Raiders Night (16 page)

How did you research Raiders Night?

I started covering high school sports as a cub reporter at the Times and never stopped. Even when I was writing an international sports column, I kept going back to high school; I even spent one year in the 1990s in the largest high school in New Jersey, covering every men's and women's sport.

I also had some heavyweight help from Dr. Miletic, the sports psychiatrist. Mike (www.mikemileticmd.com) was my coach and partner in creating the characters and the situations in Raiders Night.

 

How much has changed since your first novel, The Contender?

The stakes are so much higher now, for high school athletes as well as for pros, that sports seem different. Back in the day, high school players were lucky if they could afford varsity jackets. These days, a street agent will buy a prep star an Escalade if he looks like a future draft pick. When The Contender came out in 1967, a good high school athlete might play two or three different sports. In the Raiders Nightera, kids start specializing by middle school, that is if parents haven't already strapped them into go-karts, signed them up for tennis or golf lessons, or sent them away to a gymnastics academy at age six. And Title IX and fresh thinking has made it possible for millions of young women to find pleasure and growth in sports.

But some things haven't changed at all, especially for boys. Sports is still one of the basic ways that manhood is measured in America, and it's not always an accurate or fair measurement—I've met too many violinists, chess players, poets, and computer whizzes who seemed to me braver and more daring, better stand-up guys than a lot of the jocks I've met. People are people.

Something else that hasn't changed—too many kids look for inspiration from celebrity pro athletes. It's okay to admire them for how hard they work and how well they perform, but most of them are just ordinary people with extraordinary skills.

 

What's your favorite sport?

These days, it's stock car racing. I started covering NASCAR for The New York Timesin 2001. I liked the people and the atmosphere as much as I had liked boxing forty years earlier—with one big difference. I never much liked to box. But I loved driving a NASCAR racer, and the laps I drove at Lowe's Motor Speedway in North Carolina some years ago are among my most vivid sports experiences. Even though I didn't go much faster than 140 miles an hour, I had a sense of what real drivers do. And they do it much, much faster and with forty other cars banging them along the way.

 

What's your next novel about?

Guess.

In the moment before the green flag dropped, Kyle felt icy prickles cascade down his back and skitter out along his arms and legs. Like before a concert. Once he blew his first note, the prickles would melt and he'd be in the zone, that deep cave of calm. His mouth was dry. That didn't matter here. The white noise of the roaring crowd and the growling engines was shredded by radio static.

“Stay awake, Kylie,” said Uncle Kale.

“Up yours,” he said before he thought about it. But it didn't matter. He had forgotten to press the talk-back button on the wheel, so nobody heard him. Wonder what else I'm forgetting to do. Stay awake, Kylie.

“Nice and easy, Kyle,” said Dad. “Nobody wins in the first lap.”

Even with a rolling start, it took Kyle almost two laps to get to speed. There were twenty-nine cars ahead of him.

Nice and easy. Nobody wins a 150-mile race in the first lap. And I'm not here to win, not even to make the top ten, just here to keep Kris's seat warm, get some team points toward the championship by finishing all three hundred laps. The race was going to be on regional TV. ESPN might put some of it into a national feed. Family Brands would like that.

“Stay alert now, Kylie.”

The early laps were slow but steady. From the RPM gauge he figured he was doing about seventy-five
miles per hour, stuck behind the Clot. That's what Uncle Kale called the strokers near the end of the field, blockages in the bloodstream of a race, losers in a bunch. There were really four races going on. Up front were the leaders, maybe half a dozen racers with a real chance to win; then the Pack, a dozen also-rans who might get up there; then the Clot; and finally the Stragglers in sick cars just trying to finish.

Kris would have dissolved the Clot by now, ripped right through them. Get stuck behind the Clot, Kris would say, you might as well hang your head out the window and work on your tan.

There were about a dozen in the Clot.

Kyle drove right into the middle of it.

“Easy, Kyle, you're three wide,” said Billy from the grandstand roof.

For a lap he was boxed in, never a good idea with these clowns. He kept looking for daylight, waiting for someone to blink. A black-and-yellow Chevy hiccuped and swung out on a turn, and he shot through the space. He picked off another one. Number 12 wanted to run. Horses under this hood. He passed a third car.

“Nice,” said Billy. “You got Casper the Ghost coming up on your right.” His voice sounded a little thick. Was it him or the radio?

Kyle mashed the gas and left Boyd's white car behind. Suddenly he was leading the Clot. Up ahead, the Pack loomed.

“Clear both sides,” said Billy.

Uncle Kale said, “Take your time.”

He took his time. He spent fifty laps between the Pack and the Clot, concentrating on establishing his territory and holding it, finding that comfortable groove on the surface of the track that suited his car. He was learning the track as he floated into the turns, getting as high up to the wall as he dared so he could drop down into the straightaways without braking. Between the Pack and the Clot, with no one trying to pass, he could focus on driving. After a while the Pack began breaking into single file. Randall was falling back. He came alongside, smoking slightly. As Kyle passed him, the old man gave a little wave. At least one friend out here.

He pressed the button. “Where am I?”

“Nineteen,” said Billy.

“That's good,” said Dad. “Stay there.”

“How's she feel?” said Uncle Kale.

“Darty.”

“Let's see what you got,” said Uncle Kale.

Kyle took a deep breath and eased up behind a purple Toyota with a yellow rookie stripe squatting in the middle of the track. He didn't want Kyle to pass him. Feint left, feint right, but purple Toyota stayed with him, blocking the pass. That was Lloyd Rogers, a good open-wheel driver who had come over from Indy cars. He was a black guy whom NASCAR was showing off as part of its diversity program. Lloyd wasn't going to let another rookie get around him, even if he was driving number 12. Especially if he was driving number 12.

Out of my way, rookie, thought Kyle. You think I'm going to back off for you. Kyle swerved left and right, but purple Toyota stayed with him. He could drive.

“Easy, Kyle,” said Dad. “You're fine where you are.”

No, I'm not. He felt juiced and jittery, sweating under the fire suit but chilly, too. Felt good.

Kyle let purple Toyota settle back into his groove in the middle, then tapped the accelerator. He bumped purple Toyota lightly, flush on the back bumper, not so much a hit as a hello. Then he dropped back.

“Kyle!” said Dad.

Purple Toyota held his line. Okay, you asked for it. This time, Kyle bumped him hard. Purple Toyota swerved toward the wall, and while he was getting his car back under control, Kyle whipped past on the inside. He felt a rush of pure pleasure.

“Darty all right.” said Uncle Kale. “Come on in now, tires and gas. Speed limit's thirty-five, don't blow it.”

He was feeling too good to let Uncle Kale bother him.

He downshifted and braked into the pit road, as slow as he dared with cars streaming in behind him. As he slid into the pit stall, Jackman leaped over the wall, the crew charging after him like Super Troopers, yelling at each other and grinning. Kyle knew the feeling. They felt like they were in the race. He opened the mesh screen to let the water pole in and grabbed the cup. Some of the water made it into his mouth, some onto his chest. He saw a flash of red hair on the other side of the water pole. What was she doing here?

He felt the car jerk and drop as the tires were changed, heard the thud of the gas can flung back over the wall. The crew were yelling instructions at one another. They were playing tight today. He thought about the quintet.

“Kyle?” It was Dad. “How you feel?”

“She wants to run.”

“How you feel?”

“I'm fine.”

“You're doing good,” said Dad. “Don't push it.”

“You think she can pick off a few more,” said Uncle Kale, “go for it. Okay, don't forget to drive out slow.”

Ruff pulled in front of him on the pit road and flipped a finger. Kyle slowed to avoid bumping him, and the green Ford, Slater, came right up behind him, almost touching. For a moment he was trapped between them. It was a message. Watch yourself, Baby Hildebrand. Then Ruff accelerated onto the track and Kyle followed him.

It took him a while to work his way back up to nineteen, but this time the Pack was running two and three abreast again and it was harder to advance. He wondered why Billy wasn't talking. Could use some spotting about now.

“Where's Gary and Ruff?”

“Don't worry about them,” said Dad.

“They been trading the lead,” said Uncle Kale. “Slater's up there too.”

Don't even think about. You're in nineteenth place. With a little patience and luck you might even get a shot
at the top fifteen. That would be great.

Be something to make top ten. Maybe even…

You're just here to keep Kris's seat warm, then get your seat back in the quintet. Right?