“ “The” Accident ”
By Kellyanne Lynch
25 February 2002, 11:00 PM – 15 March 2002, 2:37 AM


Disclaimer: Parts of this fanfiction are based on events that actually took place. I researched the Busch Series race in Bristol in April, 1990, as thoroughly as I could, using sources all over the Internet. Whatever I could find, I used in the story. Everything else, I made up. Therefore, this is NOT a historical account of what truly happened, just historically based. It is for entertainment purposes only. All of the characters in the story are real people. I attempted to paint them as best as I could, but due to limited knowledge implicit in the personal lives of all celebrities, my depictions are not entirely accurate. I do not know ANY of the people portrayed in this story, nor have I ever met any of them. [Don’t I WISH!!! ESPECIALLY Mikey!!!]

Summary: A NASCAR fic centred around Michael Waltrip, DW, and the worst single car crash in the history of stock car racing

Author’s Note: I was 5/7 through this story when I was involved in a wreck. I was run off the road Sunday night. My beautiful BEAUTIFUL gray 1987 Honda Civic CRX is now totaled. I love this car. My uncle’s a mechanic, and he says it’s unsalvageable. This accident was NOTHING like the one in which Michael Waltrip was involved. If you go to www.crashin.nu, you can see pictures from that wreck – it was MUCH worse!!! Still, from what I know about that wreck, and from what I’ve learned from my own, I gave Michael the same injuries as the ones I sustained in the fic, just slightly more mild. BTW, pictures from his crash in 2000 are also posted at that site. I saw those first, and mistook them for the one in 1990. Just a couple days ago, I saw the real deal. It is amazing that he survived it! Needless to say, I had to rewrite part of a chapter when I saw the actual pictures.

Author’s Note #2: Just after I finished writing the story, I read that Dale Earnhardt was in the Busch Series race in Bristol. Oops. But my story is already written, and too much of it has to do with Dale Earnhardt NOT racing that day. Since this is a work of fiction anyway, I’m leaving it the way it is. Just know, in real life, he came in fifth that day, though he didn’t even drive in the fic. WOW, to place fifth and not even race?! Only in fanfiction!

Author’s Note #3: In case you’re interested, I also have a NASCAR list, “102 Reasons Michael Waltrip Rules”. You can find it in my profile. Please read it too if you have a chance; I had fun writing it.

Dedication: To all those INCREDIBLY awesome NASCAR fanfic writers out there who have been cranking out some wonderful stories. Y’all are giving me my fix!!!

Rating: PG

* Please e-mail matchbox20orbusted@yahoo.com with questions, comments, theories, complaints, or words of wisdom.

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1: Much Needed Repairs

April 7, 1990

Darrell Waltrip sauntered through the Busch Series garage area of Bristol Motor Speedway, watching the ground and whistling. His sights came upon the rear fender of the #32 Pontiac, with feet sticking out from underneath. Darrell kicked them.

“Hey, DJ!” Darrell shouted to the pair of once white, now worn tennis shoes. “What’s going on under there?”

Dale Jarrett rolled out from beneath the car, a scowl painted across his pale, wiry lips. He rose to a sitting position on the board. Wiping his hands on a rag, Dale managed a grimace. “The suspension’s all off,” he announced, tossing the rag to the ground.

“Need me to take a look at it?” Darrell offered, and Dale shook his head.

“Nah, I think I’ve just about got it, but thanks!” Again, Dale laid back and slid beneath his car. “I think I saw your brother fighting a Coke machine down in Kyle Petty’s garage.”

Easing into a sitting position by his friend’s legs, Darrell shook his head. Then realised that Jarrett couldn’t see him. “I’m not here to see Michael.”

“Then what are you doing here?” A hand appeared by the left rear tire and grabbed hold of a greasy socket wrench. The tool slipped out of its fingers. “Damn!”

Taking up the wrench, Darrell carefully dropped it into the outstretched hand. Which retreated back under the car. “I came to see you, actually! Figure you’re going to run an excellent race today.”

“Not if this adjustment doesn’t take!” the voice echoed beneath the automobile, and Jarrett slid out again. His face was flushed, and he panted in the stuffy, ninety degree garage. “You know, I’m prob’ly not the one to watch. Michael was doing really well in practice today.”

“Really?” Darrell replied with a hollow tone. “Well good for him!”

Dale looked into his comrade’s eyes. The orbs of slate reflected back at him, and Jarrett narrowed his gaze. Still, only the glossy façade remained. Rapping his fingers on the underside of the fender, Dale watched as Darrell turned away. And followed his gaze across the garage area, by the Coke machines, to the bushy moustached gentleman in the straw, cowboy style hat. Dale sighed. He grabbed a Philips head screwdriver, leaned back, and rolled his body under the car once more.

Darrell’s eyes focused upon Richard Petty, the man by the Coke machines. Richard Petty, his greatest rival, both on AND off the track. Richard Petty, who owned his brother’s car and who, in Darrell’s mind, practically owned his brother too.

Darrell scowled, then turned toward his friend, only to be greeted by the driver’s bent denim knees. “You sure you don’t want any help under there?” he asked, and swatted Dale’s knee.

“I’m sure to lose if I let you go tinkering with it!”

A laugh escaped from Darrell’s lips. He shook his head. “Dale, Dale.” He sighed with a smile. “You’re sounding just like Rusty!”

Darrell’s chuckle to himself subsided as he leaned his back into the rear fender of the #32 car. He wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead and heaved a sigh. Sights falling to the ground, he watched as the left foot of those worn tennis shoes tapped out a 4/4 beat. Its rhythm was mesmorising, lulling Darrell into a trance. He found himself thinking about nothing as the late morning sun heated the left side of his face.

Dale slid out from beneath the car. He rose to a sitting position, feet flat on the ground, knees crooked, arms slung across his quads. Glancing over his shoulder, Jarrett spotted his water bottle and grabbed it. Pulled open the top and knocked back a few gulps. A sliver of water streaked from the corner of his lips, streaming down his jaw’s left side and sinking into the dust. Dale lowered the bottle with an “ah!” and wiped his mouth. He held the bottle out to his fellow driver. “You thirsty, buddy?”

Darrell jumped, a hand slapping to his chest with a gasp. Staring deer-in-the-headlights at the other, he voiced, “Nah, I’m all set.”

Dale squinted at Darrell. He pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side. “You all right today?”

Furrowing his brows, Darrell looked Dale in the eye. “Why you ask that?” His back straightened.

Dale shrugged. He opened his palms and slapped his legs. “Maybe because you’re so damn quiet.”

“I’m just tired is all,” Darrell huffed with a grimace. He pressed his back further into the fender. “I’ve had to do a lot of running around for the sponsors this week.”

“Yeah, I hear ya,” Dale sighed. His eyes widened and broke contact with Darrell’s. “It’s been a busy week for me too. But things’ll slow down soon enough, I figure. And then we’ll be missing the busy times.” A smile bloomed on his lips, and he turned back to his friend. “You’re not too tired to race tomorrow’s Winston Cup, now are you?”

Darrell snorted. Pressing his lips together, he wagged his head. “Heck no! Butcha know, even if I WERE dog tired, I would still whoop you! Even if I had to go without a pit crew, if I had to make all my own adjustments and change all my own tires…”

Dale chuckled. “Whatever you say, Jaws! Whatever you say!”

“Don’t doubt me!” Darrell shot his index finger at his fellow driver. “You KNOW I could do it! You just be happy that I didn’t choose to race today! This could be your day in the sun, buddy! Take advantage of not having to eat my dust!”

An amused expression came over Dale’s face. He stared at his friend a half a minute before asking, “Are you quite finished, Waltrip?”

Wide eyed, Darrell nodded. “I think I’ve had my say.”

And, with that, Dale got to his feet. “Well,” he announced, “I’m gonna go get myself cleaned up…”

“Please do!”

“… And get all suited up for the race.” Dale wagged a finger at his friend with a smile. “Now are you going to behave, or do I have to go get the Intimidator over here to make sure you watch that mouth of yours?”

Incredulous, Darrell exclaimed, “What mouth? I tell it like it is!”

“Like hell you do!” Dale’s teeth peeked out of his grin. He drew his hands to his waist. Nudging his head toward the other end of the garage area, he said, “Why don’t you go say hello to your brother.”

Darrell shrugged. “The boy’s probably busy.”

Dale shook his head, his teeth slipping back behind his lips. “Oh come on. He’ll be thrilled to see ya! Just go on over there and say hello! It won’t take long.” He turned, and stepped away from his friend. Darrell watched as Dale plodded out of the garage area, and silhouetted in the sun’s glare. He sighed, then hung his head and shook it. He paced toward Kyle Petty’s car.

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So what do you think of it so far? Hey, I have a chapter two ready to post! Just want to see what you say about this one! Oh, and if you liked this chapter, you will LOVE the next!!! Unless you're only reading this for Dale Jarrett. If so, you'll hate it, cause he's not in chapter two. But he'll be back!!!

Anyway, please review!!!

- dj

(yes, I've got the same initials as Dale Jarrett)