The call was long distance; he was on his way to Bristol for the night race. I never questioned even once that it was really he; I recognized his voice. Subsequent to the initial shock, I actually felt a little embarrassed. He said my poem and letter had touched him. All I could think was that I wished I'd written something a little better; something that hadn't sounded so sophomoric. Something Pulitzer-Prize winning. But still, somehow, what I had written had moved him. Later, when we finally met and I asked him why, he had a ready answer. Everything else that had been sent to him had been about a race, the car, the driver. I was.
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