Budwench29, you're probably VERY right, about Junior's language as a
teenager. Just think of this as the PG-version Junior ;)
I'm thinking of
posting my next fanfic, (a much shorter piece), right after I post all of this
one. Just to let y'all know.
Thanks for the
reviews!!!
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3:
Awaiting The Green Flag
Darrell watched from his spot by pit road as the
stock cars aligned on the track, as the drivers within awaited the green flag.
Kenny Wallace hopped out of his car and waved to the fans.
“Woo hoo!”
Kenny howled, causing an uproar from the stands.
“Kenny, get your butt
back in that race car!” Joe Nemechek hollered from behind the wheel of his car.
Kenny hooted again, then jumped back inside.
A scraggly teenager holding
a Budweiser wandered over to Michael’s car. “Hey, Mikey!” he greeted the other,
as he leaned into the window and watched Michael pull on his helmet. “Good luck
today!”
Beneath the helmet’s shield, glossy blue eyes looked to the can
of Bud. “Junior, you’re too young to be drinking. What would your father say if
he saw you with that?”
“He GAVE it to me!” Junior retorted, taking a sip.
His nose scrunched at the taste. “It’s only half a can,” he choked out the
words.
Michael smiled. “You don’t even like the stuff, do
ya.”
“Nah, I think it’s great!” he managed another swig. Through slitted
eyes, he looked into the car. “Hey, how come your safety harness ain’t all
fastened?”
Grimacing, Michael patted his gut. “Cause I got a stomach
ache, and that’s not helping it any.”
Junior went saucer-eyed. He clacked
the beer down on the rim of Michael’s window. “Come on, Mikey! Put it
on!”
“I will I will!” Michael chuckled as he grabbed for the straps. “You
know, last race, I ran it without putting on half this stuff!”
“That
don’t make you cool,” Junior shook his head, and waved the beer can at the
other. “That makes you stupid.”
Junior watched as Michael clicked every
single one into place, before an official approached him.
“Son, you’re
going to have to get off the track,” the man’s baritone demanded. The jumpsuited
individual pointed to the stands. Junior scurried away, beer in hand. “Keep
those damn restraints on!” he hollered over his shoulder. As Junior jumped over
pit wall, a high soprano came over the loud speaker, belting out the national
anthem.
Michael smiled after the boy. He gave his helmet another good
tug, then rapped his gloved hands on the steering wheel. His fingers found their
way to his radio call button.
“You know what, boys?” he spoke into his
helmet as he held down the button. “I feel like a winner today.”
“Don’t
hold your breath!” his crew chief’s voice replied after a few seconds. “You
realise your starting position, don’t you?”
“Oh that don’t mean
anything!” he scoffed. “Now I know you boys can get me to victory lane one of
these days! I have faith in you!”
“Not from twenty-eighth place. Not
today.”
“Well, I STILL feel like a winner,” Michael murmured back. He
squinted at the flag man, stooped in the crow’s nest a few hundred feet away and
about one hundred up, right over the start/finish line. The man was looking
toward the stands. He held a rolled up green flag in his right hand, and held
his left to his ear. He appeared to be speaking to thin air, as the national
anthem wound down.
“Get ready,” Mikey’s radio came alive. “We’re about
to get rolling.”
Michael nodded, his eyes steady on the flag
man.
“GENTLEMEN!” a voice boomed over the track. “START YOUR
ENGINES!”
Around Michael, engines roared to life, as he flicked the
switches to start up his own. The sounds seemed to all echo around him, bouncing
around the tiny track, clashing with the aluminum grandstands, and pelting back
at him. The fans cried out all around, their cheers barely audible over the
engines. Michael watched as they looked down on the track and shouted; he
suddenly felt like a gladiator. That he was in ancient Rome, about to slay the
beast, to entertain the masses but, most of all, to prove himself.
It
definitely wasn’t the first time that Michael had daydreamed at a race. As he
eased into the warm-up lap, he remembered how, just a few Sundays ago, he’d
heard a sermon that had inspired his fantasy at that afternoon’s race. About
there being a great cloud of witnesses surrounding a race that christians were
to run for the imperishable crown. Meaning salvation. How christians ought to be
“looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith”. The whole scene was
so real to Michael, and it had stuck in his head. He had imagined the great
spiritual race the afternoon after hearing that sermon, as he cruised around the
track. And, after, it was STILL stuck in his mind. So he had found someone to
tell about it.
“Hey, Kenny?” he’d approached his fellow Busch Series
driver after the race. “You know that sermon this morning?”
“You mean the
one about running?” Kenny had replied, slightly distracted as he fought with a
cap on his Coke.
“Yeah. You ever… you ever think about racing like
that?”
Kenny had been silent for a moment, as he tensioned his face and
worked at the cap. It finally twisted off, and he’d sighed. He took a swig.
“Like what, Mikey?” he’d asked, as he drew the bottle to his side.
“Like,
like a metaphor. You know, for the christian race, for redemption and
all?”
Scrunching his nose, Kenny replied, “It’s talking about running
there, not auto racing!”
Michael had laughed. “Well of COURSE I didn’t
think the apostle Paul was talking about NASCAR!”
The two shared a
gut-aching chuckle before Michael resumed.
“But I was thinking, you
know, that it could be a modern day metaphor.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Kenny
had smirked, looking at his shoes. “That’s kinda funny to think about.” A pause.
Then he looked up. “You know, I always wondered what you Winston Cup people
think about at the wheel! While I’m thinking of a nice juicy steak and mashed
potatoes with lots of gravy, you’re thinking deep spiritual
matters!”
Michael laughed as he recalled Kenny’s remark.
“We’re
going green,” the communication came from his crew chief.
Michael gripped
the wheel tighter. Fast approaching the crow’s nest, he looked to the flag man
once more. That green flag was unraveling. And, with one flick of the wrist, the
race began. The great cloud of witnesses watched as the stock cars ripped over
the start/finish
line.
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A/N: The
biblical passage over which Michael was pondering is Hebrews 12.
-
dj