Everyone gets ready for the national anthem, and my heart lurches. In the four races I attended, Mack sort of developed a little system for this moment. I can picture it so clearly. He’d reach over and hold Oliver’s hand, his own hand covering his heart, and he’d press his upper arm against mine. It was his way of touching me without causing a frenzy.
When the camera scans the drivers, I spot Mack easily. He’s standing at attention, his hand over his heart and his left index finger nestled in his son’s tiny hand. And Alison is there, gently sliding closer so their arms touch. Mack responds with a very subtle move of his body away from hers. “Ha!” I bellow at the screen as the camera moves on to another driver.
But I saw it.
He moved.
I head into my kitchen to grab a bottle of water and make it back in time to hear the firing of the engines. I can picture Coop up on the tower, giving Mack his instructions. I can see Fish high up over the grandstands, binoculars in his hand, as he gets ready to watch over his best friend. I can feel the energy of the guys as they stretch and make sure everything in their pit stall is ready for action.
But I’m not there.
I’m at home, in Brenton.
Alone.
The cars move, heading out to the track. They’re in Long Beach, an eleven-turn course that’s strenuous for even the best of drivers. But I know how much Mack likes these tricky tracks, and I’m sure he’s going to settle in and have a great race.
I can tell, once the flag drops, that might not be the case. He seems to struggle, almost instantly. He falls back several positions as he grapples to keep the car where he wants it. Even the broadcasters talk about how his car isn’t handling the best and hope he can make some adjustments during the first pit stop.
As the race progresses, Mack really doesn’t drive well. I can sense his frustration every time they show him on camera. There’s a tension in his body most probably can’t sense, but I do. I feel it, even all the way over here.
With seventy-five of the ninety-eight laps complete, I see his car move up the track. My heart firmly lodges in my throat, and I gasp right before he slams into the outer barrier wall, pieces of his car raining down on the track below. I’m up and moving to the television, searching for any signs of movement as the car slides back down the track. The moment the car comes to a stop, they cut to a replay of the accident.
“No! Go back to Mack!” I bellow at the screen.
Eventually, they do, just as the safety crew arrives to help him from the wreckage. As soon as the safety device is released, Mack removes his helmet, and I finally take my first breath in what feels like minutes. I watch, helplessly, as he crawls out of the car. He waves to the crowd and walks toward the waiting ambulance. They help him inside before whisking him away to the infield care center.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I need to be there, be with him while he’s being checked out. What if something’s wrong and he’s seriously hurt? Who will take care of him if he needs it?
I know who’ll be there, and it won’t be me.
But it should be, dammit!
I pace back and forth, walking a mile in my living room while I wait for an update on his condition. I ignore the announcers and their take on the accident. I overlook the scene on the television as they remove his car with a wrecker and pick up all the debris. Instead, I send up thousands of prayers to anyone who’ll listen to make sure he’s okay.
Finally, they cut to a field broadcaster, who is standing with Mack outside the infield care center. He’s stoic and stiff as she asks, “Mack, you’ve been released from the care center. How are you feeling?”
He signs deeply. “Feeling fine, April.”
“What happened out there?”
“The car just got away from me. I don’t know if I cut a tire or what, but it shot up the track, and I was unable to keep it from hitting the wall. We didn’t have the best handling car today, but my team had been making great strides at improving it. I hate to see the Hicks car