Many Dale Earnhardt Jr. fans have written me recently to get the lowdown on his reported offseason jaunt to Australia to compete in the V8 Supercar Series. They want to know how and where they can see it and what time it airs stateside and what number he'll be and what his car will look like and, above all else, just how excited he is about it.

Well, there may not be a lowdown. At this point, it's just in the discussion stage.

And he's sort of fired up.

A recent column posted on Wheels Magaine's Web site, wheelsmag.com.au, cited Earnhardt's plans to make his Australian racing debut at Sydney's Oran Park in early December, racing a Holden Commodore owned by Scott Loadsman in the Fujitsu V8 Supercar Series.

Loadsman reportedly purchased a new chassis from Paul Morris, one of the premier car owner/drivers in Australia, whom Junior befriended during a vacation to Australia's Gold Coast last December, when Morris offered up one of his rides for Junior to test.

The reported plan for this December was for Loadsman to put his top driver, series leader Steve Owen, in the new chassis purchased from Morris and put Junior in Owen's old ride.

I thought the whole thing sounded killer. V8 Supercars are rowdy. The YouTube in-car video of Earnhardt driving that thing like he stole it is great.

But when I casually told Earnhardt how cool the deal sounded, his response was anything but giddy.

Junior told me he and Morris have had candid discussions about Earnhardt racing in Australia, but that's where the story ends. There are no specific plans at this time for him to run the season finale.

He may ultimately race in Australia. He'd like to. But there's still many variables that must be finalized before that will happen.

CONCORD, N.C -- It's 10:03 a.m. Sunday before the Coca-Cola 600. I'm standing in front of a camera at the entrance to pit lane at Lowe's Motor Speedway, one minute from live air on NASCAR Now. It's a glorious day, and the wind is picking up.

Dramatically.

Because a Blackhawk helicopter is touching down 40 yards away.

Down goes the sun shade, salvaged only barely thanks to Tim Cowlishaw's cat-like reflexes. T.O. would be jealous. The camera almost bites the dust, too, but the cameraman saves it. Debris pelts us, fills computer bags and jacket pockets. Papers and sunglasses fly from the pit wall.

Soldiers on the periphery chuckle. They're used to it.

A production voice from Connecticut comes in my ear: "Marty, here we come …"

As I begin to discuss something frivolous about Jimmie Johnson's prowess at Charlotte, fake bombs explode behind me. Fake mortars are launched. Fake gunfire sprays.

None of it sounds fake.

Smoke billows about. Soldiers covered in pseudo-shrubbery scamper toward the driver introduction stage. Cowlishaw mentions they're here to abduct Kyle Busch.

I am rattled. Slightly. But I manage to remain focused.

There are particles of rubber in my ear. And eye. There is sand stuck in my Chapstick.

But my hair is fine. Thus, so am I.

NASCAR drivers in general know very little about other sports. There are exceptions, certainly. Guys like Elliott Sadler and Dale Jarrett are sports junkies, but for the most part, Sprint Cup's finest stick to focusing on cambers and casters and the proper line through Turn 3 at Atlanta, and couldn't care less who won the NFC championship.

But March Madness is a bit different. The NCAA men's basketball tournament bracket is a phenomenon that makes most everyone pay attention. Even my momma -- who cared not one iota about sports unless I happened to be whiffing at a t-ball or something -- filled out her bracket each March. And usually won.

NASCAR drivers, too, are apt to take a stab at bracketology. So NASCAR's PR staff coaxed several drivers into prognosticating the Final Four and, ultimately, the champion.

Judging by the feedback, the Kansas Jayhawks or North Carolina Tar Heels will hoist the trophy when the checkers fly in San Antonio.

A.J. Allmendinger (No. 84 Toyota)
Final Four Picks: North Carolina, Kansas, UCLA, Texas
Champion: Kansas
Why Kansas: Because Kansas and North Carolina can't play each other for the title, we're going all Big 12 in the championship game. But I like Kansas. They're just too tough. They have been all year. If you need any help with your bracketology, just call me.

Clint Bowyer (No. 07 Chevrolet)
Final Four Picks: North Carolina, Kansas, UCLA, Memphis
Champion: Kansas
Why Kansas: This is going to work out perfect. When Kansas beats Roy Williams and North Carolina on Saturday, I'll head to San Antonio after the Cup race in Texas for the national championship. It looks like Kansas was meant to beat Roy Williams and I was meant to go the national championship. I love it when a plan comes together.

Jeff Burton (No. 31 Chevrolet)
Final Four Picks: North Carolina, Kansas, Pittsburgh, UCLA
Champion: Kansas
Why Kansas: As much as I would love to see my Duke Blue Devils pull it off, I don't think it's going to happen. I believe Kansas is going to win the championship. They have a great team and have played well over the last few games.

Kurt Busch (No. 2 Dodge)
Final Four Picks: North Carolina, Kansas, UCLA, Memphis
Champion: Memphis
Why Memphis: Of course, I'm pulling for my Arizona Wildcats to make it as far as possible, but even if they win their opener against West Virginia, they have to get past Duke and Xavier just to get a shot at knocking off UCLA in the West. I don't see it happening. I'll go with Memphis winning it all, but I'll have to pull for my PAC-10 teams, even if it means cheering for UCLA. I watched some of the tournament games last weekend. It'll be really interesting to see how far teams like Georgia, Drake and Butler can go.

Kevin Harvick (No. 29 Chevrolet)
Final Four Picks: North Carolina, Georgetown, Memphis, UCLA
Champion: North Carolina
Why Carolina: DeLana and I went to the Duke-Carolina game earlier this year, and I was impressed by North Carolina's potential. I think they have a few veteran guys who could carry them a long way in the tournament.

Bobby Labonte (No. 43 Dodge)
Final Four Picks: Texas. (That's it.)
Why Texas: I'll admit that I don't know very much about college basketball. But I have been following the Texas Longhorns. When you're from Texas, you always follow the Burnt Orange. Even though they lost to Kansas in the conference tournament, they look to me like they have the talent to win six games. D.J. Augustine is a really good point guard and you need talent at that crucial position.

Kyle Petty (No. 45 Dodge)
Final Four Picks: North Carolina, Kansas, Memphis, UConn
Champion: North Carolina
Why Carolina: Memphis and North Carolina will meet in the national championship game, with Carolina cutting down the nets in San Antonio. That was my best Dick Vitale impersonation. No, I just think that North Carolina is playing their best basketball at the right time. Two months ago I don't think you would have picked them to win the ACC regular season and tournament. And Hansbrough is a beast.

David Ragan (No. 6 Ford)
Final Four Picks: Memphis, North Carolina, Georgetown, UCLA
Champion: North Carolina
Why Carolina: I am all about March Madness. I stay glued to the TV for the entire tournament. The Tar Heels will be tough to beat because of their depth and offensive firepower, but Georgetown will be a challenge if they meet up in the national semifinal. My money is on the Tar Heels to cut down the nets in San Antonio.

Elliott Sadler (No. 19 Dodge)
Final Four Picks: North Carolina, Kansas, UCLA, Texas
Champion: North Carolina
Why Carolina: It's finally here, March Madness. As a college basketball fan, we follow our teams all year long to get to this point. They get seeded throughout the year, then it all comes down to the selection committee and how they line up in the brackets. I love it because one upset can mess up everyone's brackets for the rest of the tournament.
You all know I'm a big UNC fan, so it's no surprise I picked them to go all the way. The team is strong, the defense is on their game and Tyler Hansbrough has been playing incredible. I'm picking my UNC Tar Heels to go the distance and cut down the nets in San Antonio.

For the record, Kansas gets my vote -- barely.

Memphis is good, but its inability to shoot free throws -- the worst in America -- will do it in. Carolina is ridiculous. Hansbrough is excellent, and even on off nights wills his team to victory with an infectious hustle you can't help but admire. "Psycho T" is a great nickname, too. So fitting. The kid looks like his head's going to explode half the time. Lawson, Ellington and Green are all great, too, but I really like Mario Chalmers. He and Brandon Rush are amazing, and will lead Kansas to the national title.

DAYTONA BEACH, Fla. -- NASCAR needs Tony Stewart and Kurt Busch to despise one another. The sport could use a good ol' fashioned haymaker rivalry between a couple of old-school lay-it-on-the-mat bad boys.

These two certainly fit that bill.

In recent years, corporate America has tried to change them both. Like Play-Doh, they've been broken apart and pieced back together in a new form. Molded to someone else's liking. And while that Play-Doh may look different and may have new physical characteristics, it's still the same ol' Play-Doh.

Same with Stewart and Busch. They're fiery, and they're going to be fiery no matter how nice they play it to us.

Off-track issues have made both drivers more docile. Or at least that's the perception.

As a fan, I want them to trade paint on the track and trade jabs off it.

Now I'm not saying they can go running roughshod over the sport and pitching hissy fits every weekend. They can't go wrecking each other on purpose or driving recklessly when racing around one another. And certainly, they can't use race cars to retaliate, as Busch did Friday.

Too many guys back at Gibbs and Penske work entirely too hard on those cars, and don't deserve it.

I'm just saying a little rivalry tension never hurts. It keeps it interesting.

Word is Stewart tagged Busch in the kisser during their meeting in the NASCAR hauler Friday night. NASCAR, though, said it didn't happen that way.

But then again, NASCAR may not have heard the blow. The incessant ringing of the cash register was too loud.

LONDON -- Jimmie Johnson did some wicked burnouts during the 2007 championship season, the best coming at Martinsville, Va., in October when he actually shifted into second gear and grabbed the checkered flag from the flag man without so much as cracking the throttle.

But he nearly took it to a new plateau Friday when he and a trio of others, including American teammate Travis Pastrana, nearly smoked out Wembley Stadium during practice for the Race of Champions.

Event organizers tell me the tire smoke produced from Friday's practice session with Johnson, Pastrana, Alister McRae and Mattias Ekstrom -- just four drivers, mind you -- nearly triggered the stadium fire alarm system.

If the system is activated twice, the huge metal doors on the building will shut, locking down the premises.

The cars -- Aston Martins, Ford Focus and Fiat rally cars, and off-road buggies -- are parked on an access road underneath the stadium. When Johnson & Co. manned the machines and revved the engines to take off, they'd burn the tires. The smoke collecting under the stadium caused the issue.

So when drivers showed up for practice Saturday, they were forced to sign a consent form stating they would refrain from peeling out from a stationary position when starting the car.

All did well. Fortunately. Stay tuned for Sunday -- when every second counts. I have to think advising drivers to slow down won't rightly be heeded.

LONDON -- The only thing more fascinating to me this Wednesday morning than the $200 and 90 minutes required to commute from Gatwick Airport to my Park Lane hotel in London was the conversation with the driver.

My man is a pistol. If you listen to him, soccer takes precedence over just about everything in England -- education included. And not by a little bit. Young footballers are groomed from childhood to play professionally, and school is but an afterthought. At least that's what my driver says.

And he tells me he's a coach, so I figure he has a decent enough grasp of its importance. He explains the British football dynamic as such: Kids begin organized play at age 5 or 6. If they're good, they move on to the next level -- and the next level and the next -- until they reach their mid-teens.

At that time, if they continue to stand out, they may receive a coveted scholarship to continue play. Intrigued, I ask if the scholarship is to a university.

"No."

My driver is a very kind man. His tone suggests I am an idiot.

So, then, in essence the kids are paid to play? This isn't like America, where standout athletes are given free four-year educations?

"No," he says in sustained you're-an-idiot tone. "Stricter drills. More intense coaching. The hope is to play professionally."

So, then, most every male child's goal in this country is to play soccer for a living?

"Umm. Well, yes."

He goes on to explain that if the kids have potential on the field they quit with the tedious history and geography and continue learning to bend it like Beckham. Fascinating. I guess it's really not that different from NASCAR. Athletes are chosen on the merit of potential and are groomed with someone else's money. They skip college and hone skills in the minors until they prove prepared for the big show.

But somehow this is different.

Millions of American kids aspire to play ball or race or run or swim professionally. I certainly did. So did all my buddies. But while we in the States dream of playing pro ball in front of tens of thousands of fans, the vast majority of us carry the thought in the backs of our minds that it likely won't happen and we'll wind up like our daddies with 9-to-5s at some desk in the same town in which we grew up. Football is expected here.

It doesn't always happen, surely. But judging by the conviction in my man's voice and the steely crinkle of the corners of his eyes in the rearview mirror as he describes it, every last child expects he'll turn pro. My driver's pride is palpable. It is intense. I love it.

He coaches 13-year-olds. But in discussing it, you'd swear he coached Arsenal.

(Speaking of Arsenal, coincidentally, I saw them play Wednesday evening. Four rows from the field. It was my first big-time soccer match and was amazing to witness. The game was electric. There was no lull. Constant motion. Fluid. A sort of chaotic grace. I'm not a soccer guy. Check that: I wasn't a soccer guy. It's akin to NASCAR in that you simply cannot respect the allure until you see it live, feel it firsthand, up-close, the smells and sounds and shaking seats, the god-awful hot chocolate and repackaged Stouffer's cheese pizza, the random puffs of exhaled air in the frigid 3-degree night. Television doesn't begin to do it justice. Just like NASCAR. The guy in front of me screamed "RED ARMY!" about 250 times. The group of little kids in front of him echoed back -- "RED ARMY!" This is standard procedure. No one -- except me -- bats an eye. The end zones are wild. I'm at midfield, right beside the tunnel. Folks around me are enthused, but not like the cats in the end zones. They're rowdy, jumping up and down and screaming and chanting and waving and shaking signs. It doesn't stop. For 90 minutes they jump and scream and chant. It creates a dull roar throughout the game. The entire game. We arrived a tick late. That very same dull roar was audible six blocks away from the stadium upon exit from the Tube. It was like an NFL crowd during a crucial third-and-2 situation when they ratchet up the din. This London soccer crowd was like that all night. Again, the buzz never stops.)

Back to the cab. Actually this can't be classified as a cab. It is much nicer than the yellow New York Ford Crown Vic. I ask my driver about Beckham. Is he the most famous British athlete of all-time?

"Umm. No. Most marketable."

Very fair assessment. You don't want to know his thoughts on Victoria.

My driver spares no opinion, tells me that's all school was really good for, at least in his case. It taught him to read, write and form an opinion, he says. Again, he has plenty. He eventually asks why I'm here, and when I tell him I'm a journalist in town to cover the Race of Champions, his interest is piqued.

Racing, huh? He wants to talk Lewis Hamilton. Go figure. With a near-miss run at the F1 title as a fresh-faced rookie, Hamilton has jump-started auto racing intrigue in Britain. My driver is disappointed. Maybe even disgusted.

"He choked," he said. "It was right there."

Hamilton, of course, fell just short of the F1 championship, which ultimately went to Kimi Raikkonen. I rebut that Hamilton is just 22 years old and a ridiculous talent. His time will come.

I comment, somewhat jokingly, that someday Hamilton will be every bit as famous as Beckham internationally.

"Even if he doesn't play soccer," I say, sheepishly.

And in the rearview mirror those steely eyes softened.

My driver can't help but grin at my attempted wit.

NEW YORK -- So Lainie and I arrive at the Waldorf-Astoria at about 3 p.m., Tuesday, and upon entrance to the hotel are informed our room isn't yet prepared. No problem, I say, we'll just hang at the Starbucks on the corner and wait for your call.

	Vickers

Knowing our son is in good hands with the grandparents, we can actually sit and chat about nothing. (Parents understand full-well how coveted such monotony is.)

Not so fast. The Waldorf staff takes care of its guests. The cute girl at the desk hands us free liquor vouchers. They're good at any bar on site, any time we chose to redeem them.

How about now!

This is a far better option than any Sugar-free Vanilla Non-Fat Latte. Having just completed my first foray into Manhattan driving -- in a rented Dodge Caliber, no less -- I could use a stiff drink.

(Side note: The drive into the city was interesting. For a time, I tried to follow a New York cabbie, blowing lights at the last possible moment and making lanes where there were none, squeezing between the UPS truck parked on the left and the city bus easing by on the right. Eventually, I lift. The cab is the 48 car. I am the 4 car. You get the idea.)

Anyway, Lainie and I grab our vouchers, mosey into the lobby bar and take a seat. It is empty, save for a couple of "corporate meetings" taking place over beers. We sit way in the back, near the end of the bar, and order some Jack Daniels. Lainie, who is far superior to me intellectually, realizes it is 3:30 p.m., and has … water.

As we sip, the joint fills up. Several industry types file in and begin the end-of-season celebration. Rounds and rounds of drinks are poured. We laugh at one another. We discuss Thanksgivings and what the new year may hold for each of us. It is quite pleasant.

Somewhere along the line, around 4:30 or so I figure, my room was ready. Lainie and our friends sit tight at our table as I go officially check in and pay the bellman 20 bucks to take a few shirts to my closet. When I return, the girls clue me in to a couple sitting at the bar, wearing M&Ms jackets. Race fans.

They turn around often to peer at our table. The girls figure maybe they watch NASCAR Now and recognize my face. That's kinda cool, I say, considering this is Manhattan, not Martinsville.

Um … yeah … not so much.

The time comes to settle up and freshen up for dinner, and the girls make their way out to the lobby. Meanwhile, I happen upon a friend at the bar and chat him up for a few minutes, during which time the couple exits the bar.

The lady eases up to Lainie, apologizes for her forward approach and sheepishly asks …

"Is that Brian Vickers you're with?"

Nice. And it gets worse. As we walked to the room, the girls giggling at me, I make an utterly stupid decision: I text my friends to tell them about it.

Stupid.