If Pearson, Earnhardt debate in heaven about who’s the best, here’s who would win

I don’t suppose there’s arguing in Heaven. But I imagine that the “discussion” between Dale Earnhardt and David Pearson over who’s the greatest race car driver who ever lived has been going on since Pearson rolled up to the Pearly Gates last Monday.

“’Pass in the Grass?! Pass in the Grass?!’ That wudn’t even a pass!” Pearson would say, describing Earnhardt’s excellent save of his race car after Bill Elliott tried to nudge him out of the way in the 1987 running of The Winston all-star race at Charlotte.

“Did you see the move I put on Petty in the ’74 Firecracker 400?!”

“Yeah, well …” Earnhardt would say.

“Well, nothin’. Richard Petty his ownself said I was the best driver. I told him, ‘Who was I to argue?’”

Good point. Although the 1976 Daytona 500 was by far more famous, with Petty and Pearson tangling coming out of the final turn on the final lap, then Pearson puttering to the finish line at 15 mph after Petty’s car stalled in the grass in the tri-oval grass, the ’74 Pepsi 400 was far more typical of Pearson’s style.

In that 1974 race, back when cars still had enough horsepower to “slingshot” around one another on the big tracks at Daytona and Talladega, Pearson pulled off what people who should know think was the smartest win in racing.

On the final lap, Pearson did the unthinkable. Leading Petty by a car-length as the two took the white flag signaling one to go, Pearson let off the gas. Completely. A shocked Petty had two options: Pass him or wreck them both. Petty shot past, and was leading by six car-lengths going into the first turn, by eight coming out.

But, using the draft and all the racing savvy he had in him, Pearson slowly reeled in Petty down the backstretch, then passed him after the fourth turn when they headed for the checkered flag.

Pearson pulled it off because, one, he knew if he tried to stay in the lead, Petty would slingshot him, and two, he knew in his heart that Petty was the only other driver out there who was good enough to not wreck them both.

“I figured I was gonna lose, anyway,” he said at the time, “so why not?”

You know, when a legend passes on to the Pearly Gates, particularly a sports legend, the newspaper editors go rummaging through the archives until they find a guy who’s old enough to remember him – and still on this side of the pavement – to, you know, work up a little piece on him; reminisces, you know. You were buddies, right?

Well, no. Pearson and I may have played on the same golf course on the same day, but never in the same foursome. We both loved the hamburger steaks at the Raceway Grill, just a couple of hundred yards from the old track at Darlington, but I don’t recall him ever paying my tab. (And on a newspaper reporter’s salary, I can guarantee you I never paid his.)



We never went out for a couple of beers. I’m not even sure he drank beer; certainly not in the mass quantities as some people I know.

I’m satisfied he could have picked me out of a police lineup but, fortunately, that never came up.

What he did do, though, was take me for a ride.

First, a word about the late Jim Hunter: Hunter, who grew up in the Lowcountry, played football for the University of South Carolina in the late ’50s and worked for the old Columbia Record before he got a real job, working as a PR man in racing.

As such, he did work for/with Pearson, and the two became great friends. (So much so that it was Hunter who wrote Pearson’s biography, “21 Forever.”) Then Hunter got another “real” job, working directly for NASCAR. He held nearly every position in racing except the one held by NASCAR president Bill France Jr., and eventually France named him as track president at Darlington.

Bingo! As president, it was part of Hunter’s job to put fannies in the seats for races. Being a South Carolina boy, and with his penchant for dog-and-pony shows, anyway, Hunter got a lot of miles out of Cale Yarborough, who lived over in the Sardis community, about a 10-minute drive from the track (OK, seven if Cale was driving), and his old buddy Pearson. It was a little longer drive from Spartanburg for Pearson, but when Hunter called, Pearson answered.

One day back in the early-mid ’90s, I got a call from Russell “Sweetcheeks” “Rooster” Branham, the young Darlington kid who was the track’s PR man before even Hunter got there. (Two nicknames? Someday we’ll talk.)

“Jimmymac!” Russell shouted over his speakerphone, as was his custom. “Guess who we got coming on Wednesday?!”

“Oh, I don’t know. Pancho Carter? Pancho Villa?”

“No! Just the greatest race car driver Who. Ever. Lived!”

“Cale gonna be there?” I said, poking him. Now, Cheeks loved Cale, but he absolutely worshipped the ground Pearson walked on.

“Naw, man! The Silver Fox! The greatest who ever lived! And,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect, “he might give you a ride around the track!”

That got my attention. I was a closet Pearson fan, always keeping a respectful “journalistic distance,” but I loved the way he drove a race car. He wouldn’t beat and bang his way to the front like Earnhardt, but he was as cagey – cagey-er – than Petty. You never saw him stick his nose in a hole where the car wouldn’t go. He’d see two idiots banging on each other just ahead of him, and he’d back off. And he’d smile and wave when he went by their spinning cars a few laps later. Then he’d probably light up a smoke during the caution period that followed. (Only race car driver I ever heard of who had a cigarette lighter in the dash of his race car.)

The thing was, I’m not dead certain anybody ever told Pearson he was giving ride-alongs to 15-20 google-eyed racing writers that day. But he was gracious. (Always was. I don’t think I ever saw him even upset, unless some idiot wrecked him.) He chauffeured the lot of us around. But by the time my turn came – and I was pretty far back in line – I think he might have been a little miffed.

Whatever the reason, when he dug out of the pits, he pinned my butt to the seat, and it never moved forward. I don’t even remember the number of laps — two, three, four, didn’t matter — but for a bright shining moment, I was in a race fan’s heaven. It was like riding the world’s biggest, safest roller coaster.

Pearson would dive into turn one (the old turn one, before they got too smart and made it turn three), feathering the gas ever so slightly, then let it drift to the outside wall and mash it coming out of turn two. When he got to turns three and four, he jammed it in and let it drift up. If you remember your Darlington history, turn four is where the bravest of the brave back in the old days would let the right rear quarter-panel just lightly kiss the wall because that was the fastest way through.

In my mind I know it was a good six inches, but in my heart I wanted to ask him if I could borrow a sheet of paper to see if it would fit between the car and the wall. When I dared, I looked over at him, expecting to see him grimacing at threading so slender a needle, but he was leaned back, chewing gum! Chewing GUM!



When I got out of the car, I had spaghetti legs, and my heartbeat had just dropped below a hummingbird’s, and I had my lede for my next column.

Earlier that summer, I had gotten to do a ride-along with Ted Musgrave — a good driver — at Charlotte. I was composing the piece before I got my helmet off.

“Charlotte ain’t Darlington,” I said to myself. “And Ted Musgrave, no offense, but you ain’t David Pearson!”

This story was originally published November 17, 2018 at 10:57 AM.