Free In the Blink of an Eye by Michael Waltrip

lost one race driving for Dale’s team—or for you—and maybe you guys should focus on that. But they’d probably tell me they know what they have to do to sell auto parts, and they appreciate my input, but could I please leave now so they can continue their research.
    This waiting was nerve-wracking and exhausting. Then I started thinking what a big disaster a “Thanks but no thanks” from NAPA would mean for me.
    I didn’t want to just fade away as a footnote in NASCAR history—a guy who may have lost more races than anyone in Cup. I wanted to change that. I wanted to be a winner. I couldn’t stand the thought of how the Waltrip family history would read after NAPA’s “No, thanks”: One brother, eighty-four wins, three championships. The other brother, zero and zero.
    Sure, I was the sweeter, taller, and better-looking brother, but they don’t put that in the record books. A-holes!
    This career that had started with such promise could soon be ending in disappointment. Day two was dark. I couldn’t wait for it to end. It did.
    Day three was Friday, decision day. I woke up in Richmond, Virginia, where that weekend’s NASCAR races were being held.
    Day three could be a whole lot better, I knew—or a whole lot worse. Or the news from Atlanta could be: “We need three more days, Dale.” That would be better than an outright no, but how much better? Dale had made it clear he needed to know by Friday.
    And he didn’t just make Friday up. That’s when he had to know by in order to get ready for Daytona.
    When I got out of bed in my bus at Richmond International Raceway, I knew that this most likely would be the day I’d find out what my future looked like.
    Would I just continue to be the so-so race-car driver laboring and hoping I’d win because everybody else ran out of gas like they did in Charlotte when I won for my dad? There could be worse things, I told myself. You can’t win if you’re not out there trying.
    It looked like I’d be able to do something in 2001. But I didn’t want to do just something. I wanted to race for Dale. With that opportunity, I could define my career.
    Come on, you bunch of folks down there in Atlanta who I don’t even know! Come on, NAPA! Come through!
    Fortunately for me, being at Richmond meant being at the racetrack. Nothing takes your mind off the outside world like strapping yourself into a seven-hundred-horsepower race car. That’ll grab your attention. For me, most of that Friday I knew I’d be focused on the race and my car.
    After making a couple of practice runs, I looked up and Dale was walking toward me. He leaned in and asked how I was doing. I went right into telling him about my car.
    “I can’t get it to turn,” I said. “And when it does, the back end won’t stay under me. Same old stuff you fight at Richmond.”
    Typical racer-to-racer chatter. But Dale didn’t come over to ask me about my car, and I think it’s funny that I didn’t realize that. Dale had come to tell me NAPA had called.
    But I was making it hard for him to deliver the news. Before he could get around to telling me what he’d come over for, I asked him: “What’s your car doing?”
    “Which one of mine?” he asked. “The one I drive, or the ones I own?”
    Then suddenly it struck me: Oh, yeah. He does own cars. And it’s Friday, NAPA day. I forgot. How could I do that? “Right. Your cars. Am I gonna be driving one of them next year?”
    He nodded and then gave me that big Earnhardt grin. “Yep. NAPA is in. I’m going to race three Cup teams next year.”
    “Well, congratulations, car owner,” I told him.
    “You too, driver.”
    Do you know how many guys in the world would want to be addressed by Dale Earnhardt like that?
    “Driver.”
    That’s who I’d just become, the one-in-a-million guy.
    I wanted to jump for joy. And I tried to do so, and to grab Dale too. But I was strapped in. I could barely pump my fists. But I was happy. Another answer I wanted to