Like two siblings play fighting, they circle one another, looking for a weakness. Occasionally one goes in for an open-handed slap while the other dodges. It’s an exercise in humility and entertainment for one, an all-out fight for survival for the other. Occasionally, just often enough as so that one must stay alert, the younger or smaller one will land an actual blow upon the brow or shoulder of the older and bigger sibling. A sign that almost says, “Don’t get too complacent, I’m just waiting for my growth spurt.” For many years that is the role Max Verstappen occupied in the mind of Lewis Hamilton.

 

 A child born and bred to race, Verstappen grew up around the track watching both his father and mother compete. By the time he turned 15 he was being compared to some of the greatest drivers of all time and was tapped to become the next great Formula One (F1) champion. At 17 he competed in his first F1 grand prix and by 18 had claimed his first victory. Hamilton on the other hand embodies almost everything to the contrary. Raised in state housing half an hour north of London, the Mercedes driver dragged himself to the top. Supported by a father working three jobs he began karting at age eight, quickly making a name for himself. By the time he was 13, he was already employed by Mclaren Racing, ensuring his future in the sport.

 

These are the two men that find themselves at the center of this story. One, who always knew this was where his destiny lay; the other, obsessed with winning and at the height of his powers. Both tied on points. They met in the desert, the setting of all great duels; under a setting sun with the sea breeze whipping across the asphalt battlefield. The mood reminiscent of what Battle Run must have been like: partygoers unaware of the violence and bloodshed they would soon be witness to.

 

Yes, Yas Marina would make a fine setting for this heavyweight bout. With its harbor stocked with yachts and accompanying rich men, all primed for a night of debauchery and lewdness as they occasionally turn an eye towards the historic event playing out in front of them. 

 

From the outset, it was clear the race could only go one way. Hamilton was done play fighting with Verstappen; this championship would be his and in doing so would pull him clear from the towering shadow of former Ferrari great Michael Schumacher, Hamilton’s equal in terms of titles. Lap after lap Hamilton pulled away from his Dutch counterpart until all was lost for the young challenger.

 

Then, with seven laps remaining it happened, the championship defining moment. After throwing his car into the wall exiting a tight turn 14, Nicolas Latifi brought out the safety car. Hamilton, on the instruction of his team, stayed out to retain his lead. Verstappen on the other hand, with a comfortable lead over third place hurried into the pits to strap on a new set of tires. Now, Verstappen and Hamilton-after having the cars lapped cars in between them removed- faced each other eye to eye for the first time. Closer than they had been the entire race. Just in time for one last lap.

 

It was that exact moment; the second where the world found out that there would only be one, that the mood finally got serious. Leading up to the decision it seemed a forgone conclusion that Hamilton would win, and ride gloriously into the sunset his eight championships by his side. Now, reality began to set in. Could Lewis Hamilton, with his unbeatable car and unassailable attitude finally be beaten?

 

As they steamed down the front straight and over the start finish line, I made a deal with myself, this would be the last time I ever watched Formula One, I couldn’t take it. It felt as if I was going to vibrate right out of my skin. Yet peculiarly, I was also melancholy. It felt like the end of a good UFC fight where you remember you have homework or a Super Bowl party where the game isn’t close, and people are helping to clean up.

 

Hurtling through the first two turns Hamilton and Verstappen came upon turn three, the site of much consternation throughout the weekend as it had recently been remodeled, the first change to the track in over ten years. Swerving in and then out, Hamilton decided the best way to defend himself from Verstappen was to take the racing line. Then, as if from nowhere, he emerged, the Dutch Lion, the presumptive nominee for world champion, Max Verstappen. Burying its nose into the ground and collapsing down the gear box, the Red Bull burst forward propelling Verstappen to the lead.

 

 When I think back to that race, when I truly examine my memories from that race and shake out the folds of my brain like couch cushions, I think I screamed one time. Not a manly scream of rage or hurt but a cerebral scream that tore through my throat and lodged somewhere by my molars. It was a type of scream I’ve only read about in John Updike. “A cry to be saved.” What I wanted to be saved from I’m not sure. Possibly the thought of a new world champion or more likely, having to act normal the next day, as if something life altering hadn’t happened the day before.

 

As they flew down the final straight and Verstappen crossed the line maintaining his lead it became apparent fans across the world, me included, that we had just been witness to a public execution. Hamilton had been dethroned and with his toppling a new day dawned. We had just been presented with two pills; one red and one blue. And we had just had the red pill shoved down our throat.