wasn’t a jerk. She was proud of him. She wished she could help him win.
Many of the children had NASCAR posters and die-casts featuring the Roush driver who had been scheduled to visit, and Badger duly admired these totems of his competitor, and even signed them if the owner insisted. Sometimes, if the child had a shaved head or looked particularly ill, Badger would turn away for a moment and rub his eyes with the back of his hand.
She heard one of the parents ask Badger about Victory Junction, the camp for chronically ill children that the Petty family had founded near their home in Randolph County. She heard him say, “Sure, I’ve been there. That place is awesome. I think they ought to let Kyle Petty win every third race just because he’s a great human being.” His eyes were glistening again.
While Badger was busy scribbling his name on everything thrust at him, Rosalind began to wander around the room, handing out autograph cards and purple Team Vagenya pins to anybody who wanted one, and answering questions directed at her.
“No,” she’d explain, repressing a shudder. “I’m not his wife. I’m one of the team engineers.”
“Awesome!” said the redheaded boy in a wheelchair.
Suddenly, Rosalind spotted something she had not expected to find: a Badger Jenkins poster. It was taped above the bed of a frail blond girl: a smiling image of Badger in his white and purple firesuit, standing next to the team Vagenya car he had driven at Daytona. Intrigued, Rosalind forgot her aversion to strangers and went over to the little girl’s bed.
“You’re a fan of Badger?” she asked, trying to keep the note of astonishment out of her voice.
The little girl had been staring longingly at Badger who was still posing for pictures on the other side of the room, but now she turned to Rosalind and nodded solemnly. “I love Badger,” she whispered, glancing back over her shoulder, as if he could hear her from twenty feet away.
“He’ll be over here in a minute,” said Rosalind, sitting down in the bedside chair. “I promise he’ll come over. He’s going to be so glad to see you. What’s your name?”
“Elizabeth Baird.”
“Wow. That’s a great name. I just hope Badger can spell it.”
“Well, my dad calls me Littlebit.”
“Mine’s Rosalind.”
“Can Badger spell your name?”
Rosalind nodded. “Six different ways. So, tell me, Littlebit, how did you happen to choose Badger Jenkins as your favorite driver? Are your folks originally from Georgia?”
The little girl shook her head. “My grandparents live in Berea, Kentucky. They like Mark Martin.”
“But you like Badger instead, huh? How come?”
With a sigh of exasperation at having to explain something so obvious to a grown-up, Littlebit said, “Well
“I think we can send you a hat,” said Rosalind. “I’ll bet he’d even sign it for you. Would that do?”
A slender man in a tweed jacket hurried over to the little girl’s bedside, unwrapping a roll of film for his camera. “Littlebit,” he said, “you shouldn’t ask strangers to give you presents. It isn’t polite.”
“But she’s not a stranger, Daddy. She’s on Badger’s team.”
“Mike Baird,” said the man, shaking hands with Rosalind. “We all appreciate your coming to visit the kids today. Are you Badger’s publicist?”
“No,” said Rosalind, “I’m Rosalind Manning. I’m the team’s engine specialist, so I’m out of my depth today.”
Mike Baird smiled. “I’m an engineer, too,” he said. “Chemical engineering. I don’t think I’d be very good as a celebrity escort, either.”
They watched in silence for a moment as Badger made his way through the ward, signing autograph cards, chatting with the young patients, and posing for pictures with practiced ease.
“He’s great,” said Mike. “I don’t think he needs too much help today, so you should be fine. I’m glad he’s the driver who came. Badger is Elizabeth’s hero.”
“He’s a nice guy,” said Rosalind. “It’s nice to know he has a supporter here.”
Badger, who had finally seen the poster of himself, hurried over just then and enveloped the delighted girl in a hug. Rosalind stood up so that he could have the bedside chair. After snapping a few pictures of his daughter and her idol, Mike Baird went over to talk to Rosalind.
“He’s great with kids, isn’t he?”
Rosalind nodded. “Maybe it’s because he’s handsome. He never has to worry about people not wanting him around. But, yes, he really likes kids. And I did promise your daughter a signed Team 86 hat. So if you’ll give me your address, I’ll make sure that she gets one.”
“I don’t think you need to,” said Mike, nodding toward Badger. “He just took his hat off, and he’s signing it for her. I’m glad he’s a kind person. I wouldn’t have wanted her to be disappointed.”
“She’s a feisty kid,” said Rosalind. “I hope she’s not here for anything serious.”
“We hope not, too. They’re running tests. We try not to let her know we’re worried. Right now all she cares about is getting to see the NASCAR race on Sunday.”
“Will she get to see it?”
“TV in the lounge. Any chance you’re going to win this one?”
Rosalind sighed. “Not much of a chance, I’m afraid. We’re a one-car team, and we don’t have the resources or the research to really compete against the big teams. He’s a good driver, but it takes more than that in motorsports.”
Mike Baird looked thoughtful. “You know, I wonder if I might be able to help you out.”
Hey, Sark! How are things going with the Dream Team? Are you hooked on Vagenya yet?
No, Ed, but thanks for asking. You’ll be the first to know. I have been doing feature stories on some of the pit crew women. The media is interested in them, because they are an anomaly in a male-dominated sport.
Oh, good. Is it true that you have a blackjack dealer and a former Miss Norway?
No, Ed. What we have is Cindy, a bluegrass musician from Arkansas, and Sigur, a farm girl from Minnesota. No sensational stories there. Just nice people doing an unusual job. Actually, I’m kind of getting hooked on Badger Jenkins. He did his good deed yesterday. Wish I could have been with him, but I took the day off. Just my luck. It would have made a great firsthand feature.
What did he do? Rob a gas station?
You wish. He visited the children’s ward of a local hospital, filling in for some other driver who got sick at the last minute. And he turned down a paid gig to do it, too. Isn’t that wonderful? Not everybody thought so, though.
Really? Someone does not approve of kindness to sick children? Do tell.
According to the team secretary, Badger’s odious manager, who is variously called “His Restrictor Plate,” the “Dominatrix,” and other less printable epithets, was furious with him.
Sounds like she isn’t popular with Badger’s Angels.
You could say that. None of them would spit on her if she were on fire. And she treats Badger like dirt. She is also incompetent, if you ask me.
She must be beautiful then. Famous Cup drivers do not generally take crap from people, do they? Or even from each other if I recall the Bristol race correctly.
Cup drivers have short fuses, I think, but looks are not a factor here. The Dominatrix is certainly no beauty. Don’t get me started. She has the manners of a hyena, the fashion sense of a circus clown, and the composition skills of a spider monkey. I think she has promised to make Badger lots of money, but even if she were competent it would be uphill work. Badger is not what you’d call motivated. Except on the track. He’ll race his heart out on a speedway, but when it comes to everything else-appearances, interviews, sponsor events-you need a cattle prod to get him there.
That sounds like a promising observation for your article, Sark. “Slacker race car driver.”
No, it isn’t. So what if he’s not perfect? He’s a damn good driver. And at least he isn’t an arrogant jerk. Which is more than I can say for his manager. Today I had some die-cast cars that I wanted Badger to sign so that we could send them to various charity auctions-we get a dozen requests a week, at least. Well, Melodie was with Badger when I asked him, and before he could break away to do it, she said she’d be in touch to negotiate his fee for
