A Letter to My Dad

Dear Dad,

Little did you know that a few small actions ignited a passion within me and made me who I am today.

Maybe it wasn’t always obvious, because I’ll admit it: growing up, I was a mama’s boy.  And while we were doing arts and crafts or collecting Beanie Babies, I’m sure you would have rather been pitching baseballs or practicing a golf swing with me.

One of our only shared interests seemed to be cars, so one small moment at a time, that became our thing.

When you built model cars, I stood on my tiptoes to watch you work at the table, and I even tried some of my own.  Of course, as an engineer, your work was perfect. As a four-year old, mine was sloppy. But years later, I still remembered those moments as I began designing paint schemes for my own virtual cars.

When you played your old NASCAR Racing video game, I couldn’t take my eyes off of the computer screen.  I must have watched you drive hundreds of laps around the Charlotte Motor Speedway. I wasn’t too good at first, but I eventually turned things around and became just as adept as my dad at turning laps on those games.

Racing around Charlotte on the computer couldn’t compare to the feeling at the real track.  I’ll never forget my first time walking toward the speedway by your side. The roar of engines echoed off in the distance, and from the sound alone, I was hooked.

You scraped up extra tickets from your coworkers at RJ Reynolds so we could go to The Winston together, and because I loved it so much, you took me to other races as well.  We endured a seemingly endless rain delay at the Coke 600 and a painful sunburn at Bristol, but it was okay, because we did it together.

We even went to tracks when no cars were there.  As an amateur pilot, you took me as your passenger to fly over just about every track in the Carolinas.  And that one time I nearly got airsick flying back from Martinsville, you stopped at an empty airport and let me catch my breath.  You didn’t say much that day, but you didn’t need to. Your smile said it all.

Then came the time that all parents probably dread: the teenage years.  Sometimes, it probably seemed like the only reason I needed you was to get lunch money for school.

But when the time came to find a college, I didn’t need to search very far.  I knew I wanted to go to NC State. Just like my dad.

From our first visit, you showed me around campus — where you lived, where you went to your electrical engineering classes, where you watched the Wolfpack win countless basketball and football games.  You told me some of the same stories two, three… ten times. But it didn’t matter, because I was hearing them from you.

Then you bought me a car, and it was the car of my dreams: a Honda S2000.  On our test drive from the dealership, you pulled over on a back road and told me to get behind the wheel.

There was only one problem: I couldn’t drive a stick.

So through all the stalls, missed gears, and over-revs, you put up with me while I learned.  I was put through my paces when we ran into flurries on some country roads, but it was okay, because I had three of my favorite things there with me.

A little snow, an amazing car, and my dad.

After learning to drive it, you gave me the gift that kid Corey would have never imagined: a day on the race track.  Riding up to VIR for the Bertil Roos Racing School, I confessed how nervous I was about botching the complicated shifts in those open-wheeled cars, but you assured me that I’d be just fine.  And I was, because I learned it from you.

We stood around in our firesuits on pit road, shooting the breeze about the tricky Oak Tree corner and the slow drivers in our group.  Sure, it wasn’t a day at the ballpark or the country club, but in my mind, it was so, so much cooler.

Years later, we went back to VIR for another incredible experience: a chance to drive my own car — my amazing dream car that you bought for me — on the track.

By then, the liver disease was affecting your mind, so you opted not to take a run for yourself, worried that you’d forget the track layout or slow down the cars behind us.  And when you thought you were recording a video of my laps but wound up just leaving my phone on the home screen, I could only laugh. I knew it wasn’t on purpose, and it didn’t matter anyway.  It was just part of another memory that we made together.

Over the years, my car has been the place where a dad and his son could talk.  It could be about racing or college memories (again).

Or it could be about life.  It was those conversations, and the wisdom you shared, that I value the most.

Even on our last ride together, the weekend before you went into the hospital, you told me something that every kid hopes to hear and every parent hopes to feel.

You said that you were proud of me.

Because of who you were and the example you set, I now see so much of you in myself.

I got your desire for perfection, whether it’s designing a car or doing my job.

I got your allergies and a crazy willingness to endure five years’ worth of shots to become less sensitive to them.

I got your logical mind, even if electrical engineering was my least favorite part of college physics class.

I got your tendency to tell the same stories over and over.

I hope I got your hair that never, ever thinned.

And I know I got your wide-eyed awe over cars.

The expression says “live fast and die young”.  You inspired me to do the former, even if it’s mostly in virtual cars.  Sadly, you were a victim of the latter and the unlucky hand life dealt you.

Although you left this world far too soon, I learned more from you in 31 years than others learn in a lifetime from their fathers.

Maybe I’ve always been a mama’s boy, but now that I’m all grown up, it’s undeniable that I’ve also become my daddy’s man.

Love always,

– Corey