I am certain that my daughter is the only student in her school to have seen a race car driver over her spring break. Nearly two months ago, we drove the hour and a half from Tallmadge (read: Akron), Ohio to Cranberry Township (read: Pittsburgh), Pennsylvania to get autographs from the man in orange. We had no idea what to expect, so we left the day open to adventure, as she put it, at the Depot.
The DeWalt show car was waiting in the parking lot when we pulled in around 11:45 that morning. My daughter wasn’t sure who drove the 17, but when she asked if we liked that driver I said, “Arby’s curly fries.” That was a yes, and she knew it. She ran for the line that had started inside but was about a hundred deep outside, and flipped open her pink and blue ice cream patterned lawn chair.
“How long until he gets here?”
I walked out into the lot to take pictures of the 17 while she held down the fort. Armed with her Nintendo DS and a Bunnicula novel, along with a set of Magic Tree House Uno cards and a box of bee-shaped honey graham crackers, she was ready for the long haul. Within the next hour, a flourish of orange and black clad fans flocked to the orange barrels and orange and checkered flags that roped off the line. The man who sat behind us settled in with his headphones and a banana that looked like it had seen better days. It wasn’t long before the woman behind him struck up a conversation.
“I don’t know what to say to him. I’m just going to say ‘I love you,’ because that’s the truth. I hope I don’t pass out.”
At this, my daughter and I smiled at each other over our Uno game, and the banana man asked us who usually won at cards.
“She does,” I said, honestly, although I had beaten her three times in a row and she was ready to play Purr Pals on the DS to recover some of her dignity. In the sea of orange and black that surrounded us, I noticed a little further up the line a blue folding chair with the 24 on the back. I pointed out this anomaly, and my daughter began to growl. Like a dog. The banana man’s eyes grew wide.
“After we get our wristbands, I need to go get my helmet for him to sign. Can I leave my chair here?”
I assured him his place when he came back, with the expectation that he would do the same for me.
“There’s only so long a little girl can go without visiting the ladies room,” I mentioned, and he agreed. A little girl in a stroller in front of us whined, “potty” and her older sister, all of maybe ten years old but wearing more blue eye shadow that I was allowed to wear during my entire high school career, picked her up to take her into the store. Their mother was arguing with their father over her Sidekick.
“When are we getting home? What does he think this is?” she railed at her phone.
With my daughter engaged in virtual cat play, I took a few minutes to watch as the line seemed to multiply exponentially. It grew past the flags and barrels and into the parking lot, where the Stewart trailer was selling a variety of merchandise for those who needed something for him to autograph or, as the woman behind the banana man noted, just wanted more Tony stuff. She showed me the silver watch she recently bought.
“Every time I call to order something, I say, ‘this is the biggest Tony Stewart fan in the world,’ and you know, it’s his aunt, and she knows me. My husband says he is the reason I get up in the morning, and he’s right. It’s pathetic, but here I am.”
She smiled as she said this, cozy in her Tony Stewart pants, tshirt, sweatshirt, and jacket. She had a beaded 20 bracelet and silver 20 earrings. I felt like a slacker. The only Stewart-wear I had on was my 20 belly ring, and unlike some of the other female fans, I wasn’t displaying my midsection in the 45 degree weather.
The buzz was loud as perfect strangers become fast friends, and the two o’clock wristband distribution loomed closer.
“We have season tickets to Watkins Glen – we are just down the street.”
Wow, and I thought we had come a long way.
“Pocono. I never miss a race.”
My daughter listened along with me, a little intimidated by the crush of orange and black, the cigarette smoke, and guffaws from the group behind us.
“Is that far away?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
I nodded just as the wristband people arrived, shouting out instructions and rules as they moved up and down the lines, wrapping the strips of orange paper around our right wrists. It was nearly 2:30 when we left to grab lunch at the local A&W (which, strangely enough, was paired with a Long John Silver’s) and rushed back for the next round of waiting.
Soon after our return, a DJ rolled out his laptop and speakers as the crowd watched.
“Are there any Tony Stewart fans out there?”
The mass of orange and black yelled as one collective beast.
“Yeah!”
For the next hour, we were treated to a variety of shuffle-inducing songs, from the swing sound of Glen Miller to the eighties groove with Pat Benatar. The banana man and I were pleasantly surprised when Earth, Wind and Fire took over.
“I bet this isn’t what most of these people listen to.”
I smiled in agreement, watching as most of the crowd continued to talk, ignoring the music as he and I sang along. The world seemed to shift on its axis, however, when someone started explaining how Billy had his beer goggles on. Everyone, except the two of us and my daughter, who was busy kicking at an orange bucket, knew the words to that one. They were dancing, alone and with each other, and even the kids knew about Billy and his broken heart. The banana man shouted over the chorus.
“What did you bring for him to sign?”
He held his helmet, safe in its fabric pouch, close to his heart as I pulled two books out of my purse.
“Books? You brought books?”
He scowled at me good naturedly. At this point I was pretty sure that among the hats, tshirts, photos, cars, helmets, and the solitary gas can from Indianapolis Motor Speedway, I was the only fan with books. My daughter petted the covers of Rebel with a Cause and True Speed lovingly.
“I’m a librarian,” I explained. He nodded in understanding.
The woman behind him was hopping up and down.
“I hope I don’t pass out. I hope I don’t pass out.”
The couple behind her was talking about Kevin Harvick. She was crocheting something blue, and he was waxing poetic about Harvick. My daughter stuck out her tongue. We both saw that last race.
The DJ moved from “Play That Funky Music White Boy” to “I Can’t Drive 55,” and we all screamed along as my daughter clung to the front of my coat, enjoying the ride but still unsure of where it would take her. When the chicken dance came up, she quickly moved into action, displaying her knowledge of a dance I never taught her.
“Where did you learn how to do that?” I asked. She shrugged.
After “YMCA,” the DJ regretted that it was time for him to move inside for the last hour before Tony arrived. A collective moan rose from the group. Many fans were well equipped with Home Depot promotional materials that had been vaulted into the crowd during the past hour, including pens, picture cube puzzles, aprons, and a combination screwdriver and flashlight.
“Look, Mommy, there’s a flat one and a Phillips one, too.”
I was once again awed by my child’s knowledge. When I was eight I had no idea there were different screwdriver heads, never mind what they were called.
As five o’clock approached, the crowd became excited. I could almost smell it, and I’m not talking about the Aqua Net, White Shoulders, and cigarette smoke that had been the rampant odors of the afternoon. A Home Depot employee waved his hands in front of us to catch our attention, and as a hush fell and heads turned, he spoke.
“Tony’s running a little late. President Bush came into Pittsburgh this afternoon and his security protocol has made it hard for Tony to get here. He’ll be here, though, he’s on his way.”
Someone yelled out, clearly annoyed, “Who cares about Bush?”
“He’s our president!” someone else hollered back.
After the Home Depot employee reassured us that Tony would still sign for two hours, regardless of his time of arrival, the unrest settled.
“Well, we’ve been here six hours anyway, what’s another hour?”
It wasn’t that long, though, before the line started to move and the woman behind the banana man looked like she was going to cry.
“I keep wanting to go to the bathroom and check my makeup.”
I shook my head.
“Don’t worry, you look fine. I don’t think he’ll have time to really notice us anyway. Five hundred or so people, two hours to sign, he’s really under the gun.”
She nodded, clearly disappointed. My daughter started to jump up and down, and as we stepped into the store, I could feel my face flush. We were really going to meet Tony Stewart.
He was fast with that pen. I watched him sign, smile, laugh, all the while keeping the line moving so that as many fans as possible got autographs. I noticed that his hair was gone and I pouted a little. By the time we reached the front of the line and a man took my books and asked where I wanted Tony to sign, I wondered, like the woman behind the banana man, what to say. My daughter stepped up on the platform so she could see Tony as he signed first one book, then the other. He looked up at her and a softness came over his face.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and gentle, and I watched her smile, just a little, as he spoke to her.
“Your hair is gone,” I blurted.
He noticed me beside my daughter. He didn’t smile.
“I lost a lot of hair this week. First my back, then I got my hair cut the other day,” he looked right at me, but before I could respond, he was holding the banana man’s helmet and looking down to sign it.
My daughter and I walked away as Home Depot employees thanked us for coming. I wanted to kick myself.
“You didn’t pass out, though,” my daughter reassured me.
She was right, and with so many fans and so many autographs, I was hopeful he would forget the one who made the stupid hair comment. I paused for a moment as we drove down the street towards the highway that would lead us home, noticing a Krispy Kreme sign and wondering if a dozen doughnuts would make up for my stupidity. Next time, I thought, as I watched my daughter in the rear view mirror as she rolled up in a blanket and lay down on the backseat. I’ll bring him doughnuts next time.
Tony Stewart, Two Time NASCAR Cup Series Champion
