This column originally appeared in the October 28, 2012 editions of The Times and The News-Star. Scary that it’s been that long, right? Where did six years go?

Probably the high-water mark of an otherwise mediocre and unremarkable Halloween costume career was when I dressed up as Richard Petty.

If you don’t know who Richard Petty is, I’m sorry, but I’m never going to let you fine tune my master cylinder. Get away from that hood!

Not the biggest of stock car fans as a youth, truth is I had passed the ghost and pirate days, and in my hometown of Lake View, S.C., hard on the border of Darlington 500 territory and right in the middle of tobacco farms and soybeans, superheroes and fantasy characters weren’t Halloween first-stringers anyway. If you wanted real candy, something besides the piece of cellophane-wrapped peppermint you could get any Sunday of the year from an usher at church, you had to step out and get serious. Be Elvis. Be an NFL quarterback, back when NFL quarterbacks were missing teeth. Be a butcher, a county agent or the guy who owned both the Farmall and Allis-Chalmers dealerships in Lumberton.

Or be a dust-stained, exhaust-breathing, live-on-the-razor’s edge NASCAR driver. That would get you something besides an apple. We’re talking big-boy candy.

If a kid comes to my door this Halloween dressed as Tony Stewart or Dale Jr., I’ll give him a whole Snickers. Maybe even check the tires on his bicycle.

Back in my Halloween candy-eating days, there was no bigger name in stock car racing than “The King,” Richard Petty. Oh, I could have been Cale Yarborough, from just down the road in Timmonsville. No shame in that. I liked the fact that his name was “Cale” and that he’d once had a tryout with the Washington Redskins. But he was balding young, and I didn’t think I could pull it off.

Junior Johnson intrigued me, but he’d mainly retired from the racing part of the sport back then and was more into management and “ownership,” something I knew little of. Plus he was a better moonshine runner than actual oval racer, the local stock car sports historians told me. So though I loved his name — the countrified, lyrical, where-the-rubber-meets-the-road “Junior Johnson,” I didn’t really know what he looked like, other than he had a beer gut. Junior Johnson hadn’t been on the cover of Sports Illustrated like Cale had.

But Richard Petty, now there was the deal. When you are about 9, you are very impressed with people who win all the time, smile all toothily, and wear both cowboy hats and sun shades. Petty and the 43 car, that was the ticket. Hot rod. Hot dog!

With a Magic Marker, I drew “43” on a paper plate and taped it to my bike. Put on swim goggles and a football helmet without a facemask. Wrote “STP” in a red oval  about five places on my T-shirt. I wrote on my pants, and what didn’t say “Goodyear” said “Goody’s.” Looking good.

After conspicuously parking the “43 car” for each visit, I approached doors and porches with both confidence and a small tool box. Tapped on the doors with a tire tool. Each resident looked down on the grease-smudged face of a tiny NASCAR driver with no driver’s license.

If you are thinking the night was memorable and I was proud, you would be correct. Came away with a tire gauge, a couple quarts of 30-weight, some red oil rags, one air filter and a key to the men’s room at Gaddy’s ESSO station on Main Street by the First Baptist Church. Life is good when you’re a NASCAR stud.

-30-

One of the great things about TV sports watching over the years are the stories of VCR/DVR incidents. And I had one Friday/Saturday that I luckily got away with.

Who among us hasn’t forgotten to check the AM/PM on the VCR settings in the old days? How about recording a game, coming home, and then turning on the television only to discover that the game is still on because you left it on that channel?

And there isn’t a man, woman or child who hasn’t had the recording of a game run out because you didn’t add any extra time to the end. (There hasn’t been a game finish during a three-hour window in at least a decade.)

Game 3 of the World Series was hard on everybody. Eighteen innings can be tough to deal with … even for the players. For the viewing public? Fuhgeddaboudit!

While y’all were falling asleep, I was coming back from being across the state at a high school football game. So when I got home around midnight, I was thrilled to get bonus baseball. I watched as the Red Sox took a 2-1 lead, only to lose that lead in the bottom of the inning on an error.

More free baseball!

I hung in there for an inning or two, realized that my boat was taking on water, and reached for the remote to set the DVR. Because the program guide had long since passed for the game, I hit the record button for 3 shows that come on during the middle of the night (at least one of which is designed to enhance my … situation.)

When I got up Saturday, I carefully avoided those morning texts from friends who wanted to discuss the game —  as any DVRing sports fan knows to do — and strapped in to watch the 14th inning eight hours after it happened.

Then the 15th. Then the 16th. And the 17th.

Then I began to realize that the “remaining time” bar was slowly creeping toward the end. I was now going to watch a game that had been played hours earlier and STILL not know who won.

When Max Muncy of the Dodgers came to the plate in the bottom of the 18th inning. I had all of one minute left. I realized that if he didn’t hit a home run — and only a home run — within that minute, I had wasted parts of two days for nothing and would have to read about it on the internet.

“There’s a long fly ball to deep left center …” Magically, Max did just that. Dinger! Dodgers win 3-2.

At least I think they did, because I never actually saw Muncy touch home plate.

The DVR gods were smiling on me, at least for this one time.