Heaven Is A Better Place Today
We are a society inured to death. It is filler for the back page, a faceless news item quickly scanned and responded to with clucked tongue and mumbled expressions of what a shame even as the names involved are forgotten, the actual persona forever an intentionally unexplored mystery. Some reach out with the open hand of compassion and concern; but many, so many, are their own private island fortress, clinging to the sanctuary of isolation. When it is their turn for the dark angel's visit they angrily mourn, bitter over the absence of shared grief they themselves are unwilling to show. It is then time to once again retreat behind castle walls, reaching for solace in solitude.
Adherence to this philosophy of avoiding shared sorrow via hiding away is a wish upon a fool's star. We are all interconnected; we are all part of the whole. This is truer in NASCAR than any other sport, a place where every driver knows not only do their fortunes in performance lean heavily on the support team behind them who build the cars and oversee all other elements of the race along with the drivers surrounding them and their support teams, but life itself.
One of the earmarks of NASCAR is that while its members are in open competition with and ofttimes snarl at each other, there is a bond of family. Even if this alone was the only reason, the passing of NASCAR technical director Steve Peterson deserves far more notice than a sidebar or slightly reworded press release.
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We know the public basics about the man, how he worked for NASCAR starting in 1995 and was instrumental in the implementation of such safety items as the SAFER barrier, head and neck restraints, and the overall mesh of driver protection elements in the new car. But what of the man? Doesn't he deserve something more than a recitation of professional accomplishments?
A man who knew Steve Peterson back when he worked at Roush before signing on with NASCAR graciously shared his memories with me yesterday afternoon. Peterson was a glue guy, someone who holds everything together without being out front of it all. Regardless of job title, he would do whatever task was required -- work on shocks, analyze computer data, anything necessary to prepare a car for a race. He was understated and patient, a relaxed kind of man who owned a sparkling dry sense of humor. He was someone with whom you looked forward to the next conversation, someone with whom you relished time spent together. Peterson didn't seek the spotlight; he sought to create one shining on the car, the driver, the ability of that driver to walk away when something went wrong instead of being tomorrow's headline for all the wrong reasons. He shone in the edge of that spotlight, unseen and often unknown. But without him, there would have been no light.
It is neither flippant nor disrespectful to call Steve Peterson NASCAR's WALL·E, the one with a good heart who did his job no matter what. His death is a deep loss to NASCAR. He was that rare breed of man whose love of cars and racing led him to be not a talker, but a doer. Even as far too many in and around the sport attempt to make his life and accomplishments little more than a snippet with which to occupy space online or in print, those who with heavy hearts will attend his funeral know the true measure of his worth. Not only was Steve Peterson in and of himself a man whose life had value and meaning, what he did during his tenure on this planet has ensured, is ensuring, and will ensure the question following a hard crash being directed at the driver involved asking what happened as compared to asking what one should wear to said driver's memorial service.
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