Pulled the shirt out this morning.
It's been folded in the same drawer since the last race weekend, and the one before that, and the one before that. Faded gray. HAMMERS Racing across the chest in red that used to be redder. Dad's from '88.
He raced for them maybe four times. Not a full season. Not even close. The team folded inside a year. He kept the shirt because he kept everything from that part of his life — the helmet, the gloves, two boxes of trophies that aren't really trophies, three plaques from sponsors that don't exist anymore. The shirt's the only thing that ever left his closet.
I started wearing it in high school. He didn't say anything about it. Mom did once — said I'd ruin it. I have not ruined it. I've worn it to every race weekend since I was sixteen.
It doesn't quite fit anymore. Two kids and twenty years will do that to a shirt and a person. I wear it anyway. I wear it under a flannel half the time. It's the wearing that matters.
Dad called last night. He wanted to know if we needed anything from the store before he and Mom drive over Saturday. I said no. He asked again. I said no, Dad, we have everything. He said all right then, in the way he says it that means he'll bring something anyway.
He'll bring something anyway. He always does.
He asked if I was wearing the shirt. He asks every race weekend. I said yes. He said good, and we hung up.
That's the conversation, mostly. It's been the conversation for thirty years.
The smoker's coming up to temp out back. Pork shoulder's been salted since this morning. I'll get it on tonight, low heat, and it'll be ready by Saturday afternoon for sandwiches before the race even starts. The chili's Sunday — that's Dad's pot, not mine.
Caleb's in the garage with the carburetor in pieces on a towel. He'll have it back together by Sunday morning. He says by Saturday. He's lying. He knows he's lying. I know he's lying. We've been through this.
Crank's asleep on the porch. The duck is somewhere he shouldn't be. The radio in the garage is on low, working through Friday practice down at Charlotte. Caleb keeps stopping what he's doing to listen when a name comes up he recognizes.
It's quiet, mostly. The kind of quiet that has a Sunday in it.
I'll wear the shirt Saturday morning and again Sunday. I'll wash it Monday. I'll fold it back into the drawer.
That's the thing about ritual. It only counts if you do it.