In 1962 I was a junior in high school and living in Nanticoke, Pennsylvania, a small anthracite coal mining town, on the Susquehanna River in north east Pennsylvania.
During the previous three summers my father would take my brothers and me to the Giants’ Despair Hillclimb just outside Wilkes-Barre where motorsports legends like Carroll Shelby, Roger Penske and Oscar Koveleski raced their Ferraris and Porsches. It was then I fell in love with sports car racing.
At those events the talk, at the end of the day, quite often turned to other races and prominent among them was the Sebring 12-Hour Grand Prix of Endurance in Florida and which driver or car constructor won last and who might win the next race.
Being a young lad all I could do was listen to the stories told and retold about Juan Fangio, Stirling Moss, Eugenio Castellotti, Carroll Shelby and the cars they drove in what many considered to be the premier sports car race in North America. On our way home I would often ask my dad when we were going to Sebring. The answer was always the same, “Someday.”