Page 87 of Black Flag

All stupid shit but wewere still doing it.

We got to the pointwhere wrecking seemed to be the only mishap that hadn’t happened.

Cautions remainedscarce after that as the laps wound down and it seemed third was the best wewere gonna get after the pit road penalty. We were lucky, as itwas,that we got our lap back.

Bobby, who was leading,slipped up the track in three with four laps to go and I saw my chance withAndy in second who seemed to back off Bobby at that point.

I went high in turnfour and one but he shot right back up top taking the line.

Fighting for secondlooked good when I got a nose under Andy Crocket coming to the white flag. We remaineddoor-to-door, Aiden yelling, “At your door, still there, still there,” every sooften. All the way around we remained that way slapping against each otherthrough the final corner. Andy momentarily got out of shape, allowing me totake the position at the line.

After everything, itfelt good to end out the night with a good finish but still, those pit stopswere pissing me off and what should have been a good day was overshadowed byshitty calls.

To understand how itfeels after a race, imagine speeding all day fighting traffic with drivers whowant nothing more than to shove you in the wall; calculating strategy; gettingon and off a narrow lane with forty two other drivers in temperatures usuallyonly reached in a fucking sauna. Then, when you get out, people are in yourface asking what happened, how you felt, and what your car was doing.

Now can you blame thereactions some of us have?

Yeah, we have bad days,bad races and bad fucking weeks. We don’t always reply the way they want us to.

A handful of reporterswere in my face when I pulled down onto pit road along with that official whocalled all those penalties on us.

“It’s not personalkid,” was his response to me.

There’s nothing more tothis than it’s me. It was our sweat, and hard work. So for someone to say to meor anyone else on our team, “It’s not personal,” was just a slap in our face.

“Fuck you it’s notpersonal.” I told him shifting my stance away from the reporters.

I didn’t know thisofficial and already we weren’t starting off on a good note.

Alley stepped inbetween us as Sway walked over. “NASCAR wants to see you.Now.”

One good thing aboutthat was I could get out of some of the interviews and hopefully get out of anycompromising words. Sway followed close behind, I assumed, to keep me incontrol.

“You’re acting like achild!” was one brave reporter’s response when I denied his interview.

Was I acting likechild?

No, I didn’t think Iwas. They didn’t understand any of this if they thought that.

You know, sometimes Iwanted to take their hands and place the truth in it. I wanted to give themeverything I had. Sometimes I wanted to act like they treated me and show themjust how childish I could be. I wanted to give them the weight of everything Ifelt and let them be the goddamn judge of this shit.

Sometimes I wanted tovent, scream, and give it all away. Here, you take my talent; take my life youfeel the need to criticize every moment of the day; take everything I have andyou deal with the shit. You see what you can make of it since you seem to thinkI’m doing so badly.

I wanted them to feelthe pressure, the inadequateness, the letdown, all of it; fuckingtakeit.

When the local trackmedia asked about the fine and what my thoughts were on the official who finedus, I gave them my thoughts.

When the reporter keptup his chirping, I replied with, “You really think I give a goddamn what youthink of me?”

“I’ll wait here withSway.” Alley nodded toward the big red hauler. “Jimi’s waiting back at thehauler for you too and then you have the contender’s conference.”

Sway kissed my cheekand offered a reassuring smile. She knew me and understood exactly how much Iwas bothered by all this.

The NASCAR hauler wasthe least of my worries after the comment I made to the reporter. In a matterof fifteen minutes, my phrase of “You really think I give a goddamn what youthink of me?” was being replayed, with bleeps, on every sports broadcastingstation.

My worst fear, my dad.

“Don’t do anythingstupid today.” He said to me after our team meeting.

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