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Mexicanos, al grito de guerra...
It is straight out of a dream.
Even now, with the national anthem playing at full blast, all Checo can think is 'I've had this dream before'. At fifteen, living above a restaurant, screaming the national anthem at the top of his lungs. At twenty, hand over his heart, proudly singing along. At twenty-three, with the delusional practice of someone who thought he had gone to a race-winning team. At twenty-eight, begging, aching to be known as something better than just king of the midfield.
Esteban stands alongside him and part of him is wondering if the Frenchman will come up to the top step and pinch him. If he'll jerk upwards in his bed, having finished in position eleven after a mediocre race. But Esteban's eyes are crinkled from all the smiling he's been doing on his first podium and Checo can barely see through his tears.
The first time the Mexican anthem has been heard in Formula 1 for over fifty years and he can barely form the words without his breath catching in his throat. He doesn't think he's stopped crying since he crossed the finish line. With every heaving breath, every tear, one reminder rings through his brain.
It's real. This is real.
The English national anthem calms his heart. This is familiar. This is real. The Racing Point team members waving at him are real. The thumbs up and screams are real. The champagne is familiar. The champagne is real.
"Congratulations." Esteban gives him a clap on the back. Faint echoes of harsh words and high tensions resound in his mind.
Checo returns the gesture. "To you as well. You really deserve it man."
"Thanks." Esteban's eyes crinkle again. "If I had known it was for the win, I wouldn't have let you past me."
Checo laughs. There's none of the former sarcasm to Esteban's tone; no backhanded reference to old incidents or old wounds. Just friendly ribbing. "If I had known it was for the win, you wouldn't have been able to stop me." He pauses. "I'm happy for you."
"Me too."
"Hey man," Lance pats him on the shoulder. "Congrats on the win!"
"Congrats on another podium." Checo leans in. "Remember this, man. It'll really help." He pats Lance on the back. "Your time will come."
Lance seems genuinely shocked for a few seconds before breaking out into an easy smile. "How could I forget the first double pink podium?"
"Triple pink." Checo corrects.
"Oh, are you counting me now?" Esteban smirks. "I always liked the pink more than you did anyways."
"It's a very flattering colour."
Lance laughs loudly. "You know, I think this is the best podium ever man."
"I don't know," teases Esteban. "I could imagine better ones."
"The best podium that actually happened so far."
"Well, if you're going to limit it like that, I have no choice but to agree."
It has actually happened, hasn't it? He's not going to wake up halfway around the world without a karting license and a sponsorship? Not in the middle of desperately calling European teams for cheap deals? Not dreaming about something so far out of reach, so crazily expensive, so unlikely that it will never happen to him?
"Woah, are you okay man?"
Checo thinks for a moment about the kid he was then. The kid who promised not to return without winning a WDC. The kid who knew it was a long shot. The kid who knew he had to go so far alone.
Can he face that kid now?
"Yeah, I'm alright. You two go on ahead."
Esteban plops down next to him. So does Lance.
They sit there in silence.
It might not be a championship, but it sure is a hell of a victory.
Checo can live with that.