by Chris Fabry
“I can’t believe he’s really got a shot at the championship,” Kellen said, a big piece of popcorn sticking to one cheek. Kellen’s mouth was full, so it came out sounding like, “I mmf bemmf hmff remmfffy gaat a shmmt at the chammffionffff.”
A car pulled up outside as one of the commentators, a former racer himself, said, “Here come the leaders into the pits for their final stop. The finish of the race may depend on this stop and how fast—”
“Whoa!” the announcer interrupted. “Dale Maxwell looked like he was about to pit, but he pulled off the apron and back onto the track while every other leader gets fuel and new tires.”
“He’s pulling a Phoenix,” Kellen said, dropping the box to the floor. The door opened and Mrs. Maxwell ran in. “Dad’s doing a Phoenix. He just faked them out and stayed off pit road.”
Mrs. Maxwell’s mouth dropped open, and she sat in the big cushy chair near the TV.
“What’s a Phoenix?” Tim said.
“In a cup race in his first season he was second about 30 laps from finishing. He acted like he was going to pit, then jumped back on the track and everybody else had to pit.”
“What happened?” Tim said.
“He led for about 10 laps,” Mrs. Maxwell said, her eyes still glued to the TV. “Then he lost a left front tire on the back straightaway. Finished 15th.”
“Were you there?” Tim said.
“I went to all of the races before we had kids,” she said. “We were full-time on the road.”
“Which do you like better?” Tim said.
She smiled. “I don’t have to sit in the pits to be with him.”
The screen showed Dale on the in-camera, talking with his crew chief. Then came a split screen of Dale and T.J. Kelly talking, and it was clear there was a difference of opinion.
“Dale, there’s no way you’re going to finish on those tires,” T.J. said. “And you’re maybe a lap or two from seeing them give out on you.”
“I gotcha. Just need to stay out here a few more laps.”
Pit road emptied, and the other cars tried to catch up with him. The camera showed a problem on pit road with Butch Devalon’s team. The jack failed and they had to use a backup, but that took precious seconds from him. It was clear he was mad as he banged on the steering wheel. The TV coverage didn’t air his audio, but Tim could tell it wasn’t appropriate for a family audience.
Mrs. Maxwell put her head in her hands, and it looked like she was praying.
“This looks good for Dale now,” the former racer said, “but I’ve gotta tell you, with the race on the line and the Chase on the line, this is one risky move. He blows a tire out there, and at best he could fight just to get back to his pit stall—worst case, he slams into the wall and doesn’t even finish.”
“You would have played it differently?” the announcer said.
“You bet. He’s in contention for the championship, and the worst thing you could do here is take a risk to win something and not finish. The cars behind him have fresh tires, and they’re already making up time.”
“Well, he’s not listening to you.”
“He’s not listening to his crew chief either. Listen to this exchange on that last lap.”
“Dale, you need new tires,” T.J. said in what Tim thought was as much of a pleading voice as he’d ever heard on an exchange between crew chief and driver. “There’s no way around it. We’re past our window, and you’ll run out of fuel within five laps. Six tops.”
“Ten-four,” Dale said.
They showed another shot of Dale in the cockpit bearing down on a lapped car. He looked to Tim like a guy sure of himself. Tim couldn’t see Dale’s face through that helmet and visor, but he imagined a smile there.
“There are 32 laps left here at the Kansas Speedway,” the announcer said. “Can Dale Maxwell keep this lead on little fuel and no tires? We’ll find out when we return.”
The coverage cut away to a commercial, and Mrs. Maxwell told Kellen to turn down the volume. She had her eyes closed and her lips were moving. Kellen closed his eyes too, and Tim couldn’t help but smile because there was still some Crunch ’n Munch on his face.
“Father, in the whole scheme of things a NASCAR race doesn’t mean that much,” Mrs. Maxwell prayed. “But you know how important this is to Dale and what he wants to accomplish for you. I pray you’ll give him wisdom that can come only from you. Show him your path and help him follow it no matter what.”
“And help him stay in front of Devalon, Lord,” Kellen prayed.
As they ping-ponged back and forth, Tim watched the commercials, thinking at any minute they’d break back into the coverage and show Dale’s tire flopping on the side of the car like a fish in the bottom of a bass boat.
“No matter what happens, help him to give glory to you,” Mrs. Maxwell finished. As soon as she opened her eyes, the screen went black and the coverage of the race continued.
The first image shown was the #14 car of Dale Maxwell speeding past the start/finish line, no competitor within 20 car lengths of him. Instead of being caught, he’d actually extended his lead. The shot switched to the camera on the blimp above, showing the gap.
“Only 25 laps left in this race and Dale Maxwell still leads here in Kansas,” the announcer said, “and T.J. Kelly sounds desperate over there in the war wagon.”
They cut to the on-track reporter. “What’s going on out there between you and Dale?” She stuck a microphone in T.J.’s face.
“Sometimes drivers can be stubborn,” T.J. said, shaking his head, half smiling.
“How much fuel does he have left?”
“He should have run out a lap ago. Running on fumes.”
“And his tires?”
“You couldn’t use the rubber on those tires to make a tennis ball,” T.J. said.
“Trouble in turn four!” a commentator shouted.
The shot switched to the final turn, where three cars had crashed. It was a bad wreck, with twisted metal and one front end smashed halfway to the cockpit.
“I cannot believe this, boys,” the commentator said. “They’re going to have to bring the field down pit road and . . . yeah, we’re getting the word now the pits will be open in one lap. Let’s see if Dale can make it around one more time before that car stops or falls apart.”
Mrs. Maxwell was on her feet, both hands behind her head, and Kellen was whooping and yelling. Tim couldn’t hold in his excitement, which came out as a chuckle that turned into a laugh.
Dale made it all the way around to pit road before he ran out of gas. “T.J., I’m coasting your way.”
He pulled in, and the crew went to work putting on four new tires and filling his tank with enough fuel for the final laps. The car didn’t fire the first time, and Tim’s heart sank. Then it came to life as the jack let the left side down, and Dale screamed out of his stall, every member of the crew pumping their fists in the air.
“Looks like Dale is going to make it first off pit road,” the commentator said. “His gamble has paid off so far. Now let’s see if he can finish this thing.”
Chapter 22
Finish Line
JAMIE WENT OVER to take a look at the tires they’d pulled off her dad’s car. When the torch hit the rubber, it melted straight through. A camera crew came over and shot the second tire, which did the same thing. Jamie could imagine what the guys in the booth were saying. There was just nothing left of these tires.
She turned her attention to the track. The debris was almost cleared. When the restart came there would be about 15 laps left. Her dad was in first place, but the Chase drivers were now bunched up right behind him. Butch Devalon had overcome the mishap with the jack and was back in third place.
Someone tapped her on the shoulder; it was the on-track reporter. He handed her a pair of headphones with a microphone attached and pointed at the grandstand—as if telling her someone wanted to talk to her.
“Jamie, this is Jack in the booth. You got a good look at those ti
res. What do you think?”
“They aren’t tires anymore,” Jamie said. “Just big hunks of rubber.”
“If you could have been up on that war wagon, what would you have told him?”
Jamie laughed. “You don’t tell my dad anything. When he gets it in his head he’s right, you stand back and try to stay out of his way.”
“Can you believe what’s happened this season?” the announcer said. “To have the year start so badly and then turn it around?”
“Well, it just shows you have to stay behind the wheel and keep the tires spinning. You can’t give up because things are going badly. Good things can happen with a little momentum.”
“Hey, thanks, Jamie.”
Jamie was about to take off the headset when she heard, “She’s a chip off the old block, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, and the way she drove in Denver, it wouldn’t surprise me to see her out here herself in the next couple of years.”
The reporter and camera guy moved on, and Jamie went back to the war wagon and found Chloe in front of the monitor. The pit crew was crowded around behind her. The jackman was the only one not watching—he was sitting on a stack of tires looking exhausted. He gave Jamie a weak thumbs-up and stood.
“You okay?” Jamie said.
He nodded. “If your dad wins this thing, I’m gonna quit.”
“What? Are you serious?”
He smiled. “I’ll quit because I’ve just experienced the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.”
They walked to the wall and watched as the green flag came out. It was a single-file restart, and her dad punched the throttle right before the line and got at least a three-car-length lead. Jamie focused on Butch Devalon in third place as he struggled to pass the car in front of him so he could get at her dad.
The next 12 laps felt like 100 to Jamie as the cars screamed around the track. She waited for a crash that would bunch the cars up and set up a shoot-out, but the race stayed clean.
Butch Devalon finally pulled into second place, but the closest he could get was about a car length away, and then her dad pulled away again and won the race.
The crew went wild, and T.J. slapped high fives all around and patted people on the back.
When Jamie’s dad pulled into the winner’s circle, the crowd cheered and the team stood around the car and shook one of the sponsor’s sodas all over her dad. He climbed out and acknowledged the crowd. Jamie stood behind the car and watched. She was crying she was so happy. The reporter asked what was going through his mind and stuck the microphone in front of him.
“I have to thank my wife and family for sticking so tight with me through a lot of years. Nicole, Kellen, and where’s Jamie? Come over here. And, Tim, this is for you too, buddy. And to the giver of all good things I’m thankful today. This was a great race, and I thank the sponsors who hung in there with me. . . .”
Her dad named all the sponsors, and then the reporter took the mike back. “Tell us what happened out there when you didn’t pit but stayed on the track. T.J. Kelly was pleading with you to come in.”
“I know T.J. wanted to win as badly as I did, but I felt like we should stay out and fight through it. I couldn’t begin to explain it, but I just knew in my gut that we’d be okay.”
Jamie’s dad hugged her, and she got to experience the winner’s circle like never before. He held up the trophy above his head, and the crowd cheered more.
A few Devalon fans booed next to the fence and yelled, “You’re washed up, Maxwell!”
Her dad smiled and didn’t respond.
As they walked back to the hauler, Jamie noticed something running down her dad’s face. “You still sweating, or are those tears?”
He smiled, and his skin crinkled with those familiar lines. He stopped and looked at the stands emptying. There were still many people there, and he pointed at them. “Winning feels so good. But you know what I really want?”
“You just won the race. You’re fifth in the Chase. What more could you want? The championship?”
He shook his head. “Something’s been burning deep down inside me for a long time. There’s a lot of people up there who know all about racing but next to nothing about God and how much he loves them. I think the Lord wants me to be bolder with my witness to them. I think he wants to use me in a greater way.”
“What does that mean?”
Her dad shook his head. “I’m not sure. I just know I need to seize the opportunities I have when they come.”
When they were back at the hauler, after everybody had patted her dad on the back and told him what a great race he had run, Jamie pulled him aside. “All right, fess up. Why did you stay out there that long? Why didn’t you come in when T.J. told you to?”
T.J. walked in just then with a worried look on his face. “I’d like to hear the answer to that too. You took an awful big chance out there, Dale. I know you won, and I’m happy for us, but this can destroy our confidence if you don’t listen to what we say.”
Her dad put a hand on T.J.’s shoulder. Touching people was his way of connecting. “I was listening to you. I didn’t dismiss your call.”
“Then why didn’t you come in?” T.J. said, almost shouting.
“Because I heard something I couldn’t ignore.”
T.J. closed his eyes. “God’s not talking to you now, is he? I mean, I know you talk to him throughout the race, but . . .”
Jamie’s dad smiled. “I didn’t hear any voices, no. But I knew I was supposed to stay out there and get the lead. I’ve never had it happen that strongly. And I’m sorry you felt like I was ignoring you. I really am. I just wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I hadn’t listened to what I was hearing.”
T.J. nodded. “I understand.” He reached out a hand and shook her dad’s. “It’s been good working with you. But I think this is our last race together.”
“What?” Jamie said.
T.J. shook his head. “We’ve got a great chance to do something special. But if you’re not going to listen to us and if you’re going to follow the voices in your head or what you think is right, then there’s no reason for me to be on that wagon.”
Scotty walked in and piled his radio equipment on the counter. “I feel the same way, Dale. If you’d have tried to go around one more lap, we’d have been at the back of the pack. We’d have lost and you’d be pretty far back in the Chase.”
Her dad rubbed his chin. “Look. You two are right. We race as a team, and the crew chief is the quarterback. I was the running back here looking at an open field, and I called an audible. I’ll try not to do that again.”
“You’ll try?” T.J. said. “That’s not good enough. I know you own this car. You pay our salaries. You’re the quarterback. But when you go off and do something like you did today, it means all of us could lose.”
“But we won,” Jamie said, coming to her dad’s defense. “If he’d have pitted when you wanted him to, he wouldn’t have won the race and you know it.”
T.J. sighed. “We’ll never know that. And you’re right, we did win. But look how close we came to losing it all.”
Scotty pointed at Jamie. “Let’s say you’re the crew chief, Dale, and you know Jamie needs to come in for fresh tires and fuel. You tell her to but she doesn’t. What would you do?”
“I’d chew her out good when she blew a tire,” her dad said.
“Exactly,” Scotty said. “You wouldn’t want her doing what you did out there.”
Her dad nodded. “In all the races we’ve been through together, there’s probably a handful where I’ve done this, right?”
T.J. and Scotty nodded.
“Then trust me when I say I won’t do it again. If we disagree, I’ll give you every chance to talk me out of it. We’re a team here. We just won a huge race, and we’ve got seven more.”
There was an awkward silence between them.
Finally T.J. put out a hand. “I guess if it means a championship, I can’t walk away from tha
t.”
Scotty put his hand over T.J.’s. “It’s hard to walk away from a winner.”
Jamie put her hand in, and her dad put his on top of it.
“Let’s show them what a great team can do,” he said.
Chapter 23
Tim at Talladega
TIM WAS HOPING that Butch Devalon would have a heart and retract his ban on his being in the pits, but after the results of Kansas, Devalon was even madder at the Maxwells and wouldn’t even return phone calls. The police still hadn’t officially cleared Tim about the fire, which troubled him. Dale had said they would issue some kind of statement about his innocence soon, but the whole thing hung over him at school. Lots of people had heard he was a suspect, and he felt their stares as he walked into class.
The week dragged, and Tim lost himself in the NASCAR talk shows. People called to talk about the Devalon/Maxwell feud. Some backed Dale, others Devalon, and some just thought the grudge brought a level of excitement that the sport needed.
A major magazine (not NASCAR) put Dale and Butch on its cover with a big headline that said, “Good Guy vs. Bad Guy.” They used parts of the Calvin Shoverton article in the coverage. Tim couldn’t believe some of Devalon’s quotes. One said, “I’m painted as this bad driver who wrecks people and doesn’t care. That’s not true. I just want to win. I care a lot about people. Look at how much of my winnings go to charity.”
Tim rolled his eyes when he read that. Everybody knew the drivers gave to charity because it was good PR plus a good idea to avoid higher taxes. As far as Tim could tell, the Maxwells gave a lot of their money to their church and some select charities. They didn’t talk about it much, but once Tim had found their checkbook out on the kitchen table and caught sight of a couple of checks they’d written.
Dale was gone a couple of days running tests for the upcoming races and doing some more media and a commercial for one of the sponsors. The phone rang just about constantly, and Tim got so fed up with it that he turned the ringer off on the one in his room.
