4: Witnessing

Darrell leaned over the side of the wall as he watched Kyle Petty’s car soar into pit road. The car slid into place, between its two white lines, and his crew scrambled around the car. Pulling driver’s side tires and jamming the new ones into place. Gassing up the car. Cramming fresh tires on the passenger’s side. The crew leapt back, and Kyle roared back onto the race track, barely scraping by Bobby Labonte’s pitted car. In Kyle’s dust, his crew all gave each other high fives.

“Great pit!” Darrell could hear one of them exclaim. A few blocks ahead of them, and right in front of Darrell, Dale Jarrett skid into his spot. The fellow drivers made eye contact through the window netting, as crew members yanked tired and gassed ‘er up. Dale smiled, and gave his friend a wave. In the time it took for him to do so, his crew had prepared his car to hit the track. The #32 driver managed to shoot past Kyle, just outside pit road.

Darrell grinned after his buddy. He had a good feeling about Jarrett today, that it was his day to shine. Just 87 laps to go, and Dale would win this thing.

“Mikey!” a squeaky voice cried from down a ways. Darrell turned, and watched as his brother’s #30 car glided onto pit road. Junior was jumping around by Michael’s stop, behind the wall, flailing his arms over his head.

“Hey, buddy!” Darrell heard his brother’s reply faintly through the cheers and power tools. Michael’s crew only gave him two front tires before the young man thundered back onto the track.

“Woo!” Junior exclaimed, snatching his #3 cap off his head and waving it around. “Yeah!”

“Your brother’s having a decent season,” came a voice from behind Darrell. He turned and found Dale Earnhardt sr. sipping a beer. The Winston Cup driver lowered the can. Drops of the alcohol littered the bottom of his moustache. “He’s a good kid,” Dale continued with a smile. “And a good driver.”

Darrell glanced back at the track, watched as the #30 KoolAid car rounded turn four and roared into lap 165.

“But that’s to be expected.” Darrell could hear the smile in the other’s voice, as Dale patted him on the shoulder and added, “He learned from the best.”

“Thanks, Dale,” Darrell replied, but the words were hollow. Both men could hear the ‘thonk’ of their emptiness as they hit the air. Darrell’s face fell briefly, but his countenance rose when he looked to the #32 car. Jabbing a finger in that direction, he commented, “You know, DJ’s having an excellent run.”

Dale smiled. Releasing a sigh, he breathed, “So he is.”

Clanging from the pit drew the attention of the two drivers away from the #32 car. Their eyes landed on Kenny Wallace’s #36 car, where they watched a crew member hammer the right side of the front fender away from a blown tire.

“Man! What happened to Kenny’s car?” Darrell exclaimed, and Dale shrugged.

“It’s a rough race out there. You know these short tracks are no fun. It’s like trying to race a speedboat around the rim of a toilet seat.”

Darrell chuckled. Though he’d heard that imagery countless times out of Mark Martin and others, that line still didn’t cease to crack him up.

“Dad!”

The two Winston Cup drivers watched as Junior jogged up to his father. The boy huffed and puffed, held his hands to his knees as he leaned over them. “I need, I need ten dollars.”

“Well why are you telling me?” Dale sr. replied. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at his son, looming over the boy.

Junior pointed a ways down the pit side. “I made a bet with, a bet with this Tony Stewart kid that Nemechek’s pit was faster than Labonte’s, and I lost.”

Dale wagged his head as he reached into his back pocket. “A bet is a bet,” he conceded with a shrug. “And you should always honour one. Next time though, it’s your own money. Don’t bet what you don’t have.” He slapped a ten into the boy’s outstretched palm.

Junior’s fingers closed around the bill. He drew back his arm, but his father was still gripping the ten.

“And Junior?

“Yes, Dad?”

“Next time, don’t make such a stupid bet. Of COURSE Labonte’s pit was faster than Nemechek’s. Almost always is. Not to mention that Labonte only took two tires. You should’ve known that.”

The older Earnhardt’s grip loosened on the bill. Junior clenched it in his sweaty fist as he turned and broke into a run. The Winston Cup drivers watched as the boy bolted a couple steps before his shoes screeched to a halt. Horror washed over the boy’s features as he stared out at the track. Eyes widened, lower lip trembling, he managed to cry out just one word. “MIKEY!”

Darrell’s head spun around. Several hundred feet away along the back stretch, right off turn two, the #30 KoolAid car rammed head-on into a concrete wall. The Pontiac came flying off that wall, flipping end over end, pieces shooting in all directions. The near bare frame, with Michael’s body slammed into the grass. And, in a cloud of dust and murmuring voices, it sat there, unmoving, with no sign of life from within.

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A/N: Last minute, I added the mention of Tony Stewart. Originally, I’d just made up some random kid. I figured that, twelve years ago, Stewart may well have been a little pipsqueak hanging around the track. Probably causing trouble. In at least one future fic, I’m hoping to make Stewart more prominent. It’s FUN not to like that guy! Anyway, please review!

A/N #2: I added Stewart a just a couple of days before his big crash in Darlington. And though I have fun disliking him and all, I did not like seeing him get hurt. When he was picked up out of his car and taken away on a stretcher, I felt sick to my stomach. And I prayed for him, that he’d be okay. According to what Spencer said, and from reports from FOX, looks like my prayer has been answered. I hope to be booing him at Bristol next week.

A/N #3: My beta reader, Christy Gordon, pointed out that Tony Stewart most likely wouldn’t have been at this race since, at that point, he was doing his whole “sprint car thing” in Indiana. So, yeah, Stewy probably wasn’t there. But this is where I’m stretching my poetic license. Just for fun. ; )