by Stahl, Shey
It never changed for Jameson, there was always someone trying to push him to the breaking point.
Why?
Because he is talented—they saw him as a threat and just like any animal, which everyone is whether you want to admit it or not, what do we do when threatened? We attack fighting for survival.
That’s exactly what Darrin was doing. He was threatened by Jameson, as he should be.
Here Jameson was a twenty-two year old kid with only a few years of stock car racing under his belt and dominating the series as a rookie. Of course, he felt threatened.
Jameson dominated the NASCAR Winston Open and the Winston that night, winning the first two segments and with stellar pit strategy, he came out first for the third and final segment after the invert.
Darrin fought with Bobby and Tate for the first few laps, allowing Jameson to pull away to a 2-second lead but with three laps to go, Darrin and Bobby had caught Jameson. The three of them battled the last lap taking corners three wide at times (unheard of I might add). You don’t take the turns at Charlotte three wide, you just don’t. Bobby lifted and darted inside down on the line behind Jameson but Darrin refused to. They bumped—they banged, and bounced off one another until they crossed the line sideways together with Jameson taking the win, but with a destroyed car. The bar was once again in an uproar of cheering and booing.
They definitely put on one hell of a Winston race. Men throughout the bar were cheering and fist pumping each other; women were clapping, the bartenders were nodding in approval—it was a good race and exactly what the fans wanted.
Their cars came to rest on the front stretch in front of the main grandstands where they both got out of their cars and the heated discussion continued, as did the bedlam from the fans. Those fans paid to see a Saturday night race and they got one, with the addition of a brawl.
Darrin shoved Jameson (wrong move by the way), Jameson shoved him and then they were struggling against officials to get at each other. By now, Jameson had tossed his gloves and helmet aside, as did Darrin. His enraged glower at Darrin said it all. They were yelling at one another while the officials fought to keep them apart. With the announcers from the broadcasting station speaking, you couldn’t hear what they were saying but I recognized a few choice words like “Fuck” and “Asshole” or “Motherfucker” which was a standard selection of words when Jameson was upset.
They cut to commercial, so I immediately sent a text to Emma.
He’s going to get himself suspended!
It took her a moment but she finally responded.
I know. NASCAR is calling them both to the hauler.
When the broadcasting station came back on, they panned to Jameson’s car making its way to victory lane as Darrin trudged toward the NASCAR hauler surrounded by officials and crewmembers.
“Darrin,” the reporter swarmed him. “Can you tell us what happened there on the last lap?”
“We both wanted the win. It’s a big payout and a race where you let go. I wanted to win so I took an opening where I could.” He replied with a shrug of his shoulders casually.
“What was the interaction there when you two came to rest there at the end?”
Darrin laughed with intent.
“He flaunts his talent out there like a brat with a trust fund.” He told the reporter and began walking again. “There’s a reason why he’s called “Rowdy Riley”. He’s out of control.”
Amazed that asshole suggested that was all Jameson, left me angry as they shot to the view of Jameson now in victory lane pulling himself from the car once again. If you thought this was all by pure luck that they suddenly catch the driver getting out of his car, it’s not. That’s all planned by the broadcasting stations. The driver gets the cue to get out of the car. If he doesn’t listen, he has to do it all over again.
Crossing between frustration, outraged and the thrill from the win, he pulled himself from the car. His eyes were hard, but he smiled despite the scrap he had just been in.
Without a moments rest, the reporters were there.
“How does it feel to win your first Winston race?”
Jameson chuckled sweeping a towel over his face. “I don’t think it’s sunk it yet.” He said of the win. “I’m really excited.” I knew he was excited for the win, but I knew him well enough to know the win wasn’t what he was thinking about.
“A millionaire now, huh?”
“Yeah, I think that’s the payout, right?” he looked around with a grin as the crowd cheered behind him. “Guess so...”
God did I want to be there to celebrate with them.
“What happened there after the race?”
“I feel bad we tore up the car there but it was racing.” He told him. “It’s a big deal to win this race. We’ve been fortunate for a new team that we have the best cars around. These fans wanted a show, they got that.”
“Was that planned?”
“No, I never plan to destroy my race car like that.” He said. “Tempers flare at these races. We both wanted the win.”
“Darrin said you flaunt your talent like a kid with a trust fund.” The reporter provoked.
Refusing to make eye contact with the camera, his head shook in a slow vexed movement. “He’s just pissed I’m one step ahead of him out there.” Jameson bit. “Every move he makes, I’ve already seen it and predicted what he’ll do.” He turned after that and faced his crew, evidently done with the interview. Couldn’t blame him, they were only setting him up.
The reporter started to sign off when he saw Jameson take the microphone from him. “I forgot to say one thing,” he smiled at the reporter. “I need to say hello to my best friend back home who just graduated college tonight. Congratulations Sway...this win is about fans and you’ve been my biggest one, thank you!” he winked at the camera and then turned back around to speak with the line-up of reporters waiting for their turn.
Mallory turned to me. “That was intense!”
I gasped. “You’re telling me.”
“Do you think he’s in trouble?”
“With NASCAR?”
“Yeah,”
“Oh yeah, they don’t like that sort of thing. Emma said he’s been summoned to the hauler already.” Before Fox Sports went to another commercial, they caught up with Jimi heading toward the NASCAR hauler himself.
“Looks like Jameson got a little fired up at the end there with Darrin.” They hinted probing.
“You can’t expect him not to get fired up like that. He’s passionate about what he loves.” Jimi told them. “For the most part I think he’s handling it well considering the way he’s provoked.”
“So you feel he’s being provoked by Darrin?”
“Without a doubt,” Jimi said matter-of-factly. “Each week it’s a different track but the same thing with Darrin...but you have to understand Jameson has been in this game since he was four. There have been times he’s pushed to his limit and times he doesn’t handle it in the best way. He’s a racer. At times, we don’t think before we react.”
Roundy Round – Jameson
I had just won the Winston. I was supposed to be happy. But no, fuck no, there I was sitting in the NASCAR hauler defending my actions.
“This is your warning Jameson.” Gordon said, his voice hard but controlled. “I don’t want to ever see something like that again.”
“You should be having this conversation with Torres. He started that shit coming out of turn four!” I shot back slowly rising to my feet.
Once back at my hauler, I forgot all about the fact I just won the race, against all the All-Stars in the series.
Instead, I focused on the fact that I was once again, dealing with a pugnacious asshole on the track. It never ended, every year it was another driver. And though it came with racing, I fucking hated it. When all you want to do is race, this paltriness bullshit was enough to make you second-guess the choice.
“Goddamn it!” I roared slamming my fist into the side of the hauler. The sh
eet metal flexed but didn’t give the way I’d hoped. “What the fuck is that asshole trying to prove!” It wasn’t a question, more of a statement and as I expected, no one answered. Alley and Kyle just stood there staring at me as though I’d lost it again.
Dad walked inside the hauler, slamming the door behind him. He glared at a few team-members who had just straggled in to which they scurried right back out.
“What the fuck was that?” he demanded—his voice sharp as he looked directly at me. “Did you hear me Jameson?”
“Yeah, I heard you.” Holding on to the only self-control I had left, my hands grasped the stainless steel counters.
“Do you have any idea what that’s going to cost us?”
Refusing to look at him, I just nodded.
“I don’t want to be the dad that constantly reminds you of what’s at stake...but I think I need to remind you at times.”
“I already know.” Though my voice was unsure, I knew. Believe me I fucking knew what was at stake. I was harked to every word spoken by the media, fans, sponsors, drivers and friends at what was peril here. I knew. How could I forget when everyone was so unrelentingly reminding me?
“Do you? Do you really understand?”
“I understand!” I yelled and turned to face him. “I understand completely. Do you honestly think anyone is going to let me forget how much is at risk? You won’t, Simplex won’t, NASCAR won’t and Torres sure as shit won’t!” By now, I was yelling just as loud as he had been when Alley came back inside.
Her eyes gaged our tempers flaring.
“There fining both you and Darrin five thousand each.” She told us leaning against the counter beside me.
“Five grand...are you fucking serious?” This was unbelievable.
“Yep,”
“For what?”
“Conduct detrimental to stock car racing.”
I wondered if NASCAR found the increased ticket sales from our little brawl detrimental to them? Doubt it. They’re probably grinning like son of a bitches collecting five thousands from us.
So, I won the Winston and got fined $5000 for brawling on the finish line in front of a frenzied crowd that NASCAR sales benefited from.
Nice huh?
I understood NASCAR’s position on this, I did. But as the sanctioning body for a variety of series, you’d think a little more slack would be given in this area. These temperaments and aggressive driving did wonders for their ratings, that’s what I didn’t understand. There had to be a line drawn somewhere with them and their penalties. Was Darrin fined? No.
That right there should have told me something. As a sanctioning body, you’d think there would be a little more fairness.
I was fuming the rest of the night, until Sway sent me a text. Congrats on the win.
Not wanting to say something negative, I stared at the screen for a good ten minutes before replying with: Thanks.
I thought briefly about turning my phone off after that, but didn’t.
Don’t pay any mind to Darrin or the media. You raced fair and clean, that’s all that matters. He’s a jackass.
I know.
I hope you do know. And don’t just say you know Jameson. You need to actually know because that’s the difference here. Knowing and doing.
She had a point. Even clouded judgment could see that—the imperviously manic side of me didn’t want reassurance—he wanted to be pissed.
The next morning after I went for a quick run around the track, to calm my impetuosity, I hit the weight room that the track had.
We didn’t talk much—we were in there for a reason.
Eventually, Bobby did say something to me.
“That was one helluva show last night.”
I simply grunted in return continuing with my bicep curls until I reached my limit. Setting the weights on the floor, I nodded. “Not exactly the way I wanted to end the night though.”
“Yeah, so you got fined. I got fined for loose lug nuts during the second segment. It happens.”
“He’s an asshole. Always has been.” Tate added as Andy walked through the doors. We all looked up at him as Darrin shuffled in behind him.
I left immediately. There was no way I could keep from throwing a punch or two at that asshole if he said anything toward me. I didn’t plan on starting out my cup career like this, called into the NASCAR hauler every time I turned around but no, Darrin ensured I did.
I made my way back to my motor coach in the driver’s compound after showing my credentials.
I shrugged out of my jacket not bothering to pick it up from the floor when it missed the coat rack as that would require a little more energy than I was willing to put forth at the moment. Tossing my keys on the counter, I walked past Spencer on the couch watching cartoons with Lane eating bowl of cereal. Usually, I was the only one that stayed at the track in the motor coach aside from Cal—he stayed there too. The rest of the team got hotels nearby. Spencer and Lane stayed with me last night though since Alley and Emma drove back to Mooresville.
With the Coca-Cola 600 on Sunday and practice starting on Thursday, I didn’t need to go back home. It was only a thirty-minute drive so if I needed too, I could go home.
Pouring myself a bowl of cereal, I sat down next to Spencer on the couch, my phone vibrated next to me. Thinking it was Sway, I picked it up to see a text from Spencer.
Wanna go to Williams Grove tonight for the Morgan Cup Challenge?
I don’t know why I texted him back, he was sitting right next to me but it was sometimes easier to play along with Spencer antics then to question them.
Can’t. Have to be in Concord this afternoon for an appearance.
We’ll come with you. We could eat at Longhorn.
That got my attention. Anytime we were in Concord, we ate at the Longhorn Steak House. If there was ever a time where I had to choose my last meal, it would be at the Longhorn.
Ok.
Let’s go now.
“I’m sitting right here asshole. Stop texting me.”
“It’s more dramatic this way.”
“How so?”
“I’m not really sure...but it is.” He smiled.
I took his cell phone from his hand and tossed it behind me. “You’re an idiot.”
Lane glanced up from his cartoons and grinned, milk dripped down his chin. “Who an in...it?”
“I said idiot, Lane.” I corrected him. “And I was referring to your dad.”
“Oh,” he said meekly and returned to his cartoons.
Spencer glared. “Why do you think I text everyone when he’s here? He’s like a goddamn sponge.”
Lane turned around again and opened his mouth before Spencer stopped him. “Don’t even think about it little man,” he warned in his fatherly tone he had on rare occasions.
Lane, Spencer and Aiden ended up coming with me to Concord that day where we ended with Longhorn. Lane destroyed a plate of cheese fries, we had no idea his tiny three-year old body could hold that much food. Remaining relatively quiet most of the dinner, I had a lot to muse over.
Penalties, sprint car teams, sponsors, Sway...and it was just like me to over analyze it all.
The more I contemplated the twist our relationship was taking, the more I wanted it to take that twist. It was more than evident she was physically attracted to me. Her body responded to me.
I caught her watching me on more than one occasion, the long lingering glances, and the quick peeks out of the corner of her eye when my shirt was off. And then there were the more discernable responses when we were together intimately. The way her touch set my body on fire, the silent way her eyes pleaded for me to continue...even with all this evidence I had, my mind was telling me not to take things further with her.
Then I had NASCAR on my mind. Rookies were supposed to stay out of trouble, respect veteran drivers, and simply gain experience. Though I was gaining the experience and respect of the veteran drivers like Doug Dunham and Steve Vander, I wasn’t staying out of tr
ouble. I had Darrin to thank for that.
All this trouble with NASCAR wasn’t helping my focus on my sprint car team as well. Our team remained fairly small at the moment so Justin and now Tyler needed me as the owner to be there for them. In sprint car racing, it’s a smaller operation than these cup teams. Where Riley Simplex Racing has grown to around a hundred employees now, I had five with JAR Racing. They needed me.
It may not have been the best time to start a sprint car team in the World of Outlaws—a series that had the most grueling schedule in auto racing—but it’s where I came from. How could I possibly let that go? I couldn’t give that up any more than I could give Sway up.
So there I sat leading up to the Coca-Cola 600, wondering what the fuck went wrong. I was peddled by NASCAR as the next champion in the series but at the same time found myself in “Big Red” each week. A sprint car team with two of the best drivers on dirt but lacking the guidance of their owner and madly in love with my best friend who had power she didn’t even know she had. She could take me down harder and faster than anyone I’d ever known. She had that power over me, a power I’d never let anyone have before in fear they’d use it against me. But just like sprint car racing, I couldn’t let her go.
It wasn’t an option.
The next few days before practice started for the Coca-Cola 600 were spent relaxing and fulfilling several sponsorship obligations.
I devoted some time with my crewmembers and other drivers in the compound. My motor coach was parked right next to Bobby’s as it was every week and another rookie in the series, Paul Leighty. Paul was a good guy—seemed level headed enough and also disliked Darrin. I guess he and Paul ran USAC together back in ‘98.
Paul, Bobby, Spencer and me were hanging around outside Tate’s motor coach with him Wednesday night when Spencer decided to embarrass me. His poison for this...Sway.
I don’t know why this happened so often but everyone was curious about us. To me, it was none of their business and I didn’t take lightly to discussing it.
Paul, not knowing me well, asked, “What’s with you and that small town beauty that comes to see you on occasion?”