"Once I was swimmin’ cross Shady Creek,
Them snappin’ turtles all around my feet.
Man, it’s hard to swim across that thing
with both hands a-holdin’ my ding-a-ling-a-ling!"
-------Chuck Berry ("My Ding-a-ling", 1972)
*A/N-for all you youngsters out there, raid your parent’s musty record collection for this one-it’s a hoot!
Also-this chapter is a little gory but I swear no animals or racecar drivers were harmed in the writing of this chapter.
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Soft, mid-summer breezes mingling with the late afternoon sun setting in the embrace of the pines and wild magnolias lulled Mick into a drowsy, contented catnap. Taylor curled up against him, resting her head on his bare belly as she lazily traced the faint hairs that lined up in a "treasure trail" from his navel. The buzz of insects, hummingbirds and the bottle of strawberry wine added to the feeling that all was well in their little corner of the world.
Life as an amusing way of intruding however as raucous masculine voices drifted upstream. Mick closed his eyes tighter, trying in vain to ignore the rude intrusion but to no avail. First throwing an arm over his face, hoping in vain that if ignored, the interlopers would go away. A loud "CANNONBALL!" accompanied by an even louder splash blew that theory out the door. Rising into a sitting position with a groan and a sigh, he gathered his shorts. "Sounds like we have company.." he grunted. "Might as well head back."
Taylor was also pulling her tube top on and her cutoff shorts. She was deeply bronzed by the southern sun and she coyly gazed over her shoulder as she held him entranced by her sparkling eyes. "...and we tried to go to the town board to keep this a private access road but they said it was too close to the main route....Mick?...Did you hear anything I said?"
"Huh??..." He was bewitched and ready to lay her down again. Just one word...one "come hither" gesture and that’s all he would need. It was almost impossible to comprehend that this enchanting woman was the daughter of one of the most fearsome drivers to look out of a stockcar windshield.
"Goofball!" She laughed, flipping her mane across her back. "You’re hopeless!"
He rose and encircled her in his arms; burying his face in her neck and pressing against her. "No...just horny." He kissed her and grinned. "And hungry...wanna head over to the Awful Waffle?"
"Blech...but awright. Let’s head over to your place and clean up. I’m not into dealing with Mom right now-she’s suffering from Daytona Madness."
Mick sighed, "So’s Dad. DW’s callin’ the race and he wants to win for the old coot. I wish I was-" He never finished the sentence as a blood-curdling scream wavered from downstream. Shooting Taylor a quick look and handing her his truck keys, he was already running towards the source of the scream. "Get in the truck and call 911-my cell phone’s in the glovebox!"
"Be careful!" She called with her heart in her mouth as she watched his departing form. It was starting to get late and the shadows were already lengthening along the narrow trail that he took. Torn between following him and following his orders, she sighed and headed to where the truck was parked at the side of the road.
************************
Mick came to a stumbling halt as he tried to make up his mind if what he was seeing was real or if he was still dreaming. Directly in front of him, Junior was bent doubled over and howling in pain and clasping both hands between his legs. He was shivering, sunburned and very naked, leaning against Steve. (for the record-also bereft of clothing) A thin trickle of blood oozed between Junior’s fingers. Words formed in Mick’s throat but he could only open his mouth and utter a strangled "Wh-whaaaaaaa.......?" To say the scenario was disturbing was a gross understatement. Mick wanted nothing more than to turn and bolt for his truck, to wake up-anything to rid himself of the nightmare that was unfolding before him.
Steve broke his stupor as he looked up, "Oh thank God! Mick! ..." He gently tried to pull Junior’s hands away from his groin, which resulted in a painful yelp. "C’mon...we gotta do this...c’mon Jun...it’s gonna be alright."
Mick shook his head furiously, "WHAT HAPPENED??!" he didn’t mean to shout but it was all so confusing and he felt as if he was going to be sick. He slowly walked over to Junior and put his arm around his waist while Steve took the other side. "My truck is just behind those trees by the road. It’s not far...."
"Mick-we’ve got to get this thing off’n him." Steve began, as Mick looked at him blankly, still not comprehending a word that he said. The whole incident was beginning to take on a surreal feel of a Twilight Zone episode. Junior was unable to speak other than mumbled gibberish between sobs.
"Get what off him? What happened, man?"
"This." Steve gently managed to pry Junior’s hand way just enough to reveal a baby snapping turtle, not much bigger than Taylor’s fist, firmly attached to the tender flesh of Junior’s left testicle via it’s tiny but powerful beak. Mick’s eyes widened in horror as he nodded numbly. By this time, Taylor was running down the hill behind them, still holding Mick’s cell phone. She gasped at the scene before her.
"Omigod...Dale!" She whispered.
Mick turned to her, "Go get the blanket and there’s a first aid kit behind my seat." He looked up helplessly at Steve, "Did you try to pry it off?"
"He won’t let me touch it. Maybe you can get it while I hold him." Steve muttered as he pulled Junior into a bear hug from behind. Mick gingerly pinched the head of the offending little beastie but to no avail; it’s powerful jaws held fast. How the fuck did I get myself into this? he wondered. Panic was slowly beginning to set in and Junior was almost unconscious and slumping limply against Steve’s chest. Dad...gotta call dad-he’ll know what to do. Looking up as Taylor returned with the kit and draping the blanket around Junior, he glared at Steve, "Could you at least put your clothes on?" he growled. Taylor looked as if she were about to faint as well; her face blanched and drawn as she caressed her brother’s forehead, trying to soothe him.
"What are we going to do? They’re sending a sheriff-he should be here any minuet." she whispered, frightened. "Who are you callin’?"
"Dad. He might know what to do." Mick began dialing the number.
"He’s in a meeting with Mr. Helton over this diversity crap this afternoon."
"I know..but he might know how to remove one of those things!" Mick hissed back.
***************************
Michael leaned back in his padded leather chair and lazily put his feet up on the antique mahogany desk that once belonged to Ty Norris. It always gave him a perverse sort of pleasure knowing that if Norris could see him now, it would drive him insane. Norris had never cared for Michael from the beginning. He had battled Norris for his very livelihood-his right to drive for this company despite being fired and blackmailed. Norris had tried everything in his power to be rid of Michael short of taking a contract out on his life. Had the thought occurred to him, he might have tried that as well. Across the desk in another posh chair and sipping brandy out of a Waterford snifter, sat the immense bulk of Mike Helton and beside him, sat Darrell.
"Get your feet off that desk!" Darrell snapped. "Look what you’re doin’!"
Michael grinned cheekily and shrugged, bringing both feet down with a thump. "I’ll put ’em back up when you’re gone." he smirked.
Darrell was about to add another comment to the conversation when they were interrupted by the annoying beep of the phone. Lazily, Michael reached up and hit the intercom. As he did, Denny O’Hagen, president of Napa joined the small group and pulled up a seat. As he did, Mick’s frightened voice crackled over the phone’s loudspeakers.
"Dad?"
Michael sighed, "Yeah...whazzup? I gotta meetin’ startin’ in five minutes, boy. Make it quick." His guests shifted uneasily in their seats and Michael had the queer feeling in the pit of his gut that maybe he should pick the receiver up.
"Uhm...you’re not going to believe what’s happened." The moment those words were uttered, Michael sat bolt upright, his thumb slamming down on the intercom as he picked up the receiver. To no avail-the phone was now stuck on intercom and now all guests present were invited one and all to Mick’s nightmare.
"Try me." Michael said flatly; his eyes helplessly meeting those of his brother’s. Darrell shrugged helplessly and Helton leaned forward intently. "Go on, boy-what’s goin’ on here? Answer your Daddy!" he barked. On the other end of the line, Mick’s brows furrowed. "Uncle Darrell? Dad’s got us on that damned speaker phone?"
"Mick, I’m giving you two seconds to say what you gotta say and hang up!" Michael growled. "What is your malfunction, boy?"
"Uhm....there’s been an accident. J-Junior’s been ...uhm...bitten. By a turtle. It’s still attached to him...."
Darrell didn’t know whether to laugh or cry for the boy. Eyes twinkling, he cast a quick glance to Michael, who was sitting opened-mouthed. "Mickey?....Where’d it bite him, son?" There was a long, long pause. Darrell looked up at the horrified Michael, "Pick your jaw off’n the desk there, Mikey. You’re starting to drool..." Both the Napa president and Helton sat in amused silence. "Answer your boy!"
"Mick...is the turtle....still attached, you say?" Michael croaked.
"Yeah...little fucker damn-near bit right through his bollocks! We can’t pry it’s jaws open!"
Sweet Jesus just shoot me, Michael thought as he looked at the stunned faces before him. Thank God, Teresa chose not to participate in this one. Taking a deep breath and blocking out the intent faces in front of him, he returned to Mick, "Ok-listen very carefully to me. Did you call for help?"
"Yeah an’ I got a first aid kit."
"Good. Get a pair of pliers out of your toolbox. Or better yet, a bolt-cutter." Michael ignored the groans. "And pinch it just behind the head..."
"DAD! I can’t do that to Jun!"
"THE TURTLE, GODDAMMIT!’ Michael roared, already at the end of one very frayed nerve.
"Oh...sorry."
"Like I said, if you pinch the head, it will release it’s hold. Got it? Where’s that goddamned sheriff? ...Think you can handle that?"
"Yessir."
"Good. Now before I lose what respect and sponsorship I have, I’ll call you when the meetings over! Put Junior on the line!"
"Can’t Da....he’s passed out."
Great. Michael shook his head in utter bewilderment. "I’ll call you in a few-bye!" Michael buried his face in his hands as Helton laid a hand on his shoulder.
"He’s a good boy, Mikey. You did good...."
*********************************
A few minuets later.....
"Ok...hold still..." Mick muttered as he held a small set of needle-nosed pliers directly over little terrapin's head. "Where the almighty fuck is the damned sheriff? Tay..give ’em another call!"
"Careful Mick..." Steve stood by with a wad of gauze and antiseptic in his hand. Mick’s shaking hands fluttered over Junior’s genitals as he wasn’t quite sure which to grab-the turtle or the jewels. Finally, he grasped the shell of the creature and pressing the pliers just behind the turtle’s hooked beak. "Fishfuckers! It’s not working!" he hissed.
"Maybe you gotta press harder ..." Steve suggested. Mick nodded and increased pressure on the creature’s skull. Suddenly, the pliers cut clean through the flesh of the creature, neatly separating it’s body from it’s head.
"AWWWWW JESUS!" Mick yelled as blood oozed from the still attached head. It’s traumatic beheading finally released the creature’s hold however as finally the head came off in Mick’s hand. At this point, Steve whirled away, retching and dropping the gauze. Taylor, thankfully had sense enough to hand it to Mick as he quickly doused Junior’s privates with the antibiotic spray. Not only did the stuff do wonders to protect against infection, it quickly revived Junior, who erupted with an ear-splintering howl.
Startled, Mick fell backwards as Junior’s hands reached for his throat. "YOU SONOFABITCH! ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME????" At last, the sheriff and an ambulance appeared on the scene just in time to prevent a crazed and still naked Junior from choking the life out of Mick. Some say, the tapestry of obscenities that Junior wove, still hangs in a blue cloud over Lake Norman........
Michael leaned heavily against the garage door as daybreak turned the sky from indigo to turquoise; the rising sun branding the departing cirrus clouds a gold-tinged pink. Voices were just beginning to stir as sleepy mechanics and engineers began their preparations for the morning’s first practice. An enticing aroma of fresh coffee and Krispy Kreams wafted from behind him as Slugger quietly went over his notes from their last test session, just as he had done for the past eleven years. A lump tightened Michael’s throat as he realized that this was the last time he would ever pass those enormous stands at 200 miles per hour. The last time he would ever take the green flag at Daytona. Just as Bristol had belonged to old Rusty and Indy was Jeff’s playground, Daytona was his alone. Never a superstitious man, Michael searched the heavens for what he had more or less considered at the very least a totem-the raven. The proud black bird would always seem to appear as sort of a spirit guide to Michael and the fact that Dale was fond of them was not lost on him either. But this morning, only the large, pesky seagulls soared above the old track.
For today was the day of the press conference in which he had planned on informing his team, his comrades and competitors, friends and fans that he was done. The feeling of finality left a sick sort of sadness in his heart. The fact that he had a job waiting for him in the Fox broadcast booth was a pale consolation for being relegated to the sidelines after nearly 30 years behind the wheel. But he would go out a winner, a champion-not the with quiet whimper of past glories long gone that saw his brother and even Richard Petty out of the driver’s seat. How he hated to give this up when the fire of competition still burned so brightly within. Darrell had often told him that the first year would be the hardest and Michael remembered all too well the depression that settled on Old Jaws like a wet blanket. But true to his tenacious nature, he survived-and thrived. In the end, he was more popular in his post-racing career than when he was at his peak. It was going to be hard on his loyal crew-Slugger was like a brother to him. While it was offered, Slugger nonetheless decided to retire himself at the end of the year. He would have no trouble getting another driver to field but it would never be quite the same-Michael was a tough act to follow.
Michael closed his eyes and willed himself back to 1991. It was late October and in a few short hours, his Rory would be leaving for her old home in Belfast. Laying in her arms as the warm morning sun filtered in the big bay window, he dreamed of a life of ease, peace and contentment. He could picture the two of them on the back porch, listening to bluegrass music on the radio and watching a yard full of young’uns running amok in the yard. It was his dream that he kept sacred, close to his heart. Smiling to himself, the dream could be a reality now. He thought of Taylor, her quiet beauty and her father’s eyes, and Mick together. It was destiny. Earnhardt and Waltrip and perhaps the start of a new racing dynasty. It could happen, Michael decided to himself.
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A few hours later in the Budweiser hauler’s little driver lounge, Junior gingerly eased himself into a seat. Dressed in outrageously baggy sweatpants and plain, red t-shirt, he tried to push the horrid event that transpired down by the creek out of his mind. Every now and then, he would involuntarily shudder as if somebody slipped an ice cube down his back. In spite of being feasted upon by a wayward infant terrapin and the humiliation that went along with being molested by his future brother in law as he attempted to remove the offending beast from the most intimate region of his body, Junior was doing well. Not exactly well enough to pilot the Budweiser Chevy in the Pepsi 400 though and since it was his company’s car, he felt he had every right to put who he wanted in the driver’s seat. He drained his first beer of the day-breakfast-decided it wasn’t half-bad and decided to pop another . He looked up from the list of appearances he was scheduled to endure later on that afternoon as Mick shyly poked his shaggy head in the doorway.
"Uhm...hey, Uncle June....how ya feelin’?"
Junior grinned, foam from his beer clinging comically to his scraggly whiskers, "Hey kid. I’m surviving I guess....still hurts like hell and I look like I’ve got a bad case of elephantiasis ( *a/n-extreme swelling of the gonads) but I’ll live." He offered Mick a beer, who politely declined. It was only ten o’clock in the morning and he didn’t need to invoke the wrath of his father when he knew he would be working for the Napa team today. Junior sighed as he regarded Mick for a moment, "You know I’m not going to be able to drive tomorrow night."
"I know...I’m sorry. I shoulda just drove you to the hospital instead of waiting so long.." Mick stared down at his feet, still embarrassed beyond belief about the whole creekside episode. Junior waived him off and shook his head.
"That’s ancient history...I don’t want to go there anymore. But I do need a relief driver and I was wondering if you’re up to it."
"B-but I’ve been suspended! You know danged well they won’t let me race!"
"It’s my car and I can pick whoever I want to drive it. You have no idea what a big pile of shit France and Helton stepped into when they dropped that suspension on you. Granted, you were wrong to go bitch-slappin’ Kyle around but you’ve got a huge fan base, kid. They’re taking a lot of heat and ratings are bad enough as it is..I honestly think I can get ’em to reinstate your license. Are you game?"
Mick sat back for a moment, eyes closed in contemplation. Part of him wanted to stick it but good to those pompous asses but he also wanted to redeem himself in the eyes of his family and friends. Sighing, he looked up, "Ok...I’ll do it if you think there’s a chance."
Junior stood and grasped Mick around his neck in a bear hug like his own father did so many years ago. "Don’t worry-I can whine long and loud if I want to! I’ll get you in the car if it’s the last thing I do. Right now, we best be heading over to Daytona USA-Teresa’s got a press conference going on about a new sponsor for Chance 2 and it wouldn’t look good if I didn’t put in some sort of appearance."
"New sponsor? Who?"
"Dunno-she won’t tell me for some queer reason. Just got this funny look on her face like she thought I’d be mad or something. Who knows? She’s getting as odd as Michael in her old age-which reminds me, I gotta give him a call too before we go."
"Think he’ll go for me drivin’ tomorrow night?"
"Hell...he’ll be tickled shitless-him and ol’ DW both. C’mon, let’s go...we might have time to grab a bite to eat on the way over."
************************************
"What the hell is with this mascot thing?!" Michael hissed at Teresa. "Don’t you think Junior’s freaked out enough this weekend?"
"It’s all public relations-they’ve never sponsored a car before at this level and they want to go all out -I’m surprised at you, Mikey. You’re underestimating Junior-he’s coped with a lot worse than this." Teresa muttered dryly. "Why should he get upset over a stupid corporate mascot?" Michael glared at her and shook his head. Why indeed would anybody get upset over a mascot? Even if it’s a six-foot dancing green turtle?
"It was quite a coupe to bring Turtle Wax on board as a primary sponsor for Chance 2 and you know it." she reiterated for nobody’s benefit but her own. She turned as Junior, Steve and Mick entered the room, casually glancing at Michael’s latest 500 winning car on display. A brief press conference was soon underway with the usual, brief question and answer session followed by a few photos. So far, so good-until one of the photographer’s requested one last shot of Junior standing in front of the Chance 2 car. As Junior stepped in front of the hood to say a few words of gratitude to the representatives gathered, he caught sight of the apparition mugging beside him. Eyes growing wide as saucers and hyperventilation settling in as he stared at the huge green head, beak and glassy, plastic eyes, all he could picture in his mind’s eye was the agony of being devoured alive! It was all he could do to control himself from shaking as the room suddenly felt as if somebody turned up the thermostat to ninety. Steve quietly mouthed to him, "Are you Ok??" as he met Junior’s frantic gaze.
Quickly, Mick stepped forward and interjected himself between Junior (who at this point, appeared to be on the verge of feinting) and the Turtle Wax mascot. "Uncle June! Uhm...we gotta go see Mr. Helton, remember?" he whispered.
Junior shook his head and the dazed, horrified expression off his face. He self-consciously wiped the thin trickle of drool from his lower lip. "Yeah...thanks for reminding me, kid. Gotta go, folks!" he offered lamely with a half-hearted waive of his hand. Shrugging at the puzzled look on Teresa’s face, he added, "Gotta see a man about a horse....later!"
"I’ll take it from here." Michael whispered as he stepped forward. "Besides, nobody can suck up to the sponsors like me." (It is an old saying of Michael’s that you need to be careful of who’s toes you step on today as they may be connected to the ass you have to kiss tomorrow. )
"Thanks, bro-I owe ya." Junior muttered, "No wonder she wouldn’t tell me who the sponsor was..."
Michael watched Junior and his son depart. One reporter from Raceline wondered half to himself, "Is Junior ok?"
"He’s a little under the weather lately....flu or somethin’." Michael replied absently. He knew that Junior would probably be facing something far scarier than any turtle in Helton’s office. Nascar’s Grand Poobah had been in a foul mood of late and would hardly be receptive to Junior’s request for a replacement driver for the Budweiser Chevy.
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An hour later, in the trailer commonly known as the "Oval Office", (formerly "The Big Red Trailer") Mick shifted uneasily in his seat as Brian France and Mike Helton’s eyes bored into him. Without looking up, Helton slowly addressed Junior, "Let me get this straight-you want us to rescind his suspension so he can drive your car tomorrow night? Dale-you of all people should know we just can’t do this on a whim."
"This isn’t just another rookie we’re talking about. He won the Busch championship two years in a row-the following he has now rivals mine. You know damned well that suspension was pretty goddamn unpopular-!"
Brian France leaned back and studied the two drivers. Junior never did take a liking to the man. Everything about him was soft-so unlike his bear of a father-from his carefully manicured hands to the way he spoke. As far as Junior (and many of the other drivers) was concerned, he was little but a corporate puppet.
"Junior, we’re well aware that Mick is a very gifted driver but all the championships out there can’t excuse him for acting like a complete thug. Is Budweiser aware of your little scheme to put a suspended driver in their car? It’s not good business, Junior and you know it. Plus, we‘ve taken enough heat in the past about playing favorites-the other teams won‘t like it at all."
Junior leaned forward, his legendary icy glare (which he had perfected over the years) piercing as a hot knife through soft butter. "Let’s get something straight ‘round here- all you have to do is look out that window and see all that Budweiser red and Napa blue in the grandstand. I know we’re not the only cars out there but you can’t ignore the fact that DEI has and always will pack ‘em in." His soft, southern drawl dropped to a whisper, "You don’t want to even see the numbers if the Budweiser Chevy doesn’t start in the 400, now do you?"
"Uncle June-don’t. That’s enough...I don’t want my comeback to be like this-the others will hate me if they think I’ve been given any special favors." Mick stood and addressed France and Helton, "I’m sorry we’ve bothered you and I’m sorry I’ve screwed up but if I’m gonna get back in a car, I’ll do it on my own."
Junior sighed, "Well kid, it’s your own decision in the end. Do what you feel is right-I can’t make you go out there."
Helton, who had remained for the most part a quiet observer up to this point, cleared his throat. "One moment, Mick before you go. I understand your dad is planning on retiring at the end of the season, is that right, son?"
"Aye...before either the track or my mother kills him."
Helton directed his attention to Junior, "And how soon do you think you’ll be back in action?"
"Well...we got next week off, so I should be well enough by the time we get to Chicago." Junior replied with a shrug.
Helton leveled his gaze on the both of them, "Let’s do this-I’ll rescind Mick’s license for the Pepsi 400 and after which he will remain on suspension until the end of this year. Come next season, if he can secure a ride, that is-his license will be reinstated. I think this is a fair solution and it will prove popular with the fans."
Brian France, nodding in agreement and looking for all the world like a large bobble head, "Agreed. Gentlemen, I believe in about an hour there’s one more press conference we need to endure over in the media center."
Helton looked at his drivers, "June, Mick...do you find this arrangement satisfactory for the time being?"
Junior smirked, "Works for me." He poked Mick in the ribs, who at this point wasn’t sure how he felt except as a pawn in a much larger game. He swallowed and raised his eyes to Helton.
"Fine...I’ll drive for ya Junie...I’ll give ‘em all a run for their money. But I’ll decide whether it’s worth it to me to come back next year. I drive to race and win-I’m not put on this Earth to entertain or play a pawn in your power games. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be over at the media center." With nary a look back, he left the men who held the sport he loved in a life-strangling vice.
******************************
Michael had just finished his "farewell" speech along with the inevitable question and answer bull session. The crowd of journalists and photographers were slowly making their way out of the room, shaking his hand and slapping his back as they left. A few embraced him with teary eyes and fond farewells as if he were leaving the country, never to return. It was the same as when Rusty, Dale Jarrett, Bill Elliot and Terry Labonte retired and hung up their helmets for good. Retirement. It felt more and more like a death sentence. It wasn’t so much of a press conference as it was a wake. When Steve Waid from The Scene and Liz Allison were among the last ones to leave amid tears and congratulations, Michael sighed heavily as the finality settled on him like a wet blanket.
"It gets better." Michael looked up at Darrell and Mick sitting in one corner of the room amid a few empty beer bottles.
"You sure ‘bout that?" he muttered, as he grabbed a bottle of Bud from the hospitality table. "I feel like I’ve just been told I’ve got only 24 hours to live."
"Trust me....like I said, the first year’s gonna be the hardest. Maybe you should just take a long, long vacation and come back to the booth in a couple of years..." Darrell took a pull from his beer and grinned, "I got through it ok."
"You were a bastard." Michael said flatly, "Stevie thought she was gonna have ya committed!"
The three of them sat in silence for a long time, no words were spoken...none needed. Three vastly different men, three champions, three lifetimes.
"Da?"
"Hmmm?" Michael replied absently, staring up the portraits of past champions on the wall.
"They’re lettin’ me drive in Junior’s place tomorrow."
"Waaaalll......hot damn! I knew those ol’ pricks would come ‘round sooner or later!" Darrell exclaimed.
"Don’t wet yerself, D." Michael shook his head, "How do you feel about this, son?"
Mick sighed, "I dunno.....ok I reckon. I’m just afraid of loosing respect...like they’ll think I’m getting a free pass. I just don’t want the others to hate me."
"Nobody hates you, Mickey. Deals have been made for years...besides, it’s just this one race. Remember...it’s all for the good of the sport." Michael rose and stretched his lanky frame, "C’mon...I’m starvin’ and it’s gettin’ late. We gotta a long day ahead of us tomorrow. They came for a show and we‘ll give ‘em a show, right D?"
"Give ‘em hell, boys....that’s what we’ll give ‘em!" Darrell flashed a toothy smile at his nephew and ruffled his hair.
All for the good of the sport.
**************************
Dusk settled on Daytona on the wings of a dark angel. Moths and a myriad of night bugs danced against the heat of the bright lights as the throng seethed below. A typical hot, muggy night and there was no better place to spend it under the expanse of purple skies and twinkling stars. A lazy moon, tinged yellow-orange by the haze, hung over the Atlantic. A full, lazy moon and the natives were getting restless. As heat-lightning danced in the distance, the still air crackled with electricity; awaiting the approaching thunder of 43 rockets soon to be unleashed. Among the line of drivers stationed like sentries at the introduction, that primal restlessness coursed through their systems, setting their very blood on fire. It burned brightly in the eyes of the upstarts as well as the old warriors alike; soon to be turned loose on those ancient, towering banks.
Three racing generations bearing the name of Waltrip stood for photographers near the #3 Napa Chevrolet. Hair dyed an un-natural shade of what Michael often referred to as "shoe polish black", old Darrell stood proudly with the man who would be forever his "baby brother" and the potential heir to the dynasty, looking dashing in his scarlet Budweiser firesuit. They look more like two brothers instead of father and son, Darrell decided as he stood between them with an arm around each set of broad shoulders for one more picture. Old friends and former competitors now retired stood nearby: Rusty, Dale Jarrett, Sterling Marlin and Bill Elliot. One last time to see the master of the draft at work.
"It’s about time you packed it in, you old sonofabitch!" Rusty grinned as he slapped Michael on the back. "Shit-these kids are gettin’ tired of lookin’ at your ass every time they race here!"
"Thanks man, but now they’re gonna have to look at m’boy’s ass from now on!" Michael laughed, flashing his trade-marked smile. A light breeze stirred his thick curls, now streaked with silver, and it felt refreshing in the swampy air. Eyes bright and a sly, Cheshire smile on his face, he reminded Rusty of Dale when he won his last Twin 125 back in ‘01...he was The Man that day...just before he-. A sudden chill ran down Rusty’s spine and his thinning strawberry roan hair stood on end at the implications of the half-finished thought.
Stop it! The former Miller Lite driver mentally booted the memory from his mind. That was another driver, another day...it might as well be a century ago. It can’t-it won’t happen again...not here...not to him. Subconsciously shaking his head, he whispered, "Good luck, Mikey" and walked back to his VIP box.
"Gettin’ odd in his old age..." DJ grinned as he also stopped beside Michael’s car. "We’ll be in the booth together next year...I’m lookin’ forward to it."
Michael looked up as he tightened his HANS device, "It’s gonna be a new day next February. My brother’s a tough act to follow though." he grinned.
"We’ll manage, I’m sure of it. Take care, Michael." DJ grasped the gloved hand just before Slugger arrived to close the window net.
"All set, bud?" The venerable crew chief shouted as the command to start the engines blared over the loudspeakers.
"Let’s get ’er done!" came the reply behind the mesh.
***********
Mick shifted uneasily in his ill-fitting seat. Bobby Kennedy offered to step in as crew chief as Tony Eury Jr. wanted nothing to do with fielding a car for the boss’s son. Friction had always been high between Michael and the Eurys ever since he signed with DEI. Michael grudgingly honored his request to opt out of his duties-no since putting him behind Mick. He would be as useful as a screen door on a submarine.
A friendly tap on his bumper from the 15 and he flipped a friendly bird to Brendan, who sat laughing in his cockpit.
"Behave yourself!" Rory yelled as she strode over to where the Budweiser Chevy sat parked.
"We’re just goofing off, Mum..."
Shaking her head furiously, Rory growled, "The officials might not see it that way-try to get through this race in one piece. Just mind yourself, remember your name’s not Tony Stewart."
"Aye...I’m better." Mick grinned cheekily. He craned his head out the window as he caught the brief scent of White Shoulders perfume.
"Hey!" Taylor quickly knelt beside his car and pulled his face towards hers. Lips molded together and the track began to fade away...."just wanted to wish you good luck. I’m so happy you got the chance to drive tonight. Go on and show them what you can do, Micky."
"I will-I’ll win this one for you."
"No Mick...not just for me." She looked up the row towards the Napa Chevy. "It would mean the world to him."
Mick laughed, "He’s playing for keeps tonight-if I try to pass him, he’ll put my ass in the wall for sure. He’s only my father outside of that car".
"He loves you, you know that!" Taylor scolded him playfully.
"Not at Daytona-he don’t love nobody except the guy who gets behind him in the draft."
"Ok kiddo...gotta strap ya in-take care of that car now, hear?" Bobby was already fastening the window net. "Gotta break it up, lovebirds...Taylor-you can sit on the wagon tonight."
"Good luck, Mick!" she yelled above the howling engine. Mick yelled back but it was lost in the thunderous din.
******************
As the train of cars rose on the parade lap, the 3 was allowed in front of the pace car in Michael’s honor. It bore a special midnight blue fading to coal-black paint scheme that it wore once before, when Michael returned to the track from a long lay-up following his near-fatal wreck at Talladega so many years ago. No sponsor logos other than a small, gold Napa shield on the decklid. The "3" stood out in stark whiteness on it’s side and roof; a tribute to the man who once piloted the legendary car. One lap around and the multitudes stood in reverence; a sea of flashbulbs like sparklers flashing. Old and new fan alike wondered who would drive the car next. Many wanted to see Junior taking his rightful place at the wheel while others hoped it would be Mick. Imaginations and speculations ran wild with different scenarios as the cars swirled about below on the track. One more lap to go. Michael quickly took his rightful place behind pole-sitter Stephen Wallace. His chance to lead the pack would be coming soon enough.
Mick rocked the steering wheel back and forth as he tried to get some heat built up in the tires. The car already felt loose and he hoped that the beast would come to him quickly otherwise it was shaping up to be a long, long night. Daytona was not a forgiving track for an uncooperative race car. He was simply hoping to finish in the top 10-let’s just keep our goals realistic tonight. Interim crew chief, replacement driver and a hastily assembled pit crew did not usually produce a win. He had qualified decently enough-tenth-so it would be easy enough to work his way to the front and maybe lead a few laps.
His radio crackled to life as Michael’s voice sounded over his headset. "If you can, you and Brendan get behind me and stay there-got it?"
"I’ll try. I’ve got Sauter and the Busch sisters between us though..it might be tough getting by them."
"You’ve also got Robby and Justin-they’ll work with you. Just don’t be a butthead and run through them trying to get to me. Try to make friends and play nice."
"Gotcha."
The green flag waved and a wall of cars rose as one. Stephen Wallace doggedly tried to hold on to the lead, trying to accomplish a feat that alluded his father. His lead lasted all of a half a lap as his car skated to the top of the track, inexperience leaving a large hole on the bottom that Michael dove for with Kevin Harvick in tow. The crowd cheered lustily as the 3 shot to the lead and brought the pack around for the second time. The hapless son of Rusty was left out of the line and was seemingly going backward as he fought for a spot in the draft.
Mick scrambled on the start and promptly missed a shift. As he floundered, cars shot away from him on both sides, like the parting of the Red Sea, leaving him in the middle of the pack while he fought to bring the recalcitrant beast up to speed.
He held his breath as the car wobbled drunkenly as it was buffered on both sides by the wake of the pack. "Fuck!" he growled as he fought to control the uncontrollable.
Brendan had no choice but to abandon him, lest he too, be jostled to the back of the pack. He quickly bulled his way behind Robby Gordon; eventually tucking in behind the 29 and the 3. Mick may as well have been at another track; going from 10th to 31st in three short laps.
********
Michael glanced in his mirror at the nose of Harvick’s car. He was content to lay behind him but he knew it wouldn’t last. Happy would pass him in a heartbeat on the first chance he got-he already had his teammate behind him, all they needed was a little more help to pass the 3.
"Joey-where’s the 8?"
"Not gonna like this boss but he had a bad start. Dropped like a stone. Brendan‘s fourth though."
"10-4" Dammit! Michael thought furiously. If Harvick and Robby get a run on him, Brendan was too far back to help him now. An old adversary, Johnny Sauter was also lurking nearby-even though Richard Childress had long ago fired him, he would still run with his two former comrades; he’d do anything in his power to pass Michael. Still as dangerous and reckless as he was as a rookie, age had added treachery as well. Very few even liked Sauter, fewer still trusted him. Bitterness and jealousy had taken the place of any vestige of true racing talent. Somehow he always managed to find a ride; this time strangely enough, it was for Ty Norris Racing. And right now, he leveled his sites on the Napa Chevy still leading the pack. Sauter would love nothing more than to end Michael’s night early, preferably in the wall.
*************
As the race wore on, Michael continued to dominate lap after lap and even after the green-flag pitstops. After all these years, the Napa crew could still knock off a 12 second stop with ease. Dale Jarrett leaned over to Darrell in the Fox booth and grinned, "He’s knockin’ ’em dead tonight!"
Reclining back and smiling smugly, Darrell replied, "Of course he is! This is his night-he’s going out with a bang!"
Suddenly a cloud of smoke rose on the backstretch and even in the booth, they could hear the scream from the crowd, "I always knew when to put both feet in my mouth!" Darrell growled. Below, the front of the pack collapsed, sending cars careening and spinning in all directions. Smoke from tires, oil and fuel all but obscured the track, growing murky with the haze and reflection of the track lights. Eyes quickly cut to the tape and replay of the wreck to evaluate what happened.
"Looks like the lapped car of Matt Martin lost a left rear tire and he just came down on Kevin Harvick, just missed our leader Michael Waltrip. Elliot Sadler and Robby Gordon had nowhere to go and just plowed into the first two while everybody else just started bouncing off one another....." DJ began quickly.
"Matt’s car had damage from a brush with the wall earlier....never did get it up to speed...shoulda retired that thing earlier." Darrell muttered, adding his two cents’ worth.
"Caution’s out....looks like as many as 19 cars got caught up..."
"No matter what they do-aero package, smaller fuel cells, bringing the plates back-ain’t nothing they can do to break up these damned packs of cars here."
***********************
"They’re brinin’ down pit row, you can open your eyes now." Junior said wryly as he nudged Taylor who sat beside him with both hands covering her eyes. "Sheesh...how many years have you been watching this and you still can’t stand to see ‘em wreck?" he chided her gently.
"I can’t help it, Dale...it makes me sick." Taylor looked up, her face ashen and bathed in a cold sweat. She looked almost fragile sitting there beside him. Even though it was in the low 70’s, she appeared to be freezing. Junior wrapped his arm around her.
"Hey...he’s ok...here he comes now." The sleek Budweiser Chevy pulled in like a red tornado. Mick popped his window net long enough to get a fresh water bottle and a friendly wave to Taylor on her perch. A change of tires and fuel and with a screech of Goodyear on asphalt, he was gone.
"You sure you’re alright, sis?" Junior’s brows furrowed. She did look ill sitting huddled beside him.
"Yeah...probably just the fumes...you know how they hang on the ground in this weather...."
"Don’t scare me like that...hey! Looks like he’s moved up!" Junior grabbed a radio and yelled, "Way to go, kid!"
**************
Still in the lead, Michael’s blood was on fire. Fifty laps out of 160 to go and he led most of them. This was his night! His car was perfect and every pitstop was precise. He hadn’t felt like this in years-let the critics of plate racing think what they may, but tonight not one of them will forget this race.
"49 to go now boys. The critics are gonna be whinin’ that I’m stinkin’ up the show tonight but screw ‘em. This is our race tonight-this is one for the books! Joey-who’s gonna go with us to the end?"
His spotter’s voice came on, "Well...Mick, Brendan and Steadman are all in the top 10 but they’re scattered among JJ, Kahne, Stewart and Sauter...they’ve got their work cut out for ‘em."
Slugger immediately cut in, "Zippy says he’ll work with us-already said their car’s crap but he’ll help us if he can."
"That’s big of him-tell those guys ‘thanks’." Both men knew that was the first time in ages that Stewart had ever pledged assistance to Michael. Usually he worked in cahoots with Junior in an effort to beat the Napa Chevy. As if to re-affirm Slugger’s statement, the orange and white 20 broke out of it’s third-place position momentarily and pulled alongside the 3; it’s driver offering a thumbs-up.
"There’s cool...he’s usually giving me that other finger..." Michael grinned as he returned Stewart’s salute.
"Be nice." Slugger playfully admonished. If Michael acknowledged, he couldn’t tell-the green flag was waving once again and the Napa Chevy took off like a rocket with second-place Johnny Sauter in hot pursuit. Tony Stewart and Mick tucked in behind him; each knew that there was no point in making their move yet. A line formed behind the 3 as cars spread out and alliances began to form as the remaining laps ticked away. The Napa Chevy arched gracefully into turn three, pulling away as if there were no restrictor plate choking it. As it entered the front stretch, the characteristic throaty roar became a howl as it’s speed climbed: 186, 190....205.
Stewart glanced up at the red nose of the Budweiser Chevy. He liked Mick, the headstrong kid reminded him of himself in some ways. It looked as if the boy was having trouble staying with him, especially in the turns. The 8 appeared looked as if it couldn’t lift at all in the corners and woefully tight. Nevertheless, Stewart motioned for Mick to hurry up and close the increasing gap between their bumpers as he duly noted the newly formed outside line led by Jimmy Johnson swiftly approaching along the wall.
That line wasn’t missed by Sauter either as he patiently awaited his chance to jump in front of it. Further back behind Mick, scrambled Brendan and Steadman; both knew that once Johnson’s line caught up with Michael on the outside, their boss was going to need all the help he could get to stay in front.
Michael warily eyed Sauter as he suddenly eased back, waiting to get a good run on the lead. "I’m gonna need help soon." he announced. "Do we still have it?"
"Mick said he’s real tight-thing’s pushing like a dumptruck and he don’t know if he can stay with Tony. Brendan and Steadman both know they gotta go now or we’re toast." replied Slugger.
"10-4" was all Michael could get out as he looked back. Jimmy Johnson and his train were now less than three seconds behind and coming fast. There was one thing left to do and as much as he hated to abandon his line, Michael knew if he wanted this win, it had to be done. Just as Sauter was about to jump in front of Johnson, Michael suddenly pulled the 3 in front of Johnson’s 48, completely destroying Sauter’s chance as his machine was now balanced precariously between the two lines.
"Cocksucker!" Sauter yelled, shaking his fist at Michael. His car slowly started backing up in a sort-off vacuum between the two lines. Through the physics of the draft, he quickly went from a challenger to as Darrell put it, "dogmeat".
Momentarily foiling Johnson’s plan, Michael waited for Stewart, Mick and the rest of his team to catch up. As the bottom group grew closer and their formation stronger, Michael swooped in front of the 20 again, maintaining his lead. Ten laps to go and even though one car had indeed seemingly hogged the show, it was the car the multitudes came to see, as not one seat was occupied in the towering stands-every soul present was now standing.
"Shit!" muttered Stewart as he watched the temperature climb to almost 260. He had been running on borrowed time most of the night and now it looked as though his luck was slowly running out. A vibration deep in the bowels of the engine began to violently shake the fillings from Stewart’s teeth as he yelled over the intercom. Jimmy was again almost on top of them and if he dropped out now, more than likely, the outside line would blow by. "Don’t know how much longer I can hang on to it-tell those guys I’m sorry." No sooner were the words out of his mouth, as the car shuddered once and that dreadful rattle began and a plume of blue smoke erupted out of the rear of The Home Depot machine. He skillfully jerked the car to the apron, hoping the others behind him could avoid the oil and debris from the shattered engine.
With two laps to go, there was no caution thrown. Johnson was now side by side with the 3, now a sitting duck with the momentum of his line broken by Stewart’s demise. Over Mick’s radio, Bobby screamed, "No caution! Go! Go!"
Windshield covered with oil and choking on fumes, Mick blindly pulled around the floundering 20, praying that Brendan could stay close enough to push him. Michael was close to two seconds ahead-it may as well had been two miles. Mick kept his eyes on his father’s car. Dammit! he thought. He’s led all this way only to get passed on the last lap! I can’t let this happen-I won’t let this happen.....
"White flag! C’mon Mikey! Hang on!" yelled Darrell, high in the booth. "Don’t let ‘em get by ya now!"
Michael swung the 3 close to the side of the 48, praying that they both didn’t wreck. As Darrell had often said, eight wheels were better than four! Turns 3 and 4 swept both cars along as if hitched. Eight wheels locked together...two bumpers inches apart...memories of Pearson and Petty, Craven and Busch, Waltrip and Earnhardt Jr.... Eight wheels better than four....
A sudden tap on Michael’s bumper and he grinned as he glanced up at the hood of the 8. Twelve wheels were even better! The 48 quickly dropped from Michael’s side as Mick pushed the 3 across the finish line. Not since the Allisons had a father and son team accomplished the feat but then again, nobody in their wildest dreams would have thought it would be a Waltrip. They should have known better.
****************
After his traditional Polish Victory Lap, Michael popped the gear-shift between first and second as he thought wickedly to himself. "Fuck it-never did a burnout in my life but by Jesus, I’m gonna do one tonight!"
As if reading his thoughts, Slugger yelled over the radio, "Light them bastards up!"
Violently cranking the car around in a quick spin, Michael put his massive, size-15 foot to the floor as a rooster-tail of tire smoke erupted behind him as the 3 crept sideways down the front stretch. The crowd cheered lustily as fireworks and heat-lightning filled the night air.
"Go on Mick-get yourself out there." yelled Brendan as he passed Mick on the way to the garage.
Mick shook his head, "I’m not taking one minute of this away from him-look at ‘im! He’s having the time of his life out there!" He pulled the car along the wall and climbed out. Closing his burning eyes, he feverishly inhaled the bottle of Powerade that was offered. A long, skinny arm found it’s way around his neck, nearly choking him.
"Goddamn kid! Way to go!" yelled Junior, nearly strangling him. "Did anybody mention that you look pretty damned good in that car? You still wanna walk away from all this?"
Mick sighed and grinned as he watched his father celebrating in Victory Lane, no doubt thanking every sponsor he ever had since he was 20. He looked back at Junior’s twinkling eyes and noticed how much he looked like his own father with that Cheshire smile and bushy mustache. "How can I after this? Guess you can call this the ultimate attitude adjustment."
"Better than that kick in the ass yer due for." Junior laughed as he draped his arm around Mick’s shoulder. "C’mon...let’s go join the old boy." Together the two men joined the champion in a celebration for a race that would be related to grandbabies everywhere. After all was said and done, Rusty was right-he did go out with a bang, even if it was from Tony Stewart’s car.