In my two previous articles concerning my friendship with George Steinbrenner I described George’s Deluxe powder blue convertible but what I failed to mention was on my seventeenth birthday my parents gave me a sporty light green 1950 Plymouth convertible.

When George heard about my gift he hurried over to our house to check out my new car.

As soon as he saw that my convertible was smaller than his convertible a look of relief spread across his face. And to top it off the MJ40 on my license plate was not as prestigious as his G7S. Therefore, in his mind, he was still the teenager that owned the very best car in Bay Village, Ohio.

One warm summer's day we were sitting underneath the oak tree in my front yard when we began to compare our cars. George complimented my car but, as usual, he boasted that his car was bigger, better and faster than mine. That was it. In his devious way George had thrown down the gauntlet and I knew I must accept his challenge.

That evening we met, with our cars, on a small dirt road in a neighboring suburb.

Then we parked our cars next to each other and at the count of three we put our pedals to the metal and like grease lightning we plunged into the night.

Halfway to the end of the road George zoomed by me and won the race. Then to make matters worse, when I arrived at the finish line he walked over to my car and said, in his most annoying tone, "Don't feel bad "Sport" it's not your fault my car is bigger and faster than yours."

We did race a few more times but our final race was so devastating for George we never raced again.

Our cars were parked together and at the count of three I took off in a cloud of dust but when I looked to the side George was nowhere to be seen. Of course, I stopped and went back to George's car and there he was, the race car king, sitting behind his steering wheel with a scowl on his face.

He explained that the gas gauge had broken in his "bigger and faster" car and it was out of gas.

Trying to help I said, "Don't feel bad, "Sport," I'll be happy to drive you, in my little car, to get a can of gas."

On the way to the gas station George was slouched down in the passenger seat. He was a broken man. I knew this was my chance.

So, with a sympathetic tone in my voice, I asked him if after we got the gas would he like to get something to eat and then I said, "I'd love to treat you to a big slice of humble pie."

We never raced again.

Mary Jane Schriner

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