Black Flag (Racing on the Edge) (32 page)

Clearly bothered by the
calls being made from our pit, it seemed we could do nothing right after that
and every stop ended with some problem. Lug nuts weren’t tight, too many guys
over the wall, another tire slipped away, over the line on the pit box.

All stupid shit but we
were still doing it.

We got to the point
where wrecking seemed to be the only mishap that hadn’t happened.

Cautions remained
scarce after that as the laps wound down and it seemed third was the best we
were gonna get after the pit road penalty. We were lucky, as it
was,
that we got our lap back.

Bobby, who was leading,
slipped up the track in three with four laps to go and I saw my chance with
Andy in second who seemed to back off Bobby at that point.

I went high in turn
four and one but he shot right back up top taking the line.

Fighting for second
looked good when I got a nose under Andy Crocket coming to the white flag. We remained
door-to-door, Aiden yelling, “At your door, still there, still there,” every so
often. All the way around we remained that way slapping against each other
through the final corner. Andy momentarily got out of shape, allowing me to
take the position at the line.

After everything, it
felt good to end out the night with a good finish but still, those pit stops
were pissing me off and what should have been a good day was overshadowed by
shitty calls.

To understand how it
feels after a race, imagine speeding all day fighting traffic with drivers who
want nothing more than to shove you in the wall; calculating strategy; getting
on and off a narrow lane with forty two other drivers in temperatures usually
only reached in a fucking sauna. Then, when you get out, people are in your
face asking what happened, how you felt, and what your car was doing.

Now can you blame the
reactions some of us have?

Yeah, we have bad days,
bad races and bad fucking weeks. We don’t always reply the way they want us to.

A handful of reporters
were in my face when I pulled down onto pit road along with that official who
called all those penalties on us.

“It’s not personal
kid,” was his response to me.

There’s nothing more to
this than it’s me. It was our sweat, and hard work. So for someone to say to me
or anyone else on our team, “It’s not personal,” was just a slap in our face.

“Fuck you it’s not
personal.” I told him shifting my stance away from the reporters.

I didn’t know this
official and already we weren’t starting off on a good note.

Alley stepped in
between us as Sway walked over. “NASCAR wants to see you.
Now.”

One good thing about
that was I could get out of some of the interviews and hopefully get out of any
compromising words. Sway followed close behind, I assumed, to keep me in
control.

“You’re acting like a
child!” was one brave reporter’s response when I denied his interview.

Was I acting like
child?

No, I didn’t think I
was. They didn’t understand any of this if they thought that.

You know, sometimes I
wanted to take their hands and place the truth in it. I wanted to give them
everything I had. Sometimes I wanted to act like they treated me and show them
just how childish I could be. I wanted to give them the weight of everything I
felt and let them be the goddamn judge of this shit.

Sometimes I wanted to
vent, scream, and give it all away. Here, you take my talent; take my life you
feel the need to criticize every moment of the day; take everything I have and
you deal with the shit. You see what you can make of it since you seem to think
I’m doing so badly.

I wanted them to feel
the pressure, the inadequateness, the letdown, all of it; fucking
take
it.

When the local track
media asked about the fine and what my thoughts were on the official who fined
us, I gave them my thoughts.

When the reporter kept
up his chirping, I replied with, “You really think I give a goddamn what you
think of me?”

“I’ll wait here with
Sway.” Alley nodded toward the big red hauler. “Jimi’s waiting back at the
hauler for you too and then you have the contender’s conference.”

Sway kissed my cheek
and offered a reassuring smile. She knew me and understood exactly how much I
was bothered by all this.

The NASCAR hauler was
the least of my worries after the comment I made to the reporter. In a matter
of fifteen minutes, my phrase of “You really think I give a goddamn what you
think of me?” was being replayed, with bleeps, on every sports broadcasting
station.

My worst fear, my dad.

“Don’t do anything
stupid today.” He said to me after our team meeting.

Looking back on that
comment, I was sure that didn’t include this. I was positive it didn’t and he’d
see my side to it.

Turns out, I was wrong.
Who knew?

Kyle displayed a grim expression
standing outside the hauler when I returned from the meeting with Gordon, a few
thousand dollars in fines poorer for my language and behavior toward the
official.

“Your dad is gonna have
your ass and a few choice words.”

My mood hadn’t improved
and I replied with, “Fuck you. How’s that for choice words?”

“Always
a pleasure.”
He chortled walking out.

I thought Jimi would
storm in screaming and blowing a gasket but no, he said, “Do you want this? I’m
not going to keep fighting this battle if I don’t think you’re in it too?”

“I want what I’ve
always wanted.”

And that’s all we said
to each other.

It was times like this
where I missed the days when nothing mattered but the next checkered flag. Now,
well, it wasn’t so easy. Every decision held implications.

Dry Slick – Sway

With Jameson, the
possibility of verbal shrapnel wasn’t his concern. Racing was his concern.
That’s the only way I could describe that race in Atlanta.

I must have, once again,
bit off most of my nails waiting for him to come out of the NASCAR hauler.

My pit lizard dad,
who’d been kicked out of the garage and then media center, strolled by with his
partner in crime, grandpa Casten. They didn’t pay much attention to Alley and
me because they were focused on the beer garden.

“What’s with those
two?” Alley asked leaning against the side of the golf cart Kyle pulled up in.

“Charlie wanted to be a
pit lizard.” She arched an eyebrow and smiled. “Don’t ask.”

Before I could explain,
Jameson came out and tipped his head for us to get inside the golf cart. On the
way to the media center for the contender’s conference, he said nothing until
we got out.

Standing outside the
large sliding doors, Jameson gathered my hands bringing them to his lips.
“Let’s hope I make it out of here alive.”

The adrenaline, the
emotion, and the disappointment were hard to control at times. Jameson knew
that well. I only wished the media saw that too.

The media asked their
standard questions, how the car ran, how the drivers felt about their finishes,
everything they usual asked in the post-race press conference of the top three
drivers. Then they opened the questions to the other reporters.

That’s when the
conversations shifted to the fines and Jameson’s remarks to the official and
reporter that got in his face. Gordon, the Director of Competition smiled when
he sensed the turn. It seemed Gordon had just as much hate from Jameson these
days as he had for him and enjoyed the feuds, usually fueling them.

No doubt, he was behind
the
officials
calls today on pit road.

The silence lengthened
as Jameson shook his head crossing his arms over his chest. Oblivious and
unforgiving, these people surrounding us were seeing what they wanted to see; a
beleaguered rookie’s temper tantrums.

Jameson remained
steady. A faraway look angled his features. He didn’t offer the media much
information, but he spoke with passion of a sport that consumed his every
thought. “I don’t race because it’s my job. I race because it’s my life. So yeah,
I take these fines seriously and when someone makes a whim call on pit road
that can ruin our day out there, yeah, I take that personally.”

“Daddy gonna bail you
out of this one too?” The same reporter that called him a child asked.

The crowd in attendance,
including me and Alley, froze and stared at the audacity of the reporter.

Jimi, who was standing
next to Tracy Burke, another cup team owner who’d taken Riley Racing under his
wing lately, shook his head in disbelief. His gaze darkened toward the reporter.

Jameson leaned forward
giving the reporter a hard glance, his brow pulled together. “What was that?”

He followed up this
I’m
-a-complete-douche-move by saying, “Well
...
I
...
uh,”
when he removed his foot from his mouth.

Jameson said nothing more
but angled his gaze toward the door. The reporter knew he’d crossed the line.

Jameson hadn’t lost
that spark of defiance that made him Rowdy Riley; the embodiment of relaxed and
aloofness. His eyes gave him away though.

There was a thin line
of what is and isn’t. Jameson understood that well in this sport and building a
wall around him was the only way he knew how.

Sure, some wanted to
understand him, but others only wanted to destroy.

His gaze was long and
hard, and even though I wanted to look away, I couldn’t as I was only focused
on this boy fighting for his name in the record books.

The questions shifted
back to Jameson saying this was personal.

“So when you shoved the
reporter that was personal? Or when you revved your car attempting to hit the official,
was that personal too?”

Jameson’s expression
showed his frustration. “You’re twisting this. I was merely making a
statement.” He responded refusing to make eye contact with them.

“Thank god this is
almost over.” Alley sighed looking over at Jameson as he shook his head again
hiding behind the grass green I knew was raging inside.

Once we were back
inside the motor coach getting ready to leave for Mooresville, Jameson stared
at the wall regarding the TV but believing nothing they said as he listened to
SPEED news.

And though they had
their own theories on his behavior lately, there was one aspect of this they
never considered. Jameson would fight them on it until he had nothing left just
to prove his point. He would never stop. Not when he believed in his side of
the story. He was like a fire in the rain, refusing to go out.

Jimi saw it, staring at
his son now. I’m not sure why but Jameson always felt the need to carry the
burden of the team on his shoulders.

When we left, the
official was waiting to apologize to Jameson but then again, you only got one
chance with Jameson.

If you blew it, you
better beg because that was your only hope.

“I wasn’t trying to
ruin your night. But your crew needs to be more careful about those hoses. That’s
the second time this year I got smacked with one.”

“Then move out of the
way.” Jameson replied tossing his bags inside the Expedition that was set to
take us to the airport.

I stood beside him
watching their interaction wishing I wasn’t alone with him. But I think that’s
the only reason why the official decided to try and make amends with him. If he
was around his crew it might not be so easy.

The official seemed to
know he was crossing lines when Jameson stepped toward him. “You don’t know how
your calls can ruin this for us. If you’re having a bad night and take it out
on us, we suffer, not you. We got fined fifteen thousand this weekend for that
shit on pit road.”

“Like I said, I was
just upset.”

Jameson’s smile was
bitter, his jaw clenched as he ripped his eyes from the official. “You were
upset.” He repeated spitting the words. “You fucking son of a bitch!” his
knuckles connected with the side of the Expedition, his anger flaring waiting
to destroy everything he was working so hard for this season.

The official held his
hands up. “I don’t want no beef with you and your team Riley.”

This guy really wasn’t
getting anywhere with this.

“Let’s just go.” I
interrupted pushing Jameson toward the front door of the car. “I think we
should go. And you, Duane, should leave before you make this worse.”

Thankfully Duane, the
official, listened to me and I got Jameson inside the car before he smacked the
official.

I can’t say it was
right of him to act this way but I would never try to fix him. I fell in love with
all sides so it’s all the same. The fury of his anger was festering and I had a
feeling this sport was about to see just how rowdy he could get.