Page 146 of Trading Paint
“Good luck today.” I told him waving to the screaming crowd. He did the same which seemed to ignite them in some thunderous roars.
Andy was a quiet respectable guy and he always seemed to choose his words carefully. You never saw him getting into it with other drivers, it wasn’t his style.
“I’ll need it with you racing.” He grinned.
Andy had grown up racing stock cars so it surprised me he would think I was better, if that’s what he was thinking, maybe he wasn’t.
“Nah, you’ll do just fine.”
“You say that now but...it’s different out there. You know that.”
“Yeah but I’ve also seen you drive. You didn’t get here by accident.”
He smiled. “Oh I know that.”
By now, we were back around the track and heading back to the cars before he leaned over and shook my hand. “Good luck.”
I just grinned. I absolutely believe that I’m insatiable, more so than most other racers but that’s also how I’ve gotten this far in a callous sport, one that doesn’t leave room for uncertainties. Most don’t understand that burningneedto be better but those around me, the other drivers, they did and I was surrounded by them.
After driver introductions, I headed back to my car to wait for the opening ceremonies to begin and to see Sway.
Interview after interview, reporters were constantly asking me how I was feeling, if I could win, what I did last night to prepare myself and what I ate for breakfast...It wasn’t until I walked over to get into the car that I started to grasp how big this all was. There were prerace festivities, music, you name it, NASCAR had it and I was somewhere in the middle.
Diffuser – Sway
I watched Jameson closely that morning, wondering when he’d break. I couldn’t believe the tout surrounding him and his team. It was unreal. The media was pegging him as a champion already anticipating him winning today.
The thing that got me was they wanted to put this mold around him, like he was just some cookie-cutter driver conformed to be a certain way, the way they wanted. But that wasn’t Jameson, not by a long shot. He was one of the truest, most exciting drivers around but he wasn’t fit for a mold.
They compared him to the younger version of Doug Dunham, a veteran driver and I saw the similarities, but then again, Jameson was inimitable. He knew he could never please everyone so he didn’t try but he could please himself, and that’s exactly what he did.
I stood there next to his car leaning up against the side. I ran my fingers over the Grays Harbor Raceway sticker he had stuck on there.
“Reminds me of you,” He whispered in my ear and smiled. His nose skimmed through my hair and I could have sworn he sniffed as he did so.
“It does?”
“Well yeah, what else would it remind me of?”
“Racing,” I said with a shrug.
“No, well yes it does but I think of you when I look at it.”
Alley approached us with Lane on her hip. Lane jumped into Jameson’s arms. “Uncle Jay!”
I laughed. There were only two people who could get away with calling him Jay, his Grandpa (he refused to say his whole name) and Lane, who couldn’t pronounce it yet.
Other than that, if you wanted him to answer you—you had better use his full name. I had always loved his name so I called him by it. I also knew how much being called Jay bothered him, so I didn’t.
“Good luck—good luck!” Lane chirped bouncing in his arms and then wrapped his arms tightly around his neck for a hug. I couldn’t think of a better hug than one willingly given by a child.
Jameson tickled his sides. “Thanks buddy. Are you going to watch me?”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
He was at the stage where he repeated everything twice. I blamed this on grandpa Casten. Lane loved him and in turn, when Lane said anything Casten, hard of hearing, responded with, “What?”
Now little Lane was in the habit of repeatingeverything.
