Uncle Mike said. He sat in a chair across the hotel room from me. It was eight o’clock. Between us sat a tray full of dirty dinner dishes left from our room-service meal. Who needed a mother to cook, I always said, when all you had to do was pick up the telephone and call downstairs. “I hope it’s not a lot,” I said. I really wanted to see my name on the screen. “Since Sandy didn’t qualify, we’ll have to wait an entire week to get any footage of her on the track.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed. He rubbed his face with both hands. He sighed again. “We can at least do interviews with some of the crew during the week, right?” I asked. “I mean, at least we’ll be getting some work done while we wait.” “I suppose,” Uncle Mike agreed. One of the great things about being his nephew was that I could be in on a lot of his brainstorming sessions. And Uncle Mike never minded listening to my ideas. “But part of what’s going to make this documentary so great is tying in all the interviews to actual races.
