The day after the anniversary of Gilles Villeneuve’s passing, the time has come to reveal a behind-the-scenes story. More than a journalist, I have always considered myself a profound enthusiast of motorsport and, above all, of the human side of its protagonists. Precisely for this reason, throughout my career, I have deliberately chosen not to publish certain confidences received from drivers and engineers whenever my morals deemed it unjust.
Eddie Cheever’s unmentionable confession
The most emblematic example dates back to the dramatic weekend in Belgium when Gilles Villeneuve lost his life. While my colleague Pino Allievi rushed to the hospital to follow the Canadian’s medical bulletins, I was left with the most thankless duty dictated by the ruthlessness of daily newspapers: wandering around the paddock to gather the immediate reactions of the other drivers.
I experienced it as a real punch in the stomach. An intrusion that I have always considered indelicate in such moments. In that climate of devastation, I gathered a rather peculiar statement from Eddie Cheever. When I asked him for his thoughts on the tragedy, he looked at me and said:
“Do you want me to tell you the truth? From tomorrow, I will race with more peace of mind.” Faced with my total bewilderment, Cheever justified himself: “Every time I found him in front of me, beside me, or behind me, I lived in terror that sooner or later he would involve me in a fatal crash.”
Obviously, I chose to bury that sentence and never publish it. Had I made it known, at the following round in Monza for the Italian Grand Prix, the Ferrari fans would have literally stoned Cheever.
The precedent in Canada that explains Eddie’s anxiety
Cheever’s words find their explanation in a previous incident at the Canadian Grand Prix. Villeneuve drove for several laps with the front wing of his Ferrari torn off and bent vertically. Right behind him was Eddie himself, at the wheel of the Tyrrell-Benetton
The American went through moments of sheer terror: that aerodynamic appendage, as wide as the single-seater and sharp as a metal sword, in the event of detachment, could have struck him, potentially causing fatal harm.
However, covering up that confession was the right choice. In an era when the paddock was lived in day and night, sharing dinners and confidences that went well beyond professional relationships, protecting such an outburst was necessary. This was especially true considering that they didn’t see me as a cynical journalist hunting for a scoop, but as a friend to confide in.
