Toledo Speedway- Main Grandstand
Toledo, Ohio
5:10 PM Local Time
“Yellow! Mommy, Yellow!”
“What?!” I yelled over the roaring of 30 car engines, back at my daughter. It wasn’t too long before I realized what she was yelling about, however. The flagman was waving the yellow flag over the field, the cars on the track quickly slowing down as they heeded the notice for the 10th caution. I frantically looked around for the cause- there, in turn two, a couple feet from the outside wall, a cherry red car with black stripes and a large white 84 on the side, spun around so it was facing backwards.
“No...” I moaned, running my hand through my hair as I looked at the track scoreboard. The top number, the lap counter, read 199- one lap short of the required distance for the Federated Car Care 200. The number below it indicated the leader of the race- the #38 car. My husband’s car.
The track announcer was babbling, trying to be heard over the engines. “And that’s the eighty-four of Louis James who spun... what a heartbreak for him- he was running seventh at the time! I didn’t see what happened, but I’m hearing reports there was contact...”
It was a potential heartbreak for Terrence as well, I groused as the spun car, finding a gap in the traffic, angrily spun its tires, wheeling around to the correct direction, and taking off to join the pack. My husband had been leading by nearly six car legnths, and had the 84 not spun around, and the race remained green, it was very likely he’d have been the first to cross the 200th lap. But under ARCA rules, a race must finish under green flag conditions, no matter how many tries- or extra laps, it took. It was a rule designed to ensure the fans didn’t have a finish under caution, an anticlimactic finish that would send no one home happy. But while it was bad the race was extended for Terrence, it was worse that the pack chasing him would be completely bunched up behind him on the restart. One missed gear, one slip, and he was a sitting duck to be passed.
*CRUNCH!*
The crowd was roaring, some cheering, some booing in disapproval, and I looked over. The spun car, apparently in a rage-filled attempt at revenge, had plowed into the yellow #65, noticeably putting a dent in the chassis. I shook my head in disgust at the idiotic move. Even if the 65 had turned him around, there was just no room for that. It was childish and dangerous.
But ultimately profitable for the track announcer, who was shilling the contact with a flair that would have made Mr. Showtime jealous. “James just went straight into Bob Olsen, and I think he meant to do it! Oh my, I think we know who our prime suspect is in who got James spun around! But that... oh that’s not a good thing to do! And.. yes, I’m getting word now that ARCA officials are kindly asking Louis James to remove his car from the racetrack!”
Sure enough, the flagman had the black flag- indicating a car was required to leave the track- out, and was pointing directly at the 84. James had to have known it was coming- he was already halfway to the smaller, quarter-mile track that was being utilized as pit-road for the race. En route to his own pit box, he had to pass the yellow car’s, being treated to a barrage of shouting and obscene hand gestures from 65’s crew.
“Why did he do that, mommy?”
“Because he didn’t think it was fair that he got spun, hon.” I replied, looking down at my daughter. “But it was a dangerous thing to do... using his car as a weapon like that. He could hurt somebody by being a sore loser.”
“Oh, a sore loser! Like how you’re angry when a wrestler keeps fighting after the bell!”
“Pretty much,” I grinned, giving her a quick hug. I looked back at the track and felt a tingle up my spine, my arms suddenly covered in goosebumps. With little actual debris on the track, and the accident so minor, the track had been clear in just a few minutes, and they were already preparing to go back to green. The cars would start double-file, in two lines, with the leaders in the front. Terrence, as the race leader, had pulled to the inside of the track, while second place, the black #13 of Matt Bronson, lined up outside of him.
Directly behind Terrence was the green #47 of Wesley Hamilton.
While Terrence had all but sewn up the Rookie of the Year points race, Bronson and Hamilton had entered in a virtual tie for the overall championship. It was pretty simple- whoever finished higher in this race would be the 2011 ARCA Re/Max Series champion. Until the accident, Bronson had it locked up, but now, with his teammate right in front of him, Wesley was back in it. If Terrence could get a jump on the restart, and the two could coordinate it, they’d lock Bronson out high, Hamilton would slide under, and take over second place, giving Diamond Motorsports the 1-2 finish, and Hamilton the Championship.
While the thought of Terrence actually helping Wesley win the championship galled me after all that Wes and his wife had done over the past few months, I still knew that Terrence would help him. It was his job, after all, to be a good teammate, even if Hamilton hadn’t been for him. I glanced over a few seats down, where Wes’ wife, Andrea sat. As much as I disliked the woman, I had to feel for her, as she sat, her hands clapsed in front of her, her lips moving in some sort of mantra designed to help her husband out.
The track announcer didn’t miss the impending drama at all, and he was again shilling it for all he was worth. “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC was playing over the speakers, and as one, the crowd rose to its feet as the flagman furled his yellow flag, raising it high in the air, the indication that there was one lap to go until green. “We’re one lap from GREEN-WHITE-CHECKERED folks! Two laps to the win and the championship, and it’s anyone’s game!”
The pace car pulled away- the field was Terrences now, as he lead the pack along the backstretch, almost at a crawl. I felt my throat dry up. Whether or not Hamilton won the championship, I wanted Terry to come away with the win here. Winning the season finale would go a long way towards securing a sponsor for the next year...
Turn three... turn four... still at a crawl. Bronson hovered close to Terrence- if he could jump ahead and take the inside lane into the turn, it’d be over. But Terrence wasn’t going to-
GREEN FLAG!
It was deafening, a score and a half of cars tearing away in a wild two lap sprint to the finish. I whooped as Terrence leapt in front of Bronson, Wesley right on his tail, as they hit the first turn. Bronson, trapped up high and on a bad line, slowly drifted back as Hamilton scooted under him. Terrence led Wes onto the backstretch, the race Terrence’s, the championship Hamiltons. Bronson, desperate, fell in behind in third place, but the ground was too far to make up.
The announcer was trying to scream all that ws going on, but there was no way he could be heard over the cheering crowd and the roaring engines. The lead three were pulling away from the pack as they came to the front stretch, white flag waving for the final lap, Terrence in front, Hamilton behind, Bronson trying to find some way to make up the ground he needed.
Onto the backstretch they roared. I kept taking my eyes off and looking around to the pack behind- one simple miscue, and there’d be another caution, forcing us to do this again. But the pack had spread out nicely on the restart, no incidents. They wouldn’t stop it now, with just two turns-
“WES! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” the words exploded from my mouth as Wesley, wanting to take the win as well as the championship, tried to sneak under Terrence. It was a massive show of selfish greed- he didn’t need to win the race to win the championship, and he would be finishing second in the race only to his teammate, a huge coup for Diamond Motorsports. Terrence, obviously caught completely off guard by the move, was nearly thrown into the wall. But he held on, and to my surprise, fought back against his greedy teammate, moving down to try and hang on to first place.
The checkered flag began to wave as the two came out of four, and the cars collided, a horrible shrieking sound of metal echoing through the arena. Terrence spun across the front of Wesley’s car, saved it, oversteered, and plowed nearly head-on into the outside wall just as he crossed the finish line, illiciting a horrified scream from my throat. Wesley smacked the inside wall, and spun up across the track, clipping Bronson’s car, forcing it into a spin as well. The two crossed the finish line, side by side, spinning like dance partners.
The rest of the field desperately tried to avoid the crashes, spreading out as they came to the finish, trying to avoid the three crippled leaders. A couple cars slammed into each other, and a purple car came within inches of nailing Terrence. But somehow, miraculously, the pack made it through with no one else losing control.
As the field began to slow down on the backstretch, I looked down to Terrence’s car, which had skittered to a stop right in front of me. He was the winner- there was no doubt about that, but at the moment, I was more concerned for his safety. It didn’t take long to get my answer, and I breathed with a sigh of relief as i looked down, and saw him moving inside, quickly detaching his window net as a sign to emergency workers that he was okay. I looked at Hamilton and Bronson’s cars, and was happy to see that they too were moving inside.
Then Terrence quickly climbed out of his car threw his helmet back inside, and gave a primal roar of victory that he hadn’t even given after the biggest of his wrestling wins. The crowd, taken by the emotion of the roar, cheered him back, and I couldn’t help but laugh as Terrence beat his chest in a Tarzan yell. A short ways away, Bronson and Hamilton had gotten out of their cars as well, both men looking around confused, trying to figure out what had just happened.
With the engines off, the track announcer was slightly more audible, and he was trying to helpfully sort things out. “Well, we’re definitely sure Thompson is our winner, and that’s his second of the year! But I know you’re all wondering who finished second, and ARCA officials are looking at photos and telemetry now to figure it out! I’ll have it here in just a sec.. wait... I have word that it’s the number thirteen-”
The arena exploded with noise at the announcement, and on the track, Matthew Bronson fell down, overcome by the emotion of the moment, as his pit stall erupted in pure abandon. Wesley, for his part, stared gaping-mouthed at the scoreboard, which indicated the final top 3 as 38-13-47. I glanced over at Andrea again, and she had the exact same expression on her face, although tears were beginning to leak out of the corner of her eyes as she mouthed repeatedly "No...no...no..."
As Bronson was tackled by his jubilant pit crew, Terrence was handeda checkered flag. It was customary for winners to do a “Polish Victory Lap” with the flag- driving the course in reverse, so the driver side faced the fans, but since Terrence’s car was completely undrivable at the moment, he was just content to wave the flag at the audience, conducting us in our cheering as if he were a maestro. For a second, he managed to catch a glimpse of me, and he mouthed “I love you!”, and I grinned back, tears forming at the corner of my eyes, as I hugged my daughter close to me.
Wesley Hamilton could take no more. His victory, his championship, his season, everything had disappeared in those last few seconds, and he was quickly finding a scapegoat to his sudden downfall. Screaming unintelligibly in rage, he charged at Terrence, screaming unintelligibly as he bore down on the one thing, outside of his own greed and stupidity, that had cost him everything.
*POW!*
The right hook had been as fine as any Terrence had thrown in his ring days, and Wesley immediately crumpled to the asphalt. Terrence looked down at his soon-to-be-former teammate, shrugged, then stepped over his body, purposefully walking towards Bronson to congratulate the 2011 champion. Andrea, uttering a high pitched wheezing noise, started running down the stairs, stumbling in her high heels as she tried to get closer to her husband.
“Mommy? Why did Daddy punch him?”
"Because he was being a sore loser, Terr-Bear," I couldn’t help but chuckle as I picked up Theresa in my arms, and began walking towards the track myself. Chances were they’d want the wife standing beside her husband in the victory interviews. I looked at Hamilton, who was slowly getting to a sitting position, rubbing his jaw in stunned silence, as Andrea stood near the fence, demanding to security that she be let in. “Wesley was being a VERY sore loser.”
Sore, in a lot more ways than one!
Tuesday October 19, 2011
Chase Tower- 48th Floor
Indianapolis, Indiana
3:11 PM Local Time
The scene opens with a smiling Wendy Briese, standing at the top floor of the tallest building in Indianapolis, near the windows. She looks at the camera, her red hair tied behind her in a pony tail, and tugs at the cyan blouse she is wearing, giving it a last second straighten.
“So, Rose, welcome to Indianapolis!”
The grin widens.
“I know that FFW visited the Circle City just a few months ago, and you were here, although you didn’t wrestle, but I doubt really had a chance to experience all that this wonderful city had to offer. So, I thought that, since neither you nor any of your A-List buddies are from anywhere near here, it would be nice to show you around, and tell you about some of the things you can do in the downtown area. After all, I wouldn’t want any of you to leave here thinking I was a negligent hostess or anything.”
Another smile, although there is a faint edge of sarcasm to it. Wendy beckons to the camera, which approaches the windows. She points down, and the camera follows, focusing in on a rather large traffic circle over eight hundred feet directly below, a spire sticking about two hundred fifty feet back up.
“That’s Monument Circle, the heart of the city, with the Soldiers and Sailors monument in the middle, honoring the Hoosiers- or at least those of the territory- who gave their lives in the Revolutionary War, and the War of 1812. You can actually go up the spire- three hundred stairs to the top. Obviously, the view up there’s not as awesome as it is up here, but its open to the public, while you normally aren’t allowed up here atop the Chase. And over there is Lucas Oil Field, where our Colts play, and the next Super Bowl’s going to be held in February. It’s a shame they won’t be playing in it...”
Wendy points from one stadium to the next, then quickly points to another stadium, a little further away, and then a clasically designed structure with a large dome.
“That’s Victory Field, where our minor league Indinapolis Indians play. And there’s the capital, where the assembly meets. It’s even more beautiful on the inside than it is the outside. And over there is the White River! That park there has the zoo, and our state museum.”
Wendy leads the camera around the windows, pointing out other landmarks as she does, starting with a group of buildings further in the distance that looks like a campus.
“That’s IUPUI, where I got my associates degree... go Jaguars! And up there’s the World War Memorial park- they built that in 1919 to remember those who fell in the Great War, and later expanded it after the second one. And there... that’s Conseco Fieldhouse. You’ll DEFINITELY want to go there.. of course, that’s where our show is on Thursday night.”
A short, cheesy grin from Wendy, but then she points beyond the Fieldhouse, to a silver ribbon running across the viewscape, turning slightly southward and continuing out in the distance. Even from this far away, tiny dots can be seen moving back and forth on it.
“But I think the most important landmark you’ll want to find is that one right there. That’s Interstate 70, and it’s real easy to get to from the arena. Just take a right onto Maryland, and another right onto Washington. Take a third right at the interchange, and you’ll get right on, although you’ll want to be in the right lane, otherwise you’ll end up on 65, and you don’t want to do that.”
Wendy’s voice turns decisively icier, as the camera fades away, to find that she’s no longer smiling.
“That’s the quickest route to the airport, and it should take about twenty minutes. That’s already twenty minutes too long that you and the rest of the A-List will be infesting MY CITY after the show, so please be expedient.”
A small shrug.
“Of course, I’m sure the lot of you will be more than eager to get the heck to the terminal yourselves, and put this town behind you, considering what I’m about to do to you, Rose, and any other member of the A-List that dares to get in my way.”
Wendy looks back out the window again, grimacing.
“I’ll confess. When Samantha announced this match a few weeks ago, I was nervous. I’m not exactly a powerhouse here, and you’re by far the biggest woman on the FFW wrestler. Heck, you could probably outpush my manager. And you know how to fight- you’re a vicious power-brawler, and one blow can knock any girl on this roster out just like that.”
Wendy snaps her fingers, and laughs quietly, shaking her head, looking almost impressed.
“I think we both know that I won’t be standing toe to toe with you in that ring, Rose, and slugging it out. I’m not pushing you around.. heck, I’ll be amazed if I can even throw you. But I’ve beaten people your size and stregnth before- I just have to outmaneuver you, outperform you, and most of all, outthink you.”
Another grimace.
“But then you throw in the A-List, and I’m a longshot, aren’t I? Five of your cronies, each one as blindly loyal to your master as you are, patrolling outside. And I know at least two of them, if not all five, who’d love to get a piece of me at any opportunity she can. I go outside that ring, whether vouluntary or not, and I’m in for a world of hurt. Heck, I get too close to the ropes, and all it takes is a quick swipe through the ropes, and I’m off-balance and a sitting duck.”
Wendy laughs softly, although its obvious that she doesn’t find much humor here.
“And that’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? You’ve got me in a corner, and you’re about to use me to send a message to the entire FFW roster about what happens to anyone who interferes in the A-List’s business. And of course prove that your little ‘Bad Girls Club’ reigns supreme over the land.”
Wendy’s gaze hardens in determination and she bites her lower lip, her voice growing quieter, but taking on an edge.
“Rose, I hope you listen, and you listen well. The only thing that will be reigning supreme on Thursday night is the disappointment and panic you and your friends will feel when six people isn’t anywhere CLOSE to being enough to bring me down. There’s no way in HELL that I’m going to allow myself to be beaten, humilated, and made an example of in my own hometown.”
A deep breath.
“I know it’s not going to be easy. But I made a promise to myself after I lost to Crystal at Sin & Sacrifice that I was going to stop worrying about implications so much. Just get in there and wrestle- and it worked at Byte this. I won the battle royal, I elminated four people, and I beat Colleen to do it. That’s exactly what I need to do again.”
“Because when it boils down to it, Rose, the lumberjacks in this match are little more than distractions. They can pace, they can taunt me, they can wail and grunt and gnash their teeth, but its you and me in that ring. You’re the only person I need to beat out there.”
A small, determined smile.
“And rest assured, Rose, I CAN beat you. I’m absolutely nothing like you’ve faced yet in FFW.
I’m not Nina, I’m not Lumina, and I’m not Michelle. I’m Wendy Briese. I won the first Chase for the Crown, I won the Byte This Battle Royal, and I’m a one-time Evolution Championship. And at Velocity, I’m going to become the first person to pin or submit the great, supposedly invincible Rose Jenkins. And I won’t use a chair. I won’t use a screwdriver. I’ll do it the way it was MEANT to be done- with my skill, my technique, and the countless hours I’ve spent practicing and studying for a night like Thursday. You may have me cornered, but like any other animal, I fight my best when my back’s against the wall.”
Another small shrug, and Wendy just shakes her head.
“But you’re laughing at all this, aren’t you Rose? My little defiant declaration of victory is probably the most hillarious thing you’ve heard all week. Little Wendy Briese, the White Knight, couldn’t possibly bring YOU down, could she? Not with the odds so stacked against her.”
Wendy snorts.
“Well, keep laughing. I’ve gotten used to it by now, no small part in thanks to your friends. And you truly are sitting in the catbird seat. You’ve got the target of stage, and standing under the bucket of blood. All you need to do is pull the rope, and the real fun can begin.”
Small pause, Wendy looks at the camera.
“But you’ll find out real soon that the time for laughing is over, and the time for running away has begun.”
Wendy wheels on her heel, and heads towards the elevator, not looking behind her, although she does call over her shoulder.
“Just remember while you’re running to stay to the right. You get on 65, and your night will only get worse than it already was.”
Fade
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