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Once, before there was a trophy, before there existed the cameras and the crowds, before there was a championship to win— Nico Rosberg had Lewis Hamilton. And for a while, that was all he needed, and all he could’ve asked for.
He was twelve, at the track, when he used to leave his father to run to meet the boy he’d met since he’d started karting. Everybody else, all the cooler kids, used to look at the noisy pair of boys and shake their heads. But Nico never minded. He had a teammate who was a friend, and a friend who was his teammate. They would spend their time not racing together, and Lewis with his usual sour tooth, would still try to beat Nico in eating frosties.
He was fourteen, and Lewis was winning every karting race, one by one. Nico remembered when he used to finish second, or behind Lewis, but the initial sadness of that would be gone the moment the other boy would run to hug him and clap him on the back. They would jump around, and laugh, and splash soda from bottles at each other, pretending to be F1 winners.
They were fifteen, on Nico’s dad’s boat in Greece, a holiday he usually spent with his family. He had brought a friend along for the first time, and they laid there on the deck, staring at the night sky. Lewis must’ve seen a comet pass by, for he shook Nico’s shoulder all of a sudden and yelled out—”Quick, Nico, make a wish!” Nico replied in an instant, grinning, “I want us to be world champions. Together.” They spent the rest of the night staying awake, and imagining their lives as kings of the racing world. The comet had long passed the earth. It could have also been just a star.
He was eighteen, sitting in his Williams, ready for the lights to go out. He had a bowl of frosties right before, and the sweetness still stained his lips. It was his first race ever as an F1 driver, and managed to score points in one go. Nico had wished for more, but the praises still rushed in. Lewis had called the moment the ceremony was over, and soon, all regrets were forgotten.
He was nineteen, and had come in third for the first time. He was still two steps below Lewis, but his sheer joy overshadowed the tinge of jealousy. It seemed like it didn’t matter to either of them, where they stood that day. Nico took the champagne bottle and drenched his best friend in it, while the other driver standing with them, had left long back. He didn’t even notice who it was. Not with Lewis by his side.
He was twenty-three, and he was driving with Lewis Hamilton again. Side by side, on the same team. Amongst them, they had one world title, and it belonged to Lewis. Nico hoped it wouldn’t always be like that. He hoped that the comet that night had been real.
He was twenty-four, standing with the Mercedes team, staring at Lewis on the top of the podium— the world champion once again. Nico felt the camera on him for a brief second, and put on the proudest smile he could muster through the urge to cry. He was so proud, but within that, existed his own grief, and in that grief, there was envy. He thought about the untouched bowl of frosties in his room as the sounds of his team cheering grew louder. He hadn’t eaten a single spoon before that race, or else he would’ve thrown up.
He was twenty-five, in a room with the boy he once thought the entire world of, as he grinned and fit the first position cap on his head, while Nico sat in the corner, his teeth piercing his lip to hold back the tears. It didn’t take much for him to get angry that day, so when the second position cap came flying into his lap, threw it back with as much force as he could muster. Lewis just stared, like he didn’t understand the rage. But he was gone in a second, and Nico had to follow, and stand one step below him, like always.
He was twenty-six, with a bowl of milk and frosties in his hand, right before the race. Nothing else would go in, so he turned to what he had denied two years back. He gulped it all down in a go, and for a second he forgot he wasn’t in a competition to see who could finish it the fastest. In a few hours, it was him, still one step below Lewis, but their emotions were switched. They had four world championships between them now, and this time, one belonged to Nico. In a few years, they’d have eight. In a few years, Nico Rosberg would become history to the sport, his name only engraved on a trophy, right before and after that of the boy he once used to fight over a bowl of frosties with.