Page 157 of Trading Paint
“You need to watch where you’re going.” He told me, after a string of profanities. “You drive like an asshole out there.” He was also animated while doing this and he looked as though he was an air traffic controller.
Just to ensure I got my point across, I said. “Fuck you!”
I felt the need to make my point since he made when he spun me on pit road, twice.
Once again, NASCAR separated us and I left after that before I got myself in hot water with my dad.
After watching the replay where Darrin has said I came down on him, I wasn’t so sure he was right. He had a few inches; maybe a foot on me and was claiming that was position. So yeah, I did come down on him but I didn’t think that was position. Maybe it was but I sure as shit was going to be giving him the same respect he showed me next time around.
The races seemed to be flying by and every week it was a new track, different city but the same bullshit with Darrin.
Most of the tracks I’d either raced on in the various USAC Divisions or Nationwide Series but a few like Bristol and Martinsville I’d never been to so that was entertaining to watch but when you add someone constantly seeking out trouble with you, it makes it difficult to keep track of the bigger picture. The bigger picture being, this was my job now.
Once the series rolled around to Darlington in March, our rivalry didn’t end and he took us both out in the first few laps when he cut down on me going into turn one.
We managed to piece the car back together only to blow a left rear tire with thirty laps to go.
The following weekend in Bristol, he slammed me into the wall on a restart. With the “same respect” policy I was going by, I bumped him entering turn three. It wasn’t my fault he couldn’t correct it, right?
If only NASCAR saw it that way.
Later, as I expected he came into my hauler. Where I come from, you enter someone’s hauler after the race and that meant one thing: You were looking for trouble.
Neither of us acted as we should but he did throw the first punch.
The thing about a fight at the track was that NASCAR race was officials were all around. We only got a few punches thrown before they intervened.
After that altercation, the phrase, “Rowdy Riley” came about.
Not that I disagreed that I was “rowdy” but I came to realize that NASCAR fans, and reporters were different from the fans at the bullring tracks. Sure, I’d gotten into it with other drivers racing dirt tracks. Hell, I’d gotten into more pit brawls then most hockey players. But the good ole boys back home forgot about that the next weekend.
Not NASCAR. Every interview I did from that point on, they asked about the rivalry with Darrin, trying to keep it in everyone’s thoughts.
I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the media and their lack of concern for my privacy so when the FOX Sports reporter asked me after the last ten reporters asked the same thing, I took my frustrations out on him when I slapped his recorder out of his hand and then kicked it under the hauler for good measure. If they wanted Rowdy Riley, they had him.
“You know exactly what happened. Watch the goddamn tapes!” I yelled over my shoulder in response.
It wasn’t exactly what I should have said but I was pissed and I said what I felt.
This wasn’t the first time Darrin and I tangled with each other, surely it wouldn’t be the last. But for reporters to constantly instigate it. That was crossing the line.
My dad, as the owner, wasn’t pleased with this relationship I’d formed with Darrin.
“You can’t keep this up!” He would tell me. “I can’t keep compromising with NASCAR and Simplex.” He voice would rise to nearly a shout and then he’d calm down. “I’m a new owner Jameson. A new owner with no clout and you are not helping me.”
I backed off Darrin after that. I didn’t intend to cause problems for my dad. He had enough. He didn’t need his asshole of a son causing more.
I liked to think I backed off completely but still, like any red-blooded twenty-two year old male: I had my moments.
“Jameson, you need to realize that this is not just about talent. Yeah, you’ve got that but it’s notjustabout talent.” My dad told me over dinner after the race in Martinsville. “If you want to be a champion,” he tapped his index finger to the side of his head. “It’s up here. This sport is just as equally challenging mentally.”
I nodded. I didn’t exactly want to argue with anyone at that point.
He continued. “There’s a fine line between aggressive and overly aggressive. Too much one way and you’ll find yourself in the wall...or in the NASCAR hauler in your case.”
Again, I nodded.
“Have you talked with Sway lately?” he asked picking almonds from his salad and tossing them on my plate.
