(text comment to me at 682-593-3398)
I remember one time I was coming around the second turn, I floored it going into the straightaway and there was Big Ben in front of me. ‘The’ Big Ben, ten time national champion winner, fifty feet ahead of me. I had to shake my head to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. No, I wasn’t. It was him. Right away I thought I’d run in his draft and take second overall. I’d be proud enough of second because it was behind Big Ben.
We went on like that for a while until there were only eight corners left, two laps. I was sweating. If I could hold on, I’d come in number two to Big Ben’s number one. “That would be big”, I kept telling myself.
Midway in turn three, I saw he was off his track. Drifting too high.
There was an opening beneath him, I shot for it, and I was gone.
Checker and all.
After the race, I was being interviewed for the newspaper, and Big Ben walked over. I tensed up when I saw him coming. I couldn’t read his face. He walked right up to me, smiled, and shook my hand. His grip was firm.
He was looking at me and then he looked at the reporter, Phyllis Dunkirk and he told her to write in her story that he was proud to have come in second behind ‘BigTommy’.
That’s when Ben stopped doing as many events as he used to. He never won anymore.
Then he died.
I should have kept up with him, gone to visit him when he was alive. I absolutely should have.
I’m retired now. I’ve won nine national championships. One shy of Ben.
I ended up buying that racetrack.
When someone asks me why I named the racetrack Big Ben Raceway, I direct them to the framed newspaper clipping on my office wall.
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