When the kid was 16 years old, he went on one of our weekend racing trips. From earlier stories you might have gotten the idea that there is a little bit of partying going on during these trips.

You would be wrong.

There is a lot of partying going on.

We use our heads and stay out of trouble. Mostly, we laugh, make other people laugh, and regress to pranks, practical jokes and tricks on each other. It’s the kind of thing that many people do as they are growing up but forget how to do by the time they’ve got mortgages and kids. But when you’re young and curious, it’s a good idea to test the limits in the company of people who will take care of you.

At least that’s what I told myself Dale Senior must have thought when he allowed the kid to go with us. Dale’s older son Kerry was already grown, and daughter Kelly was always sharp about the big, bad world out there. But Dale Jr. had led a pretty sheltered life--which is a good thing--and Senior figured that if he was going to experiment and try out things it was a whole lot better to let him go with me and my crowd than with a bunch of other 16-year-olds and wind up in jail or worse. It also couldn’t look to Senior’s wife Teresa like it was his idea. She might have been the kid’s stepmother but she’d done a good job in her part of bringing him up. And, at that point, Teresa was just way too trusting, but we fixed that.

The Lost Weekend began when we went to Granite City, where we won; then on to Topeka; Moberly, Missouri; back to Topeka where we won again; and then back to St. Charles, Missouri. During that weekend, Junior got acquainted with his future sponsor, so when we got back to Topeka the second time--where we knew were going to meet up with Dale Sr. once more, we said, "Now, don’t look at your daddy, don’t tell him nothing about what we did, and whatever you do, don’t breathe on him."

He must have breathed because later on I got cussed and yelled at, and I took it quietly because I had it coming. But after the rant went on long enough, I asked Senior, "I guess this means we can’t take Kelly next year?"

I got a pretty strong suspicion about a couple of those "bump-and-runs" I received later that year.

But Senior knew I would keep the kid safe. You have to remember that a pretty similar thing had happened to me when Bud Hoppe got hold of me, and I turned out...

By Dale Earnhardt Jr.

I met Kenny Wallace through my dad’s and Rusty’s friendship. We became instant friends because we both seemed to be in the same place at the time. Kenny, as I did, felt the need to prove himself. That was a daily chore with my father and me, and Kenny was no different with his brother, Rusty. Kenny often saw the frustration I had with my father, involving racing and other things. It was Kenny who could easily explain the situation to me. We might not have found a solution, but he understood.

Kenny spoke my language. I ask him for advice quite often, not because he is all-knowing or any crap like that. He just shoots straight. When you talk to Kenny, he is thinking, listening, and sincere with his response. Even more impressive is having him seek advice from me. That’s the most sincere form of respect. I’ve spent my entire life being told what I want to hear, or told nothing at all. Kenny is the opposite of that. Rare, indeed.

Kenny's path through racing has been full of highs and lows. I remember watching him in the Cox Treated Lumber Pontiac back in his early Busch series days. He ran head-to-head with them all. He built up a good reputation, and I kept thinking he was one to keep an eye on.

His years in the Cup series, as you will read, were not what anyone would have expected. Mediocre equipment and hand-shake deals were often his only choice. There were some high spots, some good runs with good teams. Ultimately though, he will admit he never, or for that matter we never, got to see his real potential.

I could care less about his track record, myself. What he gave this sport isn’t measurable with statistics and trophies. This sport can be shallow; it can be deceitful.

Kenny is a silver coin in a pile of coal, with a face full of expressions as easily read as the morning paper. Most notable is his distinct laughter. If Kenny is in the building, you know it.

He has been a great father and husband to his wonderful family. He’s a man with his priorities in order. This book is a great account of the person Kenny is, and I’m very proud to be a part of it.

Thanks, Kenny.

© 2007 Lew Boyd, Coastal 181