It was one of the most dreaded warnings a sportswriter can hear.

"Boy, is Earnhardt mad at you," his PR rep said in March last year.

Dale Earnhardt. "The Intimidator." Mad. At me.

What a way to start a day.

As a NASCAR beat reporter, I had finally ripped him one too many times, making him mad enough to fire back. I would no doubt pay for it, I feared.

Like all professional journalists, it was my job to tell the truth and call it like I see it. Earnhardt had been a jerk and I said so.

Dale Earnhardt (seen here hugging Kyle Petty) could never hold a grudge for long. (AP)

Now I had to face the consequences. It was not something I was looking forward to, kind of like facing John Wayne after you've spit on his boots.

Earnhardt had been in a foul mood for weeks. He had snipped and snorted for two weeks at Daytona, furious that he did not win a NASCAR-sanctioned event there for the first time in years.

When he arrived at Rockingham the following week, he brought his surly mood with him. He didn't believe his Chevrolet had a chance there, either, and he didn't hesitate to say so.

Though he finished second to Bobby Labonte that day, that was little consolation. Second to Earnhardt is just another way of losing.

As usual, he had little to say to the media after the race. He preferred to hop on a golf cart and speed away to his waiting helicopter, which would whisk him away to peace and seclusion.

But first he had to make a mandatory appearance in the infield media center, another drawback to finishing second.

When he stiffed the media and walked out after just three questions, I wrote about it, criticizing him for walking away from his responsibility to the media and his fans.

"If you want to be a champion, act like a champion," I wrote.

Naturally, that hit Earnhardt like a bump from Geoffrey Bodine. He was spitting mad when he read it and he made sure I knew it.

For the next week, I toured the circuit waiting to incur his wrath. I figured that when I least expected it, I'd be summoned to his black trailer or, worse, get dressed down in the middle of the garage or media center.

Instead, weeks passed with no word from 'The Man.'

Finally, as I stood in the garage one day, someone bumped me from behind, delivering a gentle poke in the ribs. When I looked back, no one was there.

When I turned back around, there he was, walking away. When he looked at me, he had that devilish, mischievous grin on his face. A wink later, I knew I was off the hook.

That was Earnhardt. He rarely held a grudge, and when he did, it didn't last long.

The casual bump and run was a familiar tactic, his way of saying he wasn't mad anymore, that as far as he was concerned it was over and done with. Or he would knock your hat off, then flash that world-famous smile.

It was one of many endearing qualities that made him NASCAR's most popular figure. He could be moody and rude one minute and your pal the next, leaving numerous peers and acquaintances bewildered over their feelings for him.

Love him or hate him, you had to respect him. He was what he was and he made no bones about it.

He had such an aura about him that even the most cynical writers and critics couldn't help but like him. He was NASCAR's biggest star, with Michael Jordan-like charisma that no other race car driver possessed and that few could resist.

NASCAR fans, of course, have known that for years, which explains the enormous outpouring of grief and emotion that has gripped the nation since his death.

Sadly, it took his tragic passing on Sunday for the rest of the nation to understand how big he really was. He was John Wayne without a horse, Superman with a red cape.

Certainly, no athlete ever had a following like Earnhardt, not Ruth, not Mantle, not Palmer, not Jordan.

Not since the death of Jerry Garcia has a community been so affected by the passing of its cult hero.

And not since the death of Elvis has a loss been felt by so many or had such a profound effect on popular culture.

Wherever Earnhardt went, black-clad fans followed, clamoring for his autograph, a handshake or just a smile.

His enormous appeal struck me for the first time during my first trip to Watkins Glen International Raceway in 1993.

When I arrived at the track, hundreds of fans lined the fence outside the garage, waiting for just a glimpse of the black No. 3.

When it finally rolled out for practice, they whipped themselves into a frenzy, shouting his name like they were at a tent revival.

One man leaned against the fence and repeatedly yelled his name, hollering, "Daaaaaale!" "Daaaaaale!" "Daaaaaale!" It was a long, slow, drawn-out cry, probably the most Southern a Yankee ever gets.

And this was in the middle of upstate New York, not at some short track buried in the hills of Tennessee.

It was then that I realized that NASCAR was not just a regional sport and that this cowboy-like man in black was not just a race car driver. He was a god, an icon, a legend.

To those that knew him and those that followed his every move, he was simply The Man.