My head in the refrigerator, I search for...a pickle? No, but didn't I buy some strawberries? No, no no, something sweet, something dark, something chocolate. Yes, and there it is...Then I hear my ringtone: Steven Tyler yelling, 'Answer your damn phone.'
I jerk. My head clunks against something hard, in the door. A bottle of apple cider vinegar? And it hurts. "Ooooouch. Damn."
Rubbing my head, I reach the phone. "I...yes...Hello? This is Brentwood. What time is it?" The clock says 5:03 am. Yikes.
"Who may I ask..." I ask.
"It's me. Danica. Danica Patrick. What am I going to do?"
"Beats the hell out of..."
"I thought I had way more time before something like this. She's only fourteen. How can this be?"
"It's so early...in the...morning...?" I say. So, this is what a sunrise looks like. I've always wondered. Oh boy. "Maybe, Danica, we should start at the beginning here. And...how did you get this number?...if I may ask."
"Brentwood, I read your SportsBlog when I 'm not driving and stuff. Look, I tried my agent, but she's in Hawaii, with some guy named Ronaldo, and my manager is to hell and gone, on some kind of trip up the Amazon."
"So of all the other people in the world..."
"She's only fourteen? Chelsey O'Reilly, that's her name? And people already know her. Driving stock cars in some backwater burg up in Canada. Agassiz Speedway, British Columbia. She's stealing all my style, all my fire. She can't be doing this to me."
"Danica, my dear. It's okay. Now let's step back, and..."
"She had her picture on Yahoo, with her lucky pink fingernails. Gimme a break. No body can drive with those things on. Trust me, I've tried. Pink. Now isn't that cute. The next woman stock car celebrity? I'm nothing all of a sudden? Yesterday's chopped liver? I don't think so, Little Missy."
"I understand," I say. "But can't this wait until...?"
"Hey, I am real sorry about that, but, hey man, I got a situation here. I got maybe what? Ten years max. My bikini body ain't getting any younger, you know. She's only 14, and still growing. She can only get better."
She breathes heavily. "This can't be happening. I'm so screwed."
Do I hear a tear?
"Danica," I say. "Maybe winning a race, you know, could be good for your image..."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, win a race. I know. But I've won races. I'm the top lady in racing. Me. My fans want to see me. It's hard work."
"Chelsey O'Reilly?" I say. "I've read about her. Her father was a racer too. Now she's driving the same 1968 Chevy Chevelle he drove."
I click on my computer, move the mouse, and type in Google.
"Here it is. They call themselves Team O’Reilly. Driver, Chelsey. Pit crew, her two sisters, Chrystal and Veronica, Mechanic, Dad, and Moral Support? That's Mom Margaret. It's a family affair."
"Damn. It's perfect. She's perfect...and she's so young. Soooo young."
"So..."
"You're right. I could manage a few more top tens, but racing's so hard. All those other cars. Those guys are good. Trying to stay in shape. Doing personal appearances. And now this?"
"Danica, do you seriously think this Chelsey is a real threat?"
"Helloooo. Her motto is just don't finish last. Now ain't that cute. The under dog everybody can get behind. It's just unfair."
"Well, according to this Yahoo article, she's been practicing ever since she was..."
"It's like I'm a target out there," says Danica. "I'm crashing all the time, skidding into the wall, and when I spin out right in front of the grandstands, my car doesn't even burst into flames. Somebody fixed it that way. It's so humiliating. I know they're out to get me."
"Tell you what. Why not sponsor a race up there? At this Agassiz Speedway? The Danica 300? Why fight it?"
"I guess...I could do that?" she says. "That's good. Sure, she's stealing my fans, stealing my thunder, stealing my title 'Queen of Auto Racing,' her and her family. But I'm above all that. Is that what you're saying?"
"Why not?" I say. "Why not buy a percentage of her. Team O'Reilly. Come on, she's no competition...yet. What other woman can really take your place? Promote her yourself."
Silence.
"I like that," she says. "Like I'm one step ahead of her. I'm the bigger person. Brilliant. And if she gets hot, I'm getting a slice of her action. Brentwood, how can I thank you?"
"I don't want you thinking like Tanya Harding. Think like a big corporation. They just buy out their competition. Do the same thing."
"You're right. She's nothing. But she thinks she's so cute. They picked her to hand out trophies last weekend. So she buys herself a tiara to wear. Hell of lot more to being a NASCAR driver. A whole lot more."
"She hangs around the track. She drives against drivers twice her age. She's a woman in a man's world. Sounds a lot like you, Danica?"
"Kinda. You wouldn't believe what I did before I got....so...popular. You're right. Fans will want somebody else, sometime soon, I know that. I guess I could start winning races, but this is better. Rise above these Stock Cars. Start training the next generation. I like that. Brentwood you're the best."
"Well, I'm glad I could..."
"I'm going to call her right now."
"She probably in the pits."
"Yeah, polishing those long, pink, stupid...real stupid...fingernails of hers."
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HELP COMES FROM:
sports.yahoo.com/photos/best-of-sports-slideshow/rookie-race-driver-o-reilly
Google/Images, readabilityformulas.com,
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