Page 45 of Black Flag

Anyone that knows meunderstands I’m not superstitious per se but I did not care for the numberfourteen. Back when I raced quarter midgets at Williams Grove one year, Iwrecked on lap fourteen. It sent me to the hospital with a broken ankle. Thenwhile racing a winged sprint car in the fall of ‘98 at Lernerville, I wasbumped by the fourteen of Frank Luther, parasailed into a field only to flipfourteen times and land in a pond a few yards from the track.

I did not like thenumber fourteen. My dislike for the number went as far as not pitting in thefourteen stall or setting up in a garage bay with the number fourteen on it. Ihad restrictions.

Now Bucky was amused bythe dislike for the number, as was my brother. I was not.

That silver crown carwas horrible too. In Dodge City that year, I blew up the engine. In NorthWilkesboro, it caught on fire during inspection. In Haubstadt, the right reartire just fell off during the race. By the time Indianapolis came, the numberfourteen was changed to nine because I refused to get in the evil fucking caruntil it was changed.

And you know what, afunny thing happened that night in Indy, I won.

Knowing this, I’m sureyou can imagine my enthusiasm for any driver racing the number fourteen. Mikejust started on the wrong foot and kept it up. The fact that he was drivingDarrin’s car wasn’t the problem. It was the fucking number that I had thebiggest problem with.

“Cole, you copy?” Iasked noticing the car in front of me was Tanner.

“10-4 Riley, what’sup?”

“Ohjusthavin’ some fun with Tanner here.Wanna help?”

“Fuck yeah.”

With the help of Bobbyand Tate, we had Tanner boxed pretty good when I pulled up beside him. In theturns, I’d slide the back end sideways, pushing against his car just about thetime Tate leaned on the other side. This caused the air to be taken off thefront end, in turn; he had one loose race car on his hands. You could see hishands frantically adjusting the wheel in the turns and overcorrecting it.

“Jameson,” Kyle warnedwith a hint of amusement. “NASCAR just reminded me that you are still onprobation and to stop fucking around.” Then he laughed, this shit was funny.

“An official said stopfucking around?”

“Oh you get my point.”

“Yeah, I know.” Ilaughed. “Just having a little fun with him,”

Mike was sandwiched inbetween us; there was no way around so when I pushed up into him in turn four,Tate shot forward. Mike pushed up into the marbles, got loose and turnedhimself sideways on the backstretch.

Kyle and Ethan startedlaughing. The child within, flipped him off when we came back around. “Welcometo the cup series Tanner!”

“All right bud.” Kyleguffawed. “You’ve had your fun, now focus on the race.”

I did have my fun butmy car turned to shit around lap two-hundred when the brakes got so hot theystarted shredding tires. I couldn’t keep the goddamn thing straight. I was utterlyamazed when we finished fifth but satisfied I at least finished my first raceback with no real complications from myself. Once I was out of the car, I wasfeeling the strain on my body but it felt good just to be back. For someone whohas raced pretty much non-stop since he was four, it wasn’t a good feeling notracing for close to five weeks.

After a handful ofinterviews and a nap on the plane, I was landing in Olympia and driving toElma.

When I made my way toSway’s, Charlie was in the kitchen.

“Hey Charlie, it’s likethree in the morning.” I sat down across from him at the table. “What are youdoing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Hereplied with a shrug. Leaning forward, he poured himself another shot ofwhiskey. Judging by his appearance, he’d been at this for a while.

“How are you feeling?”I glanced down at the bottle of whiskey.

“Okay I guess—could beworse.” He laughed, his eyes glazed. “Everyone says I’m losing my mind but whatthe fuck do they know.”

We sat there in silencefor a few minutes before he looked up at me. “Sway told me she’s pregnant.”

Hiding my smirk, I drewin a deep breath, prepared for Charlie to lecture me about knocking up his onlydaughter. Instead, he surprised me by placing a black box on the table andsliding it toward me—along with the bottle of whiskey and a shot glass.

“What’s that?” I askedmotioning toward the box.

“It’s a ring.”

“Are you asking me tomarry you, Charlie?” I chuckled at my weak attempt for humor this late.

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