#mm95

Montgomery Maverick wasn’t born to the sound of roaring engines, wasn’t cradled in the arms of parents whose whole life catered towards expensive karts and revolved around the professional race tracks.

No, Montgomery Maverick was born in the streets of America. With nothing to his name but the blood of street racers and a car borrowed and then given to him. He was but 15 when he was detained after a race had gone bust, and only 15 when someone saw his potential, saw the grit, the nitro in his veins.

Montgomery Maverick knew he didn’t belong, knew that his presence was an enigma in the long standing tradition and legacy of Ferrari. No one knew who he was, who his father, who his grandfather was. They were just numbers in a system that didn’t care whether or not they were barely living.

Maybe that was why he bounced back the way he did. Some would cut their losses after being tossed over and over again by the mechanical beast of a car that Ferrari created. Many people counted on his downfall, bet that he wouldn’t last a season. But each and every-time another race rolls around, Monty was there.

Ferrari’s proud nature wasn’t unfounded. It boasted legacies, created legends and wrote myths.

It didn’t come suddenly, it wasn’t obedience that stopped the prancing horse from thrashing and kicking him off its’ saddle. No, it took months. Months of gaining its’ trust and months of promising that its’ trust wasn’t in vain.

The Tifosi saw it, the engineers, the pit crew.. Montgomery walked in the halls of the Ferrari HQ in Maranello a boy, and came out the other end, a man.

Fred Vasseur had been criticized most of his life, Ferrari in itself having its’ moments of lapse judgement. But they never questioned the choice to offer Montgomery Maverick the seat, not after when he did the unthinkable.