Summer in Richmond Shaded in Gray

Southside Speedway was nearing the end.

Like an old man, the race track, located in South Richmond, Va., was gray. The walls surrounding the track had once been white. But too much dirt and car fumes had washed against it.

The aluminum bleachers, glint lost, were gray. The concession stands were gray.

The race track was scheduled to be torn down at the end of the summer. Condominums and a shopping mall were slated to replace it.

Never having been to a race--never, even, having watched the Indianapolis 500 on television--I didn't know what to expect. A bunch of cars whizzing around a giant track, I guessed.

My vision of the race was correct. But Southside was more than a race.

Saturday afternoon, the speedway was a gathering site, a place where shirtless men and bronzed women, crazy kids and old people who congregated in the top row of seats and wore big hats to keep the sun from their eyes, came to watch and cheer.

Before the race, the public address announcer, a man with leathery skin and bushy eyebrows who spoke with a Southern accent, said racing was the equivalent of war. If there were a war, he announced to the crowd of 10,000, the racers who were about to race would be at that war. But because there was no war, they were here, to race, giving their courage a test drive.

War on wheels, I thought.

He mentioned World War II. "Twenty-three Virginians won the Congressional Medal of Honor during World War II. You know how many men from New York City won it? Only three. And one of those men had just moved from Virginia." The crowd roared.

He launched into the "Racer's Prayer." Heads fell.

"Lord I pray

As I race today

Keep me safe

Along the way

Not only me

But others, too,

Help them perform the jobs they do.

I know, Lord, that in a race

I, the driver, must set the pace

Although I know I am a sinner

Help me to believe that with God I'm always a winner."

The crowd cheered. The race began. I had stumbled upon the South.

This summer I worked as a sports writer for the Richmond Times Dispatch. My assignments were varied: auto races, tennis matches, golf tournaments, minor league baseball games, even a bass fishing tournament (more than 15,000 people filled the Richmond Colisium to view the weigh-in.)

I interviewed Akeem Olajuwon, the Houston Rockets center, who was in town to be a judge at a slam-dunk contest. He sat on a bench. I kneeled at his feet, scribbling in my notebook.

That morning I had read that he was being sued by a woman who claimed to have had his child. I knew my editors would expect me to ask Olajuwon about this. I did. He responded, "I don't want to talk about that."

Two weeks later, a television reporter asked Olajuwon the same question. Olajuwon slugged him.

At the Richmond Women's Amateur Golf Tournament, I listened to a conversation about how the tournament used to be run. The tournament director, a woman with iron-gray hair, explained to another woman that even as late as the 1970s, women were required to include with their tournament applications two recommendations from members of the host club. This was to ensure that no Black succeeded in getting into the tournament.

I did not understand the reasoning, but guessed it might be this: One club member might strike a blow for civil rights. But certainly not two.

The director, who had been in charge of the tourna- ment for more than 25 years, explained thatonce she had received an entry form from a womanwho had included only one recommendation.Reluctantly, she decided to let the woman play inthe tournament.

"I just prayed she wasn't Black," the directorsaid. "Then, what would I have done?"

Triple A baseball is a turnstile. You're eithergoing in, to the big leagues, or out, to anotherfarm club, or, worse, the real world. The RichmondBraves, like their major league namesake andaffiliate, the Atlanta Braves, were not good. Theylost far more than they won.

Dreams of winning the International Leaguechampionship dissolved early in the summer. Duringthe rest of the season, each Richmond Brave foughtto put "some personal numbers on the board," asthe catcher, John Mizerock, explained to me aftera game.

He said the end of the season was about"kicking butt." If you kicked butt, you got tospend September in Atlanta. If you didn't, you gotto spend it with your loved ones and your sorrows.

A friend of mine at the paper insisted sportsare ridiculous. What's the point, she said. Win.Lose. Tie. What does it matter?

I explained to her that sports is its ownculture. It has its own language. Its heroes. Itsvillains. (Who is hero and who villain depends, ofcourse, on who you root for.)

Sports has its own rights and wrongs, carefullydefined in The Rule Book.

She did not believe me. She said sports is asilly pursuit, an extraneous part of society, oflife.

This summer I learned that neither she nor Iwas correct. Sports is not, as many have said, areflection of society. It is society. Sports islike the Southside Speedway, all awash in gray