Donnie Allison's NASCAR legacy centers on The Fight; he and big brother Bobby and anvil-fisted Cale Yarborough throwing helmets and haymakers and scrapping like junkyard dogs in Turn 3 at Daytona International Speedway in February 1979.

It was reality TV before there ever was such a thing, snowed-in families up and down the East Coast captivated by the good ol' boys makin' noise. It was a seminal moment that impacted NASCAR forever. Allison can't hardly go anywhere even today without being asked about it.

But The Fight, for all its conflict and drama and passion and everything else that makes sports captivating, is merely a fraction of Allison's story. I realize that every time I chat with him.

Donnie Allison, left, led Cale Yarborough, right, on the final lap in 1979, but they crashed. Bobby Allison was driving over to pick brother Donnie up when some of NASCAR's biggest fireworks occurred on what had started as a dreary day. AP Photo/Ric Feld

I love to chat with Donnie. I mostly listen. (What am I possibly going to tell him that he hasn't already heard anyway?) He's a sort of grandfather figure to me. He looks out for me, always says hello and imparts wisdom about whatever track we inhabit at that moment. Producers are always hustling me off to this engagement or that live shot. And I'm always late. But I still stop to listen to Donnie. It drives my coworkers crazy.

When we part ways Donnie almost always tells me to "keep giving 'em hell." That's as weird as it is awesome. It's Donnie Allison saying that.

I called him recently to chat. I was waiting for my daughter's school day to end, and I wanted to hear some stories about how it used to be. Those stories are always so rich, because those guys aren't a damn bit concerned with politics or posturing. They just tell it like it was. On this day I asked him about running fourth at Indy and the most meaningful moment of his NASCAR career.

The Indianapolis 500; May 30, 1970

Allison was seated on a bench inside the garage area at Indianapolis Motor Speedway, changing out of his off-white racing suit and into the clothes he would wear home from one of the most fulfilling days of his life. On an adjacent bench sat A.J. Foyt, also changing clothes. There was a knock at the door.

Allison had just outdueled open-wheel legends Mario Andretti and Bobby Unser to finish fourth in the Indianapolis 500. That meant he had earned rookie of the year honors in the most famous race on Earth. Allison felt confident he'd shown the world -- and more importantly Foyt -- that he was more than just an old taxicab driver, as Foyt liked to refer to him.

Foyt was Allison's racing hero; the toughest, most versatile driver of all time as far as Allison was concerned. The very best. Allison felt that way for reasons that had nothing to do with driving talent. Allison was enthralled by Foyt's ability to build a race car from the ground up: chassis, body, suspension and engine. All of it. And then, once he built a better car than you did, he'd hop in and drive it better than you did, too. The only other driver Allison ever saw that could do it that way was his own brother, Bobby.

Donnie used to wear Foyt out during Speedweeks at Daytona about driving one of Foyt's open-wheel cars in the Indianapolis 500. Foyt would also respond the same way: "Oh, man, come on. You can't drive no Indy car. You're a taxicab driver." For two years this went on every time the two crossed paths. Then in 1970 Allison made another run at him.

"He said, 'You're serious about this aren't you?'" Allison said. "I said, 'Well hell yes I'm serious. I've been telling you that for two years, now.' And he said, 'I'll call you.' Well, he'd said that before. I didn't think he'd ever do that."

He did. Foyt called and told Allison to come to Houston.

"And the way he always did things, he never committed to anything," Allison said. "He never said, 'Come on out here and we'll get a car and run it.' He just said come on out here. So I went to Houston."

When Allison arrived at Foyt's shop in Houston, Foyt greeted him and took him straight to the back. A car sat there, up on a rack.

Donnie Allison brought his car home fourth in the 1970 Indy 500 and earned Rookie of the Year honors. Bob D'Olivo/Source Interlink Media/Getty Images

"He said, 'That's your Indy car, right there. You and dad get it down and put it together and you can run it,'" Allison said. "So we did."

That car was a 1968 Dan Gurney Eagle. It would ultimately outrun its owner. Impressing Foyt was the stuff of dreams for Allison. That was his thought process as the two changed clothes that day.

Just outside the door from where they sat was a burly man named Chester Honeycutt. Honeycutt was one of Allison's pit crewmen and de facto bodyguard in NASCAR, and Foyt told him to guard the door while the two drivers changed clothes. You didn't mess with Chester. If you messed with Chester, Chester would mess with the arrangement of your facial features.

Foyt was ticked. He'd had an issue late in the race that spoiled his opportunity to win -- or at least to run second to the race's dominator, Al Unser. No one was to bother him or Allison. But then came the knock. It was A.J. Watson, Bobby Unser's crew chief.

Foyt said to let him in. Watson acknowledged Foyt's disappointing finish, but said he wanted a word with Allison.

"He walked over to me, and I'm sitting down on this bench, and he said, 'I want to shake your hand and congratulate you,'" Allison recalled. "'You're the only stock car driver I've ever seen that I felt could drive one of these things.' That's a compliment right there, coming from one of them people. That really stuck with me. I've never told people about that."