The roar of the celebration in the garage below was a distant, physical pressure against the soles of my shoes, a wave of sound from a world I was not yet a part of. I stood in the sterile silence of the hallway outside the FIA technical delegates' offices, a place of cold light and colder rules, waiting. It was a space for judgments, and I had one left to deliver.
When he finally appeared at the far end of the corridor, he looked smaller. The television cameras had portrayed a fallen monarch. The man walking toward me was just… a man. Stripped of his fireproof suit, he wore a sweat-soaked team polo shirt that clung to his frame. His hair was matted, his face smudged with grime and tears, his eyes hollowed-out caverns of disbelief. The frenetic energy of a world champion had been replaced
