referred to it as the "Slaughternationals" in a page one sports section headline.

At that time I had no connection with the sport other than as a spectator. Good racing pal, Niles Smith, and myself were in the 1,000-foot section of the Pomona stands when Robinson tried to break into the 16-car field. The track was fast and, given the fact that Robinson had run as quickly as a 6.50 at the AHRA Grand American a few weeks earlier, we expected him to make the field on this, his last qualifying attempt late Saturday evening. He launched hard, wheels up and charging, and just before the top end lights, the car suddenly hung a hard right into the E Street guardrail, clocking a 6.71 qualifier and clocking Robinson out of the big picture.

The P.A. announcer never did reveal Robinson's fate that evening, but all of us who had any experience with race spectating knew he was in serious trouble. The next morning as we jockeyed for seats in the fog and the general admission section, the news had gotten through that he had died.

Very bad news. But that same evening, the evening of Robinson's crash, I had seen something else that at once repulsed me and at the same time made me chuckle.

That day, we noticed that there was this guy with two small boys sitting a few rows above us. The kids were typical of those in the single-digit age bracket, running around the seats and drawing admonitions from their father. At some time late that afternoon the father's admonitions slowed and eventually stopped. The crew-cut cat had brought a bag with him into the stands and periodically dipped into it. No big deal except that the more he dipped, the more his activity slipped.

After Robinson's crash, a few more pairs of Top Fuelers made their way down track to wrap up the final qualifying session. In those final moments of qualifying, I glanced over on occasion to this guy and noticed that he had his head perched down almost between his knees. Only his forearms placed on said knees kept him from folding up completely. It then dawned on me that the dude was almost as imperiled as Robinson was. He was knocked out.

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My pals and I finished our beer and were planning on battling the horrible exiting traffic when we noticed something. A trio of Pomona cops were making their way up the bleachers towards this guy with his kids trailing behind like a bunch of confused ducklings.

They jostled this guy and got no response. Indeed, he was pole-axed. Forgive me, but I couldn't help but laugh. The cops had to pick him up, stone cold out, and carry him down the bleacher steps as though he was some deflated blow-up doll, his kids trailing afterwards. I remember thinking this is one s.o.b. who is going to have to come up with one helluva an excuse for his wife. Out cold, carried down the bleachers and into the waiting arms of the law.

I have seen a lot of drunks at the drags, but this was numero uno. After the cops left, we noticed that his brown bag had been left unmolested so I decided to take a look at what had rendered him so null and void. I looked it over and was amazed at what this man had consumed so inconspicuously. Inside the bag and around his seat were two six-packs of Colt 45 malt, a half-pint of Kessler, a small bottle of Rossi's Red Mountain wine, and the butts of a couple of joints.

My pal, Niles, could only comment, "small wonder." I, ever the statistician, on the other hand, perversely could only come up with a ranking for this guy. First person I had ever seen carried out of the bleachers at the drags.

Best argument I have ever seen for a designated driver.

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