Oysterback
New Member
I think the first time I met Joe DeLuca was at my second Sports Car Club of America drivers school at Bridgehampton in the Spring of 1978.
I was a young hotshoe driver in my second driver's school.
I had just flipped my racecar after a car blew it's engine in front of me, leaving oil and antifreeze on the line. Five cars crashed, and I was digging the Long Island sand out of the interior of my VW Rabbit with a frisbee. He was one of the corner workers, and he came up to me and said "Hey kid? You OK?" I said "Yeah. I gotta dig this sand out before the next practice session." He grinned a huge grin and said "Good! I was afraid you might quit after that wild ride!" He encouraged me to try hard in qualifying.
I got the pole for the race, and I had found a friend.
I saw Joe many times over the next several years when I was racing on S.C.C.A. road courses in the Northeast.
One memorable Saturday after-race beer party had me standing in a crowd next to Joe, and another female corner worker was showing Paul Newman (yes, THE Paul Newman) a picture of herself with a tiger. I said, not too loudly, "Check out this woman showing Newman a picture of her pv$$y!" Beer spurted from everyone's noses, including Newman's! We laughed so hard, we cried, and our sides ached.
Life goes on.
I married and had kids. I went to the track less often. Sometimes I would catch up to Joe at the Saturday beer parties.
I didn't see Joe for several years.
Much later I found that Joe was on Flight 93 on 9/11.
He was there with his girlfriend, Linda Gronlund, another S.C.C.A. worker, heading for a vacation.
Everything I know about Joe would lead me to believe he was in the middle of the passenger resistance that day.
Those pig bastards that hijacked that flight killed a fine man that day, but they didn't defeat him.
Thanks for everything, Joe.
I was a young hotshoe driver in my second driver's school.
I had just flipped my racecar after a car blew it's engine in front of me, leaving oil and antifreeze on the line. Five cars crashed, and I was digging the Long Island sand out of the interior of my VW Rabbit with a frisbee. He was one of the corner workers, and he came up to me and said "Hey kid? You OK?" I said "Yeah. I gotta dig this sand out before the next practice session." He grinned a huge grin and said "Good! I was afraid you might quit after that wild ride!" He encouraged me to try hard in qualifying.
I got the pole for the race, and I had found a friend.
I saw Joe many times over the next several years when I was racing on S.C.C.A. road courses in the Northeast.
One memorable Saturday after-race beer party had me standing in a crowd next to Joe, and another female corner worker was showing Paul Newman (yes, THE Paul Newman) a picture of herself with a tiger. I said, not too loudly, "Check out this woman showing Newman a picture of her pv$$y!" Beer spurted from everyone's noses, including Newman's! We laughed so hard, we cried, and our sides ached.
Life goes on.
I married and had kids. I went to the track less often. Sometimes I would catch up to Joe at the Saturday beer parties.
I didn't see Joe for several years.
Much later I found that Joe was on Flight 93 on 9/11.
He was there with his girlfriend, Linda Gronlund, another S.C.C.A. worker, heading for a vacation.
Everything I know about Joe would lead me to believe he was in the middle of the passenger resistance that day.
Those pig bastards that hijacked that flight killed a fine man that day, but they didn't defeat him.
Thanks for everything, Joe.
