Marc Newton wished he could run his race car business without sponsors. An illogical thought considering how much cross-marketing was done, making each side dependent on the other. Besides, the cold, hard reality for him came down to his ability to generate revenue. Especially now that his body threatened to punk out on his plan to dominate the auto racing landscape.
The business relationship, however, exacted a heavy debt. Sponsors wanted a chunk of his flesh with their legal teams pushing meetings that elicited endorsements for their various products, crafting deals for bigger profit margins, and pushing their cause for partnerships in other business ventures.
One day he awoke and his name was more than his identity. His fairly new iconic status had escalated on a steep incline and was now a viable brand. Sports pundits predicted that his income potential had only hit the tip of the iceberg. Being one of the top fifteen drivers in the National Car Racing Federation guaranteed him financial success.
In the competitive inner sanctum of the industry, a few critical sportscasters shared their belief that he hadn’t earned his stripes as yet. That was real BS. Every accolade he’d earned by rolling up his sleeves and working hard, putting in the long hours running his business, and being disciplined. No way would he apologize for his success.
His rise to the esteemed top fifteen started as a driver struggling to get experience first in the local and regional races and then on the bigger tracks and speedways. He wasn’t part of a family dynasty, nor had he nurtured business contacts to give him a leg up on the inner workings. Rather it was through dogged determination that he’d earned enough money to take the next step and serve as president of his own small company, Newton Enterprises. He also took on the double role as the key driver for his fleet.
His dream hadn’t changed since the first time he spent the day with his father at a car race. Nothing beat the roar of the engines, the electrifying speed of the cars shooting out onto the track. Each time he got behind the wheel, he channeled that rush of adrenaline to fuel his senses as he strategized his path to the finish line.
Some days he got to the finish line with a few bumps. Then there were those days when nothing fell into place and his car hurtled like a bumper car down the track. The last race shook and rattled his body like a rag doll between a Rottweiler’s teeth. A reaggravated neck injury now had his board of directors and sponsors wringing their hands like nervous Nellies. The investors pushed him to get a quick check-up by one of their recommended specialty doctors.
For Marc, the whole ordeal was a big waste of his time. He was willing to try anything to get out of the doctor’s appointment. However, since he couldn’t, the next strategy was to twist the female doctor around his finger. A flash of his smile and wave of tickets usually netted the results he wanted. And now he wanted a quick exam and an official release to race.