You know the drill…writing prompt challenge stuff. The cards are:
Last chance
Radio picks up stations from the past
Keeper of a family tradition
For as long as I can remember it has been a family tradition to oil up with some sunscreen, slick back my hair with grandpa’s Vitalis, slap on some High Karate for the ladies, put on my Richard Petty trucker mesh hat and make my way on over to the track at Bristol in August for the big race. NASCAR is no joke in the family. We barbecue chicken and squirrel right by our camper and tents in the field by the track, sneak in a little illegal hooch, and have a great time watching our favorite drivers. After all, it’s Bristol, baby!
Well, that was all those years ago. I was too little to remember much of it, but having a family reunion during race week was the only way we’d ever get everyone together, or so I was told. Too many cousins on parole that couldn’t leave Kentucky, or bitter arguments between aunts and uncles. But race week, well that was different. It was usually the last chance for some of them to mend relationships and hug it out, or in most cases drink cold PBR until no one could remember what the hell they were fuedin’ about anyway.
All these years later that family tradition fell to wayside. Only me and a couple of cousins get together each year for the summer race in Bristol. But the stories from the family that came out of the 80’s are still something of legend and lore in these parts. Uncle Festus still can’t get into the race, not since 1997 when he was featured on the local news for his drunken shenanigans.
Scott, one my cousins I grew up with, showed up smelling of beer when I drove by to pick him up. He jumped in the back and offered me a cold road beer that I quickly turned down. Scott was always the risk taker. I was surprised he lived this long, actually. I figured he’d have been shot by an angry husband by now. Randy sat up front with me and drove to the track, fighting the insane traffic all the way. Scott remembered to bring the transistor radio. I always like to pick up the chatter between the spotters and the drivers and their pit crews. That’s where the best entertainment was at. The cursing on those channels was usually epic!
The first one hundred laps went by like a blur. The cars beating and banging against each other, drivers pushing rivals into the wall on the straitaways. I was loving the action. Switching radio channels every twenty or so laps made it twice as entertaining. At lap one hundred twenty I switched channels again.
Terry Labonte is back in the lead after making an aggressive pass around Jeff Gordon. Rusty Wallace is in third and Dale Earnhardt is making a run at the leaders!
What the hell??? I changed the station again. Same thing!
“Dale, we’re set to pit in another twenty laps unless the caution flag comes out. It it does, you come on in with the rest of them. We’ll patch up that damage on your bumper,” the crew chief said. “Roger that,” came the reply from the legendary driver. “I’m going to make sure that the little punk in the raindow car has some damage on his ass to fix, too!”
I couldn’t believe my ears! Was this really happening? Was I actually picking up a radio station from the past at the raceway? That’s when I heard the commotion two rows down. I looked down and saw my uncle Festus stand up, rub his sizeable belly, and give the finger to some dude in the row directly in front of him. The infamous incident that got him banned from the track forever…
“Sis, would you kindly hold my beer?” he asked my aunt Drema. I looked down at the track just in the nick of time to see Dale Earnhardt nearly tear the bumper off the 24 car of Jeff Gordon and “moved” him out of his way as he moved up the field to take second place. The crowd roared and every Dale fan threw up three fingers, the number on his car. Dale fans were rabid back in the day.
Uncle Festus, who had obviously enjoyed enough liquid courage to take the lead in the debate that broke out into a brawl, let out soft belch and asked the man below him to repeat what he said for everyone else to hear. The crowd around the two big men fell dead silent, trying to hear over the roar of the cars on the track.
“I said Jeff Gordon is a better driver than Dale Earnhardt! And I ain’t taking it back, you drunk bastard!”
Every Dale fan within earshot gasped! For being such a calm and cool guy that never got rattled in all the years he’d known him, it seemed that uncle Festus had a line that should not be crossed after all. He landed the first couple of fists right in the man’s chops before he could get his hands up to defend himself. The fight went back and forth and spilled over onto the stairs causing one lady to spill a few cups of beer all over the two brawlers. After rolling around and cussing at each other the cops broke up the fight. Uncle Fesus held up three fingers and the surrounding crowd cheered. The other man, well, he’d had his Jeff Gordon shirt ripped off in the fight and Festus wrapped it around his shoulders to keep as a trophy. He still had it to this day.
I looked back down at the track at the wreck that just happened in front of me. Michael Waltrip blew a tire and careened off the wall taking out a couple of other cars with him including his own brother. So much for the Waltrip boys. I quickly changed stations to see if I could pick up one of their pit crews talking to him. No such luck. I was back to the race that I’d started watching. What the actual hell?
“Hey cuz, where did you go?” Scott asked me. “You were here one minute and gone the next. When you get back up how’s about bringing me a couple of hot dogs. I’d appreciate the hell out of that,” he smiled.