Taking A Stand: I get blamed for my son’s spinout
“Rubbin’ is racin’, son,” I told Jack even as I was bitten from behind by a wooden snake wielded by my wife who was trying to console our crying 7-year-old in the back seat as we left the NASCAR go-cart park in Pigeon Forge last week.
It all started out smooth, with no Chevy Chase-type “Vacation” problems as we headed for a short spring break trip in Pigeon Forge. Actually, it was above average as we avoided the bad weather everyone else had, and meanwhile, we didn’t have to fight lines because we went during the week.
Yep, it was all smooth until the controversial father-son confrontation at the go-cart park. And, before the “incident,” it was all fun and games as Jack worked his way up from the smaller kiddy carts to the more competitive road courses.
“Step on the gas and don’t let up,” I told Jack after watching him get passed left and right on an earlier race. “Give ’em the bumper if you gotta.”
My dog-eat-dog advice worked almost immediately as he cut through the next field like a hot knife through butter, putting the bumper to kids and adults alike on his climb up the leader board. For a while, he was the Intimidator, taking no guff from anyone. Boy, was I proud.
But, much like the story line of “Rocky V” when Tommy Gunn got too big for his britches, there came a time when his head got a little big as the constant talk of all his winning got old. It was time for the teacher to teach the pupil as we entered the same race. And yes, I practice what I preach. If Jack were to get in my way, I fully intended to put him in the fence.
So there we go, around the SlideWays course along with about 20 other competitors, with me about three cars back from Jack. It was at that point, I saw someone get into the back of him, spinning him out in the middle of the race course. I had to swerve to avoid hitting him broadside at full speed, but, in doing so I probably did something I shouldn’t have.
“Nice driving, Rusty,” I yelled at him with a grin on my face as I went by, meeting his glare from his vehicle, still sideways on the track.
It was following the race it all broke loose. While there was no brawl in the pits, there was screaming and yelling as Jack confronted me as I exited the track.
“You wrecked me,” he yelled, tears streaming from his eyes as he cited, in detail, the “do not bump” rules they tell riders before every race. “You cheated.”
Try as I might, even with his mother agreeing I had nothing to do with the spin, Jack continued to blame me for his crash. It was at some point I had enough of his allegations, and threw my hands up and pointed the herd towards the car at the end of the long day.
However, he wouldn’t let it rest, still crying as I pulled from the lot. That was the final straw.
“Toughen up son, rubbing is racing. Do you think Dale Junior cries every time he gets put in the wall,” I questioned.
However, my response was met by the sharp blow of a wooden snake against my shoulder, wielded by my wife, who was giving me the old “shut up” glare from the back seat.
“I’ll make it hurt next time,” she said, shaking the snake at me from the back seat, while announcing the controversy was ended.
So, three things learned from this vacation. Visit Pigeon Forge during the week for less lines. Don’t race in the same race with family members. And finally, don’t buy any wooden snakes at Dollywood because they sting.
Duane Sherrill is a reporter for the Standard. He can be reached at 473-2191 or by e-mail at [email protected].