ALL GROWN UP

He left the team that bears his family name, but to hear Dale Earnhardt Jr. tell his story is to know that he carries on his father's legacy more than ever.

Ben Baker

[For more on the evolution of this story, check out Marty Smith's Behind the Story]
[For a bonus photo gallery of Junior, click here]

The paint bucket sat across the shop floor, and Dale Earnhardt ordered his kid to pick it up. It was bulky, the five-gallon kind, weighing every bit as much as the boy. Dale Earnhardt Jr. had no hope of picking it up, and he knew it, so the 8-year-old moped across the floor, questioning his old man's direction: How could Daddy ask this? Why does he gotta make me feel bad?

Daddy despised reluctance, especially from blood, and certainly from the boy who bore his name.

Dale Earnhardt—Ironhead, The Intimidator—had built a life, and ultimately a legend, on will. He was raised by a stock car pioneer, Ralph Earnhardt, at a time when even the best drivers raced to put food on the table. Ralph had worked his way through the textile mill and manhandled a hundred secondhand race cars around a hundred crappy little race tracks. So Dale's kids sure as hell weren't about to get off easy. When Dale Jr. did anything less than attack that bucket and grab it by the handle, his father found another way to motivate: He asked a shop hand to move it—right in front of his son.

"The lesson was to try it," Junior says. "Instead of being a quitter and not even attempting it, you should have tried. That was Daddy telling me that. If I can't pick it up, drag the son of a bitch across the floor. But I didn't even go over there to try, and he'd get so disappointed in me for being such a cop-out. Daddy would've been the kind of kid who walked over there and tried to pick it up, without a word. I should've been more like that. And I should be more like that today."

"WHEN MY DAD DIED, I WAS NUMB, BLIND. I JUST KEPT MOVING, GOING, DOING. IT WAS HORRIBLE. THE FURTHER AWAY FROM IT I GET, THE MORE I UNDERSTAND HOW I WENT THROUGH IT."

In telling the story, the 33-year-old Earnhardt sounds like a man who still sees himself as that reluctant kid. Thing is, he's not. On June 13, 2007, he announced the ballsiest career move in NASCAR history: Junior would depart the family team, Dale Earnhardt Inc., to join the Cup-winning juggernaut of Hendrick Motorsports. He was leaving for more than just faster, more reliable cars. For the first time since his father died, he'd be getting the guidance of an unquestioned patriarch, Rick Hendrick. And the kid who never felt worthy enough to stand alongside the great champions—his daddy, Richard Petty, the list goes on—now stands shoulder-to-shoulder with the two greatest racers of the last decade, Jeff Gordon and Jimmie Johnson. And he's in third place, running better than them and nearly everybody else in Sprint Cup. The move has been a true awakening.

"When given the opportunity to do things that are intimidating, that I may think are out of my reach—they aren't," Junior says. "If you met the person who's doing them, you'd find out that you're f—ing better than him."

Junior has never sounded more like his father. Buckets litter his path in every imaginable form: the name, the legacy, the sport's largest and most demanding fan base, the family soap opera played out in blogs and on message boards. It all seems too heavy for one man to carry, but he's grabbing handles like never before. "I think it's important that the fans know the initiative I've had over the past several years to become a grown-up," he says. "I am striving to be the total package: a mature, dedicated, motivated race car driver."

Junior finally feels in charge of his life. He has created his own retreat on 200 acres of Carolina farmland. This is where he would escape to when he felt trapped by his life at DEI. He's building a new house just up the drive from a string of homes he built to keep his closest friends close. There's also a restored gas station circa 1960; a Wild West town complete with saloon and church, bunkhouse and jailhouse; and rolling pastures for a pair of buffalo, Laverne and Shirley, given to him by a fan.

While leaving his father's company has eased some stress, it has also stripped him of the security of having his name on the letterhead. Gone in an instant was any excuse about feeling the pressure of his father's legend while racing out of the old man's garage. Dale Jr. has officially gone it alone, but in reality, he is never without his father. Even now, seven years after Big E's death, the lessons haven't stopped. Neither has the pain. Until now, Junior has barely discussed his grief in public; it is too hard, and, he believes, it sounds far too damn self-righteous. He mentions his father's death on occasion, to remind others to let loved ones know how special they are, to make sure they hear the affection and appreciate it. But the pain? Never.

"I don't want people to know about that," Junior says in a rare moment of open emotion. "That's not my business, to tell the world that. It's not their business to hear it. They don't need to know how I feel about my daddy and losing him. It's a slap in the face to anyone else who has lost a parent, who's dealing with it and doesn't have people to talk to or can't find someone to make them feel better."

Earnhardt first placed an emotional firewall between himself and the public five days after Dale Sr. was killed in the final turn of the 2001 Daytona 500. In a makeshift tent outside the North Carolina Speedway in Rockingham, Junior slumped toward the microphone and made a gut-wrenching statement: Yes, he had cried for his father, but only out of his "own selfish pity." The details of those days after Daytona were locked away, even as a brokenhearted public looked to Junior, only 26 at the time, to guide them through their grief. Until recently, the thought of "blabbing about it" in the media made him sick. And seven years later, he still struggles to find the words.

JUNIOR NEEDS AFFIRMATION TO EXCEL. DESPITE AN OUTGOING PUBLIC PERSONA, HE IS AN INTROVERT. THAT VULNERABILITY IS PART OF THE PACKAGE, AS MUCH AS DRIVING TALENT OR FAN POPULARITY.

"When my dad died, I was numb, blind," he says, his stern expression, wandering blue eyes and slight slouch taken straight from that day at the Rock. "I just kept moving. Going. Doing. It was horrible. The further away from it I get, the more I understand how I went through it. If you go back to 2002, 2003, it was still rotten on my mind. It was still bothering me and hard to explain. I didn't talk about it because it wasn't something I wanted to preach—'Oh, I lost my daddy, woe is me, and I gotta go through life without him.' I didn't want that message."

Friends tried to console Junior in the aftermath. He visited buddies at UNC-Charlotte for beers and pool and video games, to meet girls or just hang out and laugh and divert the grief. Some friends who had lost parents tried to help him like others had helped them. They would sit, sob, unload the baggage. There were no microphones or outside influences; it was just two guys pouring it out behind closed doors, saying whatever it took to feel better.

But those moments were fleeting at best, and on the other side of those doors were a million fans who wanted to cry with him. Other athletes turn to their sport for relief in times of turmoil, but every race weekend was punctuated by moments of silence and elaborate tributes. Big E's famous No. 3 was everywhere, painted in the grandstands, inscribed on every turn. Each straightaway was lined with solemn three-fingered salutes from the crowd. The gestures were cathartic for fans, but they kept the wounds fresh for Junior. Everyone, it seemed, needed comfort and somehow felt that the Earnhardt kids could offer it. "Suddenly we're the shoulder for the rest of the world, grieving and talking through these emotions," says Dale Jr.'s older sister, Kelley, his closest friend and confidante. "In my mind I'm thinking, What do you think I'm missing out on? How do you think Dale's dealing with it? We're not allowed. We don't have that opportunity."

But through it all, Junior started to feel a true connection to his father. Back when Dale Sr. and his third wife, Teresa, were off pursuing immortality, Kelley and Dale Jr. were at home with nannies and new TVs. The boy spent his childhood in a constant search for approval. Daddy was always Junior's hero, despite the sting of his tough-love approach. Ralph Earnhardt hadn't been a pat-on-the-back parent—the kind of man to say, "I love you, son, good job"—and neither was Dale Sr.

To get noticed, Junior skipped chores or left dirty dishes beneath his bed. He knew that would make his daddy pay attention, even if for the wrong reasons. Sure enough, Junior got his ass sent to military school when he was 12.

But as time passed, he found a new way to pique his father's interest. As Junior moved from test laps to short tracks to superspeedways, a bond formed. The 2001 season was his third in the Cup series, and he finally started to feel like his father's peer. They weren't on equal footing, certainly, but they were closer than Junior had ever imagined they'd be. Then it all ended in Turn 4 at Daytona. "He was just beginning to feel accepted," Kelley says. "For the first time, he didn't need to be anything different. Dale felt that's what Dad wanted out of him. Daddy's death hit him in a totally different way than it hit me. It hit him harder."

Junior was robbed that day. He says trudging forward through the blackness seemed nearly impossible. "It's the most unimaginable, worst thing ever," he says. "You can't be consoled, period."

Ben Baker

Rick and Ricky Hendrick never had any problem bonding. From the time Ricky was old enough to know what a car was, he wanted to help his father sell them during the week and race them on the weekend. By the fall of 2004, the 24-year-old Ricky had already joined Rick as a NASCAR team owner. But on Oct. 24, a Hendrick Motorsports plane crashed near Martinsville, Va., into a rolling rise known as Bull Mountain. All 10 passengers aboard were killed, including Rick's brother, two nieces, six friends and Ricky. "I know really well from flying up and down the East Coast where that mountain is," Hendrick says now, looking 10 years older than he did four years ago. "Looking at the map, I know it's coming, and I don't like flying over it. So I don't know how Junior climbed in that race car every week and faced it like that."

Hendrick has known Dale Jr. since he was a kid hanging around race tracks from Wilkesboro to Darlington, but he's known the family much longer. Junior's maternal grandfather, Robert Gee, helped Hendrick get his race team started in the early 1980s. Gee had even convinced Dale Sr. to drive Hendrick's first Busch Series entry. Junior was
buddies with Ricky and took his death hard.

"It's like a hammer to the chest," he said at the time. "It takes the wind out of you."

When Junior was 15, Rick Hendrick formally introduced himself during a road trip to Topeka, scribbling a makeshift contract on a napkin and offering it to the teenager. It was meant as a joke—Junior wasn't even racing yet—but knowing how successful Hendrick was, the kid figured he'd best sign it.

Two decades later, during the early weeks of 2007, Dale and Kelley sought Hendrick's advice on how Dale might wrestle majority control of DEI from their stepmother, Teresa. She had built the team with their father, but now they felt that they were being treated as just employees—the same familiar coolness they'd known since Teresa married into the family. Although Hendrick wasn't able to help them take over the team, he countered with another plan: Become a free agent, and look for the best deal. And oh, by the way, the best deal was on that napkin. "People have to admire Dale for sticking in as long as he did, trying to do what was right by his family's deal," Hendrick says. "I firmly believe, knowing Senior like I did, that if things weren't right, he'd want Junior to go do something different."

Hendrick offered everything Junior wanted: fast Chevrolets, technical and financial support for his fledgling JR Motorsports and, most important, an owner fully engaged with him regardless of the outcome. Earnhardt needs affirmation to excel. Despite an outgoing public persona, he's an introvert. That vulnerability is part of the package, as much as driving talent or fan popularity. Hendrick recognizes that. "One of the reasons we've gotten so close is, when he can't pick up the bucket, I put my arm around him and tell him, 'Hey, man, great job,' " Hendrick says when reminded of Junior's childhood story. "When guys aren't doing what they should do, I'll tell them. But when they're busting their butts, I tell them I'm proud of them."

"OUR MOTTO AT JR MOTORSPORTS IS 'HEADS WILL ROLL.' WE JOKE AROUND, BUT DAMMIT, THAT'S SERIOUS. A LOT OF PEOPLE DEPEND ON ME."

Neither Hendrick nor Junior uses the word "father" or "son" when discussing their bond, but the ease of their relationship, and the way it has filled holes in their lives, is obvious. Moreover, the comfort Junior has found in his new owner makes it even less of a priority to mend fences with his old one. "I ain't ready to go back and visit that yet, and I don't think she really is either," Junior says of his stepmother. "I ain't got nothing against her. She might have something against me, I don't know. We're just going to stay on the sideline for a while. I have nothing to prove to her. She's got nothing to prove to me. One day I'd like to get on good terms with her. I don't think we'll ever understand each other. It's just going to take a lot of work."

(Teresa Earnhardt declined to be interviewed for this story, but she did say, "It is good to see both Dale Earnhardt Inc. and Dale Earnhardt Jr. doing well so far in 2008.")

Maybe one day Junior and Teresa will reach some sort of common ground now that he's a team owner too. Building JR Motorsports is second only to Junior's own driving goals; it's also yet another way to emulate his hero. Dale Sr. raced, at first, to keep a roof over his family, and he never drove any other way. Dale Jr., despite having more money in the bank than he could spend in five lifetimes, approaches JRM with the same mentality—and his growing impatience with imperfection sounds more than a little familiar. "The pressure's on the driver," he says, talking about his revolving door of Nationwide Series racers. "All you've got to do is not spend money by wrecking cars every week. If he can do that, he can drive. But if the driver keeps wrecking every week and has no explanation why or doesn't learn a lesson from it, how can I keep employing a person like that? My company will not survive."

It has to survive. Earnhardt's uncles work there, as do his mother, Brenda, her husband, Willie, and Kelley. It's a family business in every sense, just as DEI was so many years ago. "We knew there was going to be food on the table when the doors were open at the shop," recalls Dale Sr.'s sister, Cathy Earnhardt Watkins. "After Daddy [Ralph Earnhardt] died, Dale became like our father, and what he won was what we had to live on. Dale Jr. runs his team with that same approach."

As Junior explains it, "I can't walk in there and close that company tomorrow. Our motto is 'Heads will roll.' We joke around, but dammit, that's serious. A lot of people depend on me."

He would like to add someone else to that list. Junior says the only thing missing in his life right now is a girl to settle down with. He's been "open and willing to get married for three or four years" and has had some notable relationships with "top-notch, great women who are making, and have made, some guys happy." But his hectic schedule and fast-lane world make it nearly impossible to meet a bring-home-to-Mama girl. "I'm looking for that mental connection, somebody who sees and understands me like my sister and my mom do," Junior says. "I want somebody who can read me like a book and is okay with half of it. I'm particular, and I want to be particular. It hasn't struck me yet that I should relax my standards."

His job is a deterrent. He needs dedication, and he thinks it's ridiculous to ask someone to toss aside an established life to adapt to his. "I admire the girls who marry drivers and crew members," he says. "It's a tough life. The only fun thing those women have to look forward to is going shopping in some good cities and sitting around in a bus. But they love their husbands. They're dedicated."

If a woman wants to live with Junior, she'll have to live with his driving for "at least 15 more competitive years," he says. Past that, who knows? If his universe continues to expand at its current rate, if he continues to mature as quickly as he has over the past year—or if he continues to have as much success as he's had so far this season—hell, he might even start to enjoy himself.

Yes, he knows he still has to answer a lot of questions, as an owner and a driver: "Am I prepared? Is the team prepared? Is everybody ready? How's it going to go? What the hell are we getting into?" But Junior says he's okay with that. "I'm excited and curious and nervous. I'm comfortable, though.

"I'm not uncomfortable at all."

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