We knew this day was coming. But still, we weren’t ready.
Barney Hall passed away yesterday from complications following a recent medical procedure. He died in his hometown of Elkin, North Carolina, where
he was born and lived his entire life. Barney was a small-town boy in the
purest sense of the term, and the values he learned in a town that rarely
topped 4,000 residents served him well in his 83 years.
Barney knew everyone, but his circle of true friends was relatively small.
He made a living with his voice, but was shockingly shy and soft-spoken. It
took time to get to know Barney, but to be his friend was well worth the wait.
In his career as a broadcaster, he earned enough awards and honors to fill a dozen
mantels.
He was one of a handful of broadcasters good enough to be identified
specifically with his sport. Like Vin Scully in baseball or the late Dick Irvin
in hockey, Barney Hall was NASCAR.
But as I mourn Barney’s passing today, I don’t think of the awards and honors.
I think of Barney Hall, the man.
Barney was born to call stock car racing. From his early
days on a tiny Elkin AM station to the modern era of
NASCAR, his smooth-as-silk baritone and understated style served as safe harbor
in a sport awash in hyperbole. He began as a public address announcer at local, North Carolina short tracks, and soon graduated to the PA microphone at
Bristol Motor Speedway, pulling down the princely sum of $75 for a weekend’s
work.
When Bill France, Jr., needed voices to broadcast the
inaugural Daytona 500 on a daisy-chain network of southeastern radio stations in
1959, Barney was one of the first to sign-on. His voice became instantly
familiar to race fans across the south – as comfortable as a favorite pair of
slippers -- and when the Motor Racing Network was chartered in 1970, Barney was
there as its lead turn announcer.
Pick a landmark moment in the history of the NASCAR since
then, and Barney Hall was there to provide the sound track.
In an era when drivers and media members traveled
together, shared hotels and patronized the same after-hours establishments,
Barney was the ultimate NASCAR insider. He traveled with Hall Of Fame driver David
Pearson for many years, riding shotgun in Pearson’s private airplane and eventually
becoming an accomplished pilot himself. His relationship with flight service meteorologists
around the country made him the go-to guy for the latest race track weather
forecast, and his stories of NASCAR “back in the day” were poignant, gripping
and often hysterical. Dinner with Barney Hall, especially on a night when he could
be convinced to indulge in an amaretto sour or two, were events not to be
missed.
MRN president David Hyatt called Barney "perhaps the
most trusted reporter of his day.” And in all our years working together, I
never knew him to break a confidence. When controversy reared its ugly head –
as it often does in professional sports – crewmembers, fans and members of the
media would flock to Barney in search of the inside scoop.
“What’s really going on, Barney?” they’d ask.
“Aw, it’ll all come out in the wash,” he’d reply, before
slowly meandering away. Another secret
kept safe, forever.
I learned a lot from Barney about how to operate in the
NASCAR garage, how to cultivate relationships and treat people properly.
“You talk to a lot of people,” he told me, many years
ago. “I see you in the garage. People tell you things because they trust you, and
because they know you won’t throw them under the bus to get a scoop.
“That’s a good way to do business,” he counseled. ”A
scoop lasts 24 hours, if you’re lucky. But if you ruin a man’s deal by talking
about it too soon, he’ll never tell you anything again.”
Barney brokered dozens of deals over the years, matching at-liberty
drivers with team owners in search of talent.
“You really should go talk to that guy,” he’d say. And in
a matter of hours, the deal was done.
Barney’s impeccable advice made him a mentor to many of
us who make our livings covering NASCAR. His soaring example made us better,
more conscientious broadcasters; better prepared, always thinking of the
listeners, always striving for more.
In recent years, the steady encroachment of age and illness made
life on the road difficult for Barney. Commercial air travel – exhausting for people
half his age – took a heavy toll, as did separation from his beloved Karen; his
chief organizer, supporter, cheerleader and the love of his life for the last
35 years.
Barney’s impossibly high standards made him his own worst critic,
and in recent seasons, he complained privately that while he knew exactly what he
wanted to say, the connection between his brain and his vocal chords had
slowed. The same words that had flowed so effortlessly -- for so long -- now came more
slowly. Or sometimes, not at all.
Most of us barely noticed. Barney’s “bad broadcasts” were still
50-percent better than we mere mortals could muster. But to him, it was an
unconscionable decline. In his final season of 2014, Barney would often seek me
out after a race, apologizing for what he considered a sub-par performance.
“You bailed me out a few times today,” he’d say. “Thank you for
that.”
My response was always the same.
“Barney, you’ve bailed us out for 50 years. If I can throw you a
line every decade or so, it’s the least I can do.”
Barney called his final race in July of 2014 at Daytona
International Speedway, a fitting farewell for a man who – by his own count –
broadcast 154 race events at “The World Center of Racing.” In 2003, he missed
his first Daytona 500 broadcast when his beloved mother passed away during
Speedweeks. When we traveled from Daytona Beach to Elkin to attend her wake and
comfort him in his time of grief, Barney was predictably apologetic, feeling he was “letting
us down” by missing the biggest race of the year.
Barney, you never let us down. Not once.
You were our anchor, our leader and the man we relied upon – in good
times and bad – for more than half a century. You steered our ship through sometimes
angry seas, charting a course that was unfailingly professional, compassionate,
correct and sincere.
You taught us to pull together, covering each other’s mistakes and
making the next man in line look better; all for the good of the broadcast.
You taught us the value of truth, honesty and respect. Of gentleness,
humility and humor.
You taught us to be better broadcasters, better people and better
friends.
We will never forget you – or the lessons you taught – so long as
the roar of racing engines can be heard on the radio dial.
Thank you, Barney Hall.
And Godspeed.
