No One Transfers to Finish Seventh
Monza, Italy.
If one had to name the most storied races in Formula One, the British Grand Prix at Silverstone and the Italian Grand Prix run here at Monza would fight for the crown. A meeting with that much history behind it. Perhaps that was why.
"Ferrari! Ferrari! Ferrari!"
It was only a practice session, two days before the Grand Prix, the drivers merely learning the track. Even so.
"Forza Ferrari!"
Tens of thousands of fans had packed the circuit.
"If the championship's already gone!"
"Then take the Italian Grand Prix, at least!"
"You want to watch the Brits lift the trophy in our own house?"
Hmm.
Lorenzo, chairman of Ferrari, listened to the roar without a word. They were right. With the season title already out of reach, the least they could do was raise a cup on home soil. And yet.
"......"
McLaren's form of late had been nothing short of shocking. Fine — McLaren won whenever it turned up; that much one could grant. Facing the other British teams, though — Lotus, Benetton, Williams — was a genuinely crushing task. A realistic aim for this race was a finish inside the top three. A place on the podium, if nothing else.
Damn it.
Since when had third place become Ferrari's goal? A bitter smile tugged at the corner of Lorenzo's mouth.
This is no time to stand here brooding.
He wore the title of chairman. He could not simply sink into despair over a season gone to waste. He had a duty to move, and quickly, for next year. Pour development money in now and the bill would run to several hundred billion won.
What I need is a top-class driver who can wring every last drop out of the engine.
Yes. A driver's salary, however steep, came to ten billion won at the outside. However he turned it over, signing a driver was the best move. Lorenzo hurried toward the drivers' rooms. In his heart he wanted Aiden Senna of McLaren, the finest racer alive.
"Tsk."
Even he had a conscience. He could not bring himself to look that way. Among the drivers he might actually sign, who stood at the top? Denilson of Benetton, almost certainly. How had mighty Ferrari fallen this far? The self-pity lasted only a moment. He walked on regardless.
A pounding beat thundered all the way down the corridor — bam, ba-bam, ba-ba-bam. No wonder a knock brought no answer.
"May I come in?"
Still nothing. With no choice left, he risked the discourtesy and turned the handle.
"Eek!"
A young woman saw him and let out a short scream. Damn it.
Of all the moments to pick.
One of Denilson's fans, by the look of her. They had meant to steal the break for a tryst. The woman fled the room in a rush, and Denilson stared at Lorenzo as if he could not believe his eyes.
"What the hell is this?"
"I am sorry. I knocked, and there was no answer."
The look said that no answer ought to have meant turning around. Why open the door at all and ruin another man's happiness? Lorenzo was opening his mouth to apologize again when Denilson spoke.
"You're still standing there taking the abuse, so... you came to offer me a contract?"
"I did."
"The salary?"
"I will guarantee twice what you earn now."
Did the figure please him? Denilson gave a light nod and asked.
"Next season. What happens with the engine and the power unit?"
"Ferrari will design them, of course..."
"Again?"
He did not say the rest. The look in his eyes did it for him: you finished seventh this year, and you have the nerve to do the same thing over?
"You do know Japan's the fashion these days?"
"......"
"McLaren switched to a Honda engine and went straight to a dominant first. You saw that."
Was he now to be lectured by a mere driver? Lorenzo was drawing a long breath when Denilson went on.
"If Honda's too hard, try asking Subaru. If that's difficult too, there's Toyota. Go find those people, ask if they're interested in F1, sweet-talk them a little..."
"So are you signing with us, or are you not?"
"A Ferrari engine? Then of course I can't. Sign, I mean."
"......"
Step. Step. All the way down the long corridor, Denilson's last words dug into Lorenzo's chest. An idiot who would transfer to finish seventh. Had the man already nailed it down — that Ferrari's engineering could reach no higher than seventh?
No. I've only met one of them...
Lorenzo went looking for his second-choice signing, the lead driver of Britain's Williams Racing team. More polite than Denilson, and nothing else. He asked the same question.
"Will Ferrari still be building the engines next year?"
A nod. Another nod.
"And you have no thought of asking Japan for help?"
"None."
At that reply the man spoke as if it were a pity.
"If I were choosing a car to keep in my garage, I would take a Ferrari without a moment's hesitation. But if I must choose a car to race, then of course it would be British. Or Japanese."
The second refusal had barely landed.
"......"
Lorenzo was standing in the corridor, face blank with disbelief, when a voice called from far off.
"Chairman!"
He turned. Ferrari's technical director was looking for him.
"The announcement... have you heard?"
"What announcement?"
"Derek... he's signed with Lotus in Britain for next season."
Derek was Ferrari's current first driver. British by nationality, but of Italian descent, and he had drawn a fair amount of sponsorship.
This suddenly?
Fine. A hundred times fine — let him leave when he meant to leave. Announcing a transfer on the eve of the Italian race was an insult to the home fans, was it not?
"Is this certain?"
"Yes. I confirmed it myself."
They were already short no matter whom they signed, and now even the lead driver had been taken by Britain. What on earth was he supposed to do? Damn it! Lorenzo clutched his head, all the strength gone out of him.
That evening I entered the circuit on a VIP pass, thanks to Tennessee, who had come with me. I had been told it was only a practice day.
"Ferrari! Ferrari! Ferrari!"
The roar poured in from every side.
"To them, Ferrari's no different from a religion. No matter how bad the results get, they'll never sell."
That was Tennessee's explanation. Tch. I had come prepared, but facing the heat of the crowd in person, I felt it through my whole body.
It feels like I've come to buy the Italian national football team.
Buying was out of the question. I would be lucky not to have stones thrown at me. Even so, what choice did I have? The die was already cast. I would have to see it through somehow. I was still sorting my thoughts when it happened.
A rush of air, a roar — an orange car slipped into view, and an instant later, with a shriek and a howl, it was already gone down the track. Olivia had been blindingly fast, and this was a level one dared not compare. The sound alone was enormous. Stand at the front of the amp at a rock festival and it would be exactly like this.
"They're posting times even in practice?"
"There's an order, too."
First, of course, was McLaren. Second Williams, third Benetton, fourth Lotus...
"They're all British."
"It's the home of motorsport."
Football, rugby, motor racing — all of it British, he said. In any case, Ferrari was sixth. Only because Derek, the first driver, had put in a decent time did they manage even that. Look at the second driver's lap and it was nearly last. Even so.
"Forza Ferrari!"
The fans kept chanting the name. Practice ended, and the cars came back in one after another. Then — huh? Black smoke began to rise from a Ferrari that had just pitted. Derek yanked the steering wheel free and bailed at once. As if they had been waiting, flames leapt up, roaring. The marshals brought extinguishers, but the fire would not die easily.
"For Ferrari, this is the worst possible situation."
Tennessee again.
"They've only just built the feel in practice, and the car catches fire. Bring a new one tomorrow somehow, and it still won't be the car they drove today."
In baseball terms, it was a broken-in glove splitting on you, and a stiff new one that had never been worn shoved into your hand.
"This ought to be quite a show."
Tennessee was smiling a wry, self-mocking smile when I quietly got to my feet.
"Where are you going?"
"To see Chairman Lorenzo."
"He's going to be in a foul mood. You sure about this?"
The warning lasted only a moment.
"Then again, you'll manage. You always do."
Tennessee shrugged. Chairman Lorenzo's face was as bad as a face could be. Ferrari had already been handed the worst report card of the season. And now this humiliation. He was about to leave in a hurry when I stopped him.
"It's a pleasure to meet you."
I bowed to him. This was the VIP zone. He seemed to decide I was no ordinary person.
"......"
The chairman looked me slowly up and down. An Armani suit, a vintage Patek Philippe, and John Green shoes besides. Nothing to fault in the clothes, perhaps. Lorenzo checked his own appearance and asked.
"Who are you?"
"Park Jihoon. I recently acquired Modena FC."
"Modena FC?"
For an instant his eyes wavered. Then his expression changed.
"The new owner I met was a middle-aged white man. How is it that you acquired Modena?"
"You must mean Mr. Baker."
"......?"
"He is an executive at our company. He handles sports marketing."
"Then the owner who came to the opener was only an operator... and the actual owner is you?"
Instead of answering, I took out a business card and handed it to him.
"I'll be in Monza through the weekend. If it suits you, please call anytime."
Right then, the eyes studying my card went wide.
"...JH? You mean the JH that acquired Guccio?"
An Italian house, perhaps. Of all the brands, he had picked out Guccio.
"Yes. That's right."
"I had heard the president was young, but..."
His face said he had not imagined this young. The reaction lasted only a moment.
"The president of JH acquires Modena FC, and that is not enough — today you come to me in person?"
He shot me a quiet glare.
"You have some intention. Am I getting ahead of myself?"
"Hardly. If I had come all the way to Monza with no intention, that would be the lie."
Deep wariness and a curiosity he could not suppress tangled across his face.
"I have something urgent to say about Ferrari's future."
That was why every company that had ever tried to acquire Ferrari had been turned away. They had tried to buy Ferrari with money.
And that would be touching the pride of the Ferrari family.
I opened my mouth, slowly.