The Checkered Flag

By Xlibris US

Stacy Porter arrives at Catamount Stadium wondering what will happen to him here. After dealing with a stormy and lonely past where he was blamed for an accident he didnt cause, he hopes that by coming to Vermont he will find peace, and hopefully, friendships with the racers. Instead of these things though, he finds two brothers, family members of the man he was accused of trying to destroy. While one brother is non-combative, the other is not. From day one Jerry Daron does all he can to make life miserable for Stacy.
Jerry also has a girlfriend named Corrie. Being a Christian, Corrie doesnt appreciate the things Jerry is saying to his crew about the new racer and decides she should talk to Stacy and get his side of the story. It doesnt take long for her to become the center of dispute between the two drivers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499043624

Book preview

Chapter One

S tacy Porter tried hard to relax as he sat next to the open window of the blue Ford pickup truck that his crew chief, Patrick McGuire, was maneuvering across the garage area of Catamount Stadium. Patrick’s huge frame was bent forward as he peered around other vehicles trying to find a space to pit their racecar. Stacy drew a deep breath inhaling the mix of oil, fuel, dust and his crew chief’s Old Spice after shave.

His eyes scanned the other racers and crews who were working at a near frantic pace to complete last minute work on their cars in preparation for the first race of the 1969 season. Engines were being fired up and the roar and rumble of raw power and the shouts of men filled his ears.

Patrick swung the truck around toward the fence and parked it then shot a look at Stacy. Here we are, boy. Hope you find the peace you’re looking for.

Stacy smiled at the man who was watching him in concern. I hope so too. Don’t think I can take any more of what happened in New York. Pushing open the door, he slid to the ground.

Jon and Mike, the other members of his crew, soon arrived. While they unstrapped the tires of the racecar and lowered the ramps, Stacy climbed into the car and started it up. As soon as he was given the okay signal he backed it off the trailer and killed the engine. Climbing back out, he pulled an air pressure gauge from the chest pocket of his racing uniform and set about checking the air pressure of each tire. While he was reading the pressure of the last tire, a shadow fell across his shoulder. Looking up he saw a young guy of average height and build, shoulder length blond hair, smiling deep blue eyes and wearing a white racing uniform that sported several racing emblems. Stacy returned the smile and stood up, extending his hand. If this guy was offering friendship he sure wouldn’t refuse it.

You must be new here, the kid said, accepting the offered hand. I like being the first to welcome new arrivals. And just so you know, I like being the first across the finish line, too. Name’s Jerry Daron.

Stacy Porter.

Jerry suddenly froze. Stacy watched the smile give way to confusion, then shock and finally anger. Pain shot through his hand and up his arm as Jerry locked his fingers into a vice-like grip that threatened to break every bone. He tried to remove his hand, but Jerry insisted on trying to crush it. The only thing left to do was squeeze back. Jerry flinched, though he tried not to show it, and let go of Stacy’s hand.

You ever race in New York? Daron demanded.

Stacy stared into Jerry’s narrowed eyes now grown cold. Wow. It hadn’t taken long for the news to jump over Lake Champlain. So much for finding peace here.

Why are you asking? Better make sure they were on the same page even though there wasn’t much doubt in his mind.

Does the name Davy Allen ring a bell?

Stacy drew a deep, weary breath. Nope. No doubt at all. Yes, I know him.

You more than know him, Porter! You tried to kill him!

He had an accident, Daron. Stacy spoke softly wanting desperately to avoid an argument. He must have gone too high in the turn and lost traction. It could have happened to anyone.

You were there, Porter! Right there beside him! Jerry leaned menacingly close.

I know, but I didn’t touch him. Stacy refused to step back.

Jerry’s face was suddenly in his own. Don’t hand me that bull, you liar! You pushed him into the wall!

That’s enough, Jerry.

Jerry turned quickly toward a racer standing behind him. Stacy looked at the man too.

The guy was tall and slender and his dark gray eyes were sending Jerry a warning. Go get ready for the race, he advised.

Daron ignored the order and pointed an accusing finger at Stacy. That’s the trash who tried to kill Davy Allen!

I understand. Just go. He reached out and slapped Jerry lightly on the shoulder.

Jerry shot another angry glance at Stacy as if to let him know this subject was far from closed, then he hurried away.

With a relieved sigh, Stacy turned his attention back on the man who’d rescued him. He found the man regarding him with curiosity, but at least he didn’t appear hostile. Strange, especially after the introduction Jerry had given him.

Daron’s just a scared kid, only nineteen years old, the guy said by way of explanation.

Funny since the kid didn’t seem scared, only ‘in your face’ angry. Stacy watched the other racer walk slowly around the number 73 racecar inspecting it inside and out. He ran a finger across the number, 283 cu. Inch, then returned to where Stacy stood waiting for him. The man leaned back against the Chevy, folded his arms and looked at the new comer. Jerry’s only worried about his own safety.

He’s jumping to conclusions. Stacy wondered where the guy got the idea the kid was worried.

The racer nodded slightly, but Stacy wasn’t sure if the man agreed with him or not. But whatever the case, the man finally grinned and held out a hand. I’m George Peters, driver of the number 1.

Guess you already know my name. Stacy clasped Peters’ hand firmly.

Yeah. Guess everybody does by now. Jerry’s been cursing the day you were born from the moment he heard about Allen’s accident. Now that he’s met you face to face, I imagine he’s filling everyone in.

Do they all think it was my fault?

Most of them, I guess.

Stacy stared at the sandy soil around his feet. He didn’t need any further proof that peace and acceptance were eluding him.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, they both turned to see a NASCAR official coming toward them. Peters smiled and straightened up, extending his hand toward the shorter man. Jim, how was your winter?

Good to see you George. He grabbed the waiting hand. Winter went as usual, shovel snow and catch a cold. Then he cast a look at Stacy. You must be Stacy Porter, the man everyone’s talking about.

That figures. Jerry, the news boy. George was right. Stacy held out his hand wondering if this guy might try to put the squeeze on him, but the official simply shook hands then hooked his thumbs over his belt.

I’m Jim Hayes, inspector. I’ll look your car over to make sure it’s safe. And legal.

Hayes stepped around the two racers. Stacy’s crew moved back as the man headed toward the front of the racecar. He pulled out the latch pins, freeing the hood and then paused to look up. If what I’m hearing about you is true, Porter, you can count yourself lucky to be racing here at all. Just remember that your stay here is uncertain. You’ll have to prove yourself worthy. If you don’t measure up, you’ll be dealing with Ward Whitehall, chief steward.

Yes, sir. Stacy turned to George. How do I rate with you?

I’ll give you the benefit of a doubt.

Those are the most positive words I’ve heard so far today.

Don’t be surprised if those are the only positive words. George nodded to the inspector then walked away.

Friendly bunch. How come no one had asked to hear his side of the story?

Stacy turned to face his crew who were standing to one side of their racecar waiting for the inspector to finish his job. I’m going to have a look at the track. Be back in a few minutes.

Hayes was at least decent enough to tell him where to find the gate closest to turn one, so Stacy started walking across the pits. As he walked, he noticed men eyeing him suspiciously before turning their backs. He continued on, keeping his eyes focused on the ground. Coming up behind the pit bleachers he circled around to the front of the wooden structure and came upon a small gate. Pushing it open he stepped through it onto pit road. A few feet further and he stood on top of the high-banked first turn.

The track was a third mile asphalt oval. Open meadowland could be seen along the backstretch, across the fence that bordered the track grounds. There was a checkered start-finish line below the flag stand and race control lights were situated at intervals around the track.

Looking upward toward the left, Stacy saw the race control tower. It was white trimmed in green with a catamount’s head decorating the middle, large windows above and below it. The wooden grandstands ran the length of the main straightaway with walkways between sections.

Finally he turned his attention on the concrete retaining wall. His heart seemed to constrict at the memory of Davy Allen’s crash, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how it had happened. He and Davy had been fighting for first place and weaving through lap traffic at the same time. Stacy had been forced to slow down when lap traffic in the fourth turn had trapped him in the low lane. Then there was a sharp tap from behind. Davy Allen? Lap car? He didn’t know. While struggling to get his car back under control from whoever had connected with him, Allen smashed into the wall. It had taken only a couple of seconds to regain control of his car and it had taken Davy Allen only two seconds to veer into the wall.

Stacy tried to recall the moment, but he couldn’t remember any further contact with another car. There was, however, one thing he could remember well and that was the sight of Allen’s car going up in flames, courtesy of his rearview mirror. He’d never forget the screams from the grandstand, nor the sight of a young woman on her knees clinging to the fence and staring helplessly at the wreck. Probably she was Allen’s wife since the man was married.

Stacy tried to push the memories of fire and suffering out of his mind as he turned and headed back to his pit area. He was no closer to answering the questions that plagued him.

The call came for warm-ups and practice. The activity level picked up as the wreckers and ambulance headed up pit road en route to the infield and racers who had eagerly awaited this day started climbing into their cars.

Stacy leaned inside his Chevy, retrieved his white helmet and fastened it on. Patrick stood beside him and when Stacy started to climb into the car, the big man put a hand on his chest to stop him. Be careful, boy. No knowing what will happen out there.

Stacy nodded and climbed into the 73. He fastened the seat belt and shoulder harness and then glanced up at his worried crew chief. Let me give it a whirl before we pass judgment.

Warm-ups and practice were uneventful. Stacy quickly mastered the track and gave George Peters a run for his life. It didn’t take long to see that Peters would be first class competition. That would make racing against him more of a challenge, and beating him in a race more of a victory.

The pit meeting was called and every driver had to attend. They gathered around the chief steward at the lower end of the pits not far from the back gate where they had entered with their racecars that morning after paying their entry fees in the small building just outside the fence. Ward Whitehall did the roll call then talked about the track rules for the benefit of new drivers. Finally he talked about upcoming events and what the purses would be. When the meeting was over the drivers were separated for qualifying heats, then drew for positions before returning to their pit areas.

From a distant PA system in the grandstand area the voice of the announcer said, All safety equipment to your positions at this time.

Nearby, over the garage area public address system, the chief scorer was calling off the car numbers for the first heat.

The wreckers and ambulance headed up pit road and right behind them were two pace cars. The pace cars were 1969 Javelins painted red, white and blue. Printed in gold on one car were the words ‘Catamount Stadium’ and the number 1. The second had Thunder Road printed on it and the number 2, also in gold.

*     *     *

The first heat cars were heading to the track and Jim Gordell was among them. His heart beat wildly knowing he was new at this. He’d started racing late last year and didn’t have more than four weeks experience, total. But he wanted to do well and perhaps gain the recognition of his all time favorite racer, Jerry Daron. Winning Jerry’s respect and friendship would be a dream come true.

But Jerry hardly noticed him. The guy had already established himself in the racing world and had racing friends to hang out with. Jim knew he would have to prove himself.

A thought suddenly struck him as he pulled his number 25 into place at the back of the field. That new driver who had showed up today was someone Jerry didn’t like. Maybe hate would be a better word for it. Jim wasn’t sure why Jerry hated him, only that it had something to do with a wreck in New York. At least, that’s what he had overheard. So maybe the best way to get Jerry’s attention would be to hate that new guy, too.

The pace cars were now leading the field around the track. As Jim passed the flag stand, he saw the chief starter with the rolled up green flag on display. Next time around the race would begin with the unfurling of that flag. Jim drew a deep breath to prepare himself for whatever might be about to happen. He just hoped he wouldn’t be in a wreck.

When the green flag swooped down in a rush, the field of racecars was quick to respond. Jim was off like a shot, feeling his Chevy’s surge of power. He watched for an opening then pointed his car toward it. Several cars were soon put behind him and he felt his confidence start to grow. Maybe only four weeks experience was enough to beat the best of them!

A few laps later with cars tight behind him, Jim roared down the backstretch and into turn three. The car started to slide toward the outside edge of the track. Jim fought the wheel, trying to keep it from going over the bank, but then the back of the 25 tried to pass the front. Jim struggled to bring the car back in the direction it should be going only to have it whip around and fly off the top of the turn. He felt the sudden jolt when the car landed on its wheels and then something snapped. The 25 bumped over rough ground with no steering whatsoever. Jim had the brakes on tight wishing the car would stop before crashing through the fence that surrounded the grounds. It finally did stop and Jim sat there shaking.

While he sat staring at the fence a few feet away and waiting for the wrecker, he thought of Jerry. Man, what a great way to make an impression!

*     *     *

Stacy stood by the fence near the small gate off turn one watching the 25 push and shove its way through traffic. A few times he wondered how the other drivers escaped accidents. Then the car slid and disappeared off the top of turn three. The guy driving that car could be trouble if he managed to qualify and Stacy hoped he wouldn’t be the one to tangle with him. Tangling with him or with anyone else could spell disaster with capital letters, thanks to the reputation he’d managed to acquire somehow.

Turning, he looked up at the pit bleachers and saw George Peters sitting about half way up talking with another driver who was sitting next to him. That other driver looked angry. Stacy wondered if his anger had anything to do with the racing he’d just witnessed, or did it have to do with him?

Leaving the fence, Stacy climbed the bleachers to sit on George’s other side. As he watched the wrecker bring the 25 back down pit road, he became aware that all conversation had ceased at his arrival. Had they been talking about him?

Who drives the 25? he asked, glancing at George.

Kid named Jim Gordell.

Is that the way he usually drives?

The driver, who had looked angry, now shot an embittered look his way.

George shrugged and looked at Stacy. He’s probably trying too hard. He didn’t start racing until the end of the season last year, so it’s still new to him.

Look who’s grumbling about someone else’s driving, the angry man muttered, looking away. The race was restarting and he seemed to be giving it his full attention.

Did I hear somebody complain about the way Gordell drives?

At the sound of the sarcastic voice, Stacy turned to look behind him and met Jerry Daron’s freezing glare. At the same moment, the man with the attitude problem suddenly got up and headed down the bleachers without so much as a goodbye. Stacy wondered how he’d missed seeing Daron sitting here and how he’d managed to upset that other guy.

His gaze shifted to Jerry again. I wasn’t complaining, Daron. I was just asking a question.

Jerry spat over the edge of the handrail. You’re not fooling anybody, Porter. Even Sherman had to leave rather than listen to your lies.

Stacy shook his head and turned away. Why did Daron have to put in his two cents worth of nothing, and then call him a liar? The racing season ahead looked like it was going to be a long one if he had Daron to look forward to every week.

We all know you’re nothing but a lying murderer! Jerry said loudly.

Obviously he couldn’t let anything go. Stacy turned quickly to look at him again and noticed a young black-haired racer, who was sitting next to Jerry, shoving an elbow into the kid’s ribs and snarling, Shut up!

Stacy couldn’t have agreed more.

Well it’s true, Johnny, and you know it! As my brother you should be taking my side, not the murderer’s!

I said shut up.

Stacy turned away, content to let the brothers hash it out.

It was nearing time for the second heat, so Jerry and Johnny got up to leave. Jerry hadn’t descended the bleachers more than three steps when he turned to look at Stacy again. I hope you hit the wall so hard, Porter, it’ll take a bulldozer to clean up what’s left of you and your car.

Good luck to you, too, Daron.

Jerry’s face turned red. Swinging around, he pounded down the bleachers and took off on a run toward his pit area. Stacy rubbed his face with both hands. Apparently the shadows of the past were going to lay heavy on him. He watched the entire race without speaking and saw Jerry Daron storm down the chute to take the checkers just inches ahead of his brother.

He’s pretty good on the track, he said to George.

George nodded and stood up. It’s our turn now, Porter. Let’s see what we can do.

When Stacy reached his pit area, Patrick looked at him curiously before handing him his helmet. Looks like you’ve had a run in with the devil, boy. What happened?

Stacy shook his head and took the helmet. I haven’t escaped the past, Patrick. He put the helmet on and fastened it.

Patrick narrowed his blue eyes and pulled a pack of gum out of the pocket of his grimy gray tee shirt. He took a stick before offering one to Stacy who refused it. So they’re giving you a hard time?

Daron’s trying to. So far it’s just a lot of hot air.

Patrick wadded up the gum wrapper and tossed it on the ground, shoving the peppermint stick into his mouth. You going to be able to put up with that for a whole season?

Stacy climbed into his car and eased himself into the bucket seat. After fastening the seat belt and shoulder harness together securely, he looked up at his crew chief. Don’t worry, Patrick. Words can’t kill.

Sure. Just be careful anyway. Hot air sometimes turns into hot action.

Stacy took his car to the track and into its posted position on the main straightaway. There were only eight cars in the third heat and he was starting last. After the parade lap, the pace car driver headed infield on the backstretch while the racecars continued on. Stacy gripped the steering wheel a little tighter in preparation for the race that was about to begin.

Green! The lights and the green flag were simultaneous. So was the instant acceleration of every car. Stacy was forced to hold his position for a couple of laps until the double line of cars ahead of him shifted and opened. Then he slammed the gas pedal to the floor and drove hard, letting up only in the turns. He fought his way up quickly, and was soon in third place.

Pulling up on the 93 of Clem Sherman, he tried to pass. Sherman closed the door. For the next few laps Stacy fought to gain second place, then saw the two lap flags being displayed overhead. He could also see the red number 1 of George Peters half a lap ahead of him. Once more he tried to get past Sherman, but that driver seemed to know which lane the 73 was going to be heading for next. Stacy kept trying, kept working on that outside lane.

The white flag was waving now. Just one more lap to get by the 93 that made a better roadblock than a racecar. Stacy felt the pressure from behind as other drivers were now crowding in behind him, all hoping for a better finish. Then, as Stacy tried again for an outside pass on the Sherman car, the driver directly behind him quickly took over the inside lane and Sherman let that man pass him. Did Sherman not know he had left the inside lane unguarded, or was this how he played the game?

As they barreled down the backstretch, a red warning light on the 73’s instrument panel flashed on. Stacy gave it a quick glance and noticed the oil pressure gauge was dropping. He yanked the steering wheel toward the inside so suddenly that Sherman didn’t have time to react. He was probably guarding the outside lane. Stacy flew past him and around the third turn. Another quick look at his gauges showed the temperature needle was rising. Hopefully he could make it in over Sherman who had finally found his gas pedal. Down the chute and across the finish line. Stacy breathed a sigh of relief, dropped his speed and eased the 73 into the pits.

Once pitted, Stacy quickly removed his helmet and safety belts then scrambled out of the driver’s side window. He ran to the front of the car, yanked the latch pins free, and then raised the hood. The smell of hot oil and the sound of water boiling in the radiator met him. Then the thud of running feet as his crew rushed toward him from the pit bleachers.

What a race! You did all right! Excitement rang in Patrick’s voice.

Stacy grabbed a leather glove from the tool box and used it to pull the dipstick up to where he could check the amount of oil he had left in the car while his crew gathered around him. Not enough to grease a lug nut, he announced.

Could have been a lot worse, Patrick said, shouldering his driver aside.

Would have been in another ten seconds. Stacy stepped back to let his crew take over.

Jon was already shoving the jack under the front of the car and Patrick was searching the tool box for the tools he needed. Mike pulled on the leather glove Stacy had left laying on the fender of the 73 and carefully unscrewed the radiator cap to check the water that erupted in steam from the radiator.

Stacy watched, hoping this wasn’t going to take long. The semi feature would be coming up as soon as the first consolation was over. Maybe he’d better check the other engine parts to make sure something else wasn’t about to blow. While he was doing that, George Peters appeared on the other side of the car.

What’s the trouble, Porter?

Losing oil.

Stacy went in search of a rag on which to clean some of the oil off the engine. Finding one he returned to the car and started wiping up the mess.

Thought I was on the track alone for awhile, George commented.

You can blame that on your friend, Sherman.

Clem’s a good one for that. I think he wins more races by blocking than he does by speed.

Stacy shot George a sudden look. He could feel his temper rise at the mention of that man’s racing techniques. He didn’t try to keep anybody else back!

The smile on George’s face slowly disappeared. How many years have you been racing, Porter?

This is my sixth season. Started when I was seventeen and I’m twenty-two now. And before you say it, I already know that you can’t work every groove at once.

Stacy heard the acceleration of engines as the first consolation got underway. He continued with the clean up job he was doing then heard another voice.

Well, Porter, you finally passed me. What took you so long?

Stacy looked up to see Clem Sherman standing next to George, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his white racing uniform. The guy had a smug grin on his face and his words dripped with sarcasm. Stacy felt like stuffing the oily rag into the man’s mouth. Give him something else to chew on. He fought down the urge. You probably thought I’d never make it with you hogging the track.

Don’t expect me to hand you a race, Porter. Sherman wasn’t smiling now. His eyes never even blinked as they fastened on Stacy’s.

I don’t expect it from anybody, Sherman. Stacy refused to break eye contact. But I have a feeling I was singled out on purpose.

Clem shot George a glance before looking back at Stacy. Do you happen to have a short fuse while you’re on the track?

Not usually. Only when somebody does something on purpose.

Then what? Sherman demanded. You try to kill him?

Stacy looked away and stared at Jon and Mike who were both watching him. Deep sadness welled up inside him knowing he’d never be liked or trusted by anyone except his crew. He turned his eyes back on the two racers who were waiting for an answer. I know what you’re referring to, Sherman, but contrary to what you believe about me, I never tried to hurt Davy Allen. I’ve never tried to hurt anyone.

Sherman burst into a loud laugh then aimed a kick at the Chevy’s rear tire. Stacy figured he would have been on the receiving end personally if the guy had dared.

Daron’s right. You’re a liar from the word go. Sherman shook his head and walked away.

Stacy looked at George who was eyeing him curiously, then that driver nodded and walked away. Wadding up the oily rag, Stacy tossed it next to the tool box. Loneliness like a cancer seemed to eat at his insides.

For some reason his mind turned to Julie and the love they used to share. Then Davy Allen started cutting in and things went downhill from there. Allen was married yet after every pretty girl he saw. He had tried everything to get Julie’s affection, but when that failed, he began making threats until she was convinced he’d really kill Stacy. Stacy had pleaded with her to trust him, assuring her that he could handle the situation, but when Allen had stuffed him into the wall the very next week, so hard that he and his crew had to build a new car, Julie couldn’t take it anymore. She’d kissed him then ran away into the crowd and he never saw her again.

Stacy rubbed his face with one hand and tried to put Julie out of his mind. No amount of wishing her back would cause her to materialize. Davy had achieved what he’d set out to do and that was to hurt him. And man, did it hurt. But even after Julie was gone, Allen had still tried to destroy him. For some unknown reason Allen had hated him from the day Stacy showed up at the track.

Patrick dragged himself out from under the car just as the car numbers for the semi-feature were being announced over the P.A. Stacy climbed inside the 73 and started it up. He checked all the gauges and everything was fine. With a smile for his crew, he headed for the track.

After driving the 73 into its posted position on the main straightaway, Stacy looked down the line of cars ahead of him. Every one of those drivers hated, or didn’t trust him. Well, maybe George Peters was all right, but there was no way to really be sure of the man. His heart seemed to constrict in his chest. What would it be like to have friends who were fellow racers? What would it be like to have someone care if he lived or died?

Julie entered his mind again just like she had thousands of times since she’d left him over a year ago. How he needed her now to hold him and whisper words of love and encouragement like she used to do. His arms ached to hold her and feel the love they had shared. Quickly he pushed those thoughts away. Stop being stupid, he quietly told himself. She’s gone and isn’t coming back. And since everyone hated him, he knew there was no sense holding out for love in the future.

The line began to move out following the pace cars down the chute, past the flag stand where the flagman, Gordon Scott, stood watching them, yellow flag in one hand, green one in the other. On the second time around the pace car drivers were given the signal to come in, so they entered the infield on the backstretch. The racers continued into the third turn and out of the fourth. Green.

Stacy began working his way through traffic hoping to get to the front without trouble from anyone. The driver of the number 22 tried to block him, but after a couple of laps the 22 went high on a turn and Stacy shot by. Two other cars spun out on the backstretch creating a thick cloud of dust when they slid off the track into the dirt and grass. The dust was not only blinding, but filled Stacy’s nostrils making it hard to breathe. He passed them without getting caught up in the action.

Johnny Daron was ahead of him now. Pulling up close to the red and white number 16, Stacy followed it through the third turn. They came out of the fourth with accelerators to the floor. Suddenly Johnny’s car swerved out of control twisting from side to side in quick succession. Stacy hit the brake and yanked the 73 to the inside in effort to avoid contact with the 16. A wheel flew past his windshield and bounded infield. Yellow lights flashed on and Gordon Scott was briskly waving the yellow flag. Looking in his rearview mirror he saw the front end of Johnny’s Chevy crammed against the wall. Johnny was all right and was getting out of the car.

Ahead of him Jerry Daron came to a halt in the middle of the track. Stacy started to go by him on the inside, but the kid held out a hand to stop him. What did you do, Porter? Push my brother into the wall?

Stacy looked at the angry face while his hands tightened onto the steering wheel. You can see what happened. I’m not to blame for that.

Jerry’s eyes bore into his as if analyzing his answer. You pushed him into the wall! That’s why he lost that wheel! The kid then took off to catch up to the rest of the field, back tires spraying Stacy’s car with fine sand.

Stacy followed him around the track, cutting down to the inside on turn four where the wrecker crew was at work hitching onto the 16. Jerry stopped a few feet away to talk with his brother who was standing there on the track. Stacy waited behind the red 15, wanting to talk to the guy himself. Johnny shot a quick glance at him then looked back at Jerry and shook his head. Jerry finally took off down the track.

Stacy’s stomach churned as he took his turn to speak to the unfortunate racer. Are you all right?

A slow grin spread over Johnny’s handsome face. Yeah. My horse just threw a shoe in a bad place, that’s all.

Stacy stared at him wondering how this guy could really be Jerry’s brother. He not only smiled after a smash up, he also had a sense of humor.

Johnny shrugged a shoulder, his smile fading. Don’t worry, Porter, it wasn’t your fault.

The wrecker took the 16 down pit road. The track crew cleaned the track at the accident site making the oval safe to race on. After the racecars were put back into their proper positions, the green flag came down once more.

Stacy started right behind Jerry Daron’s 15, but within a few seconds he roared by it into a strong third place. He sped into the first turn, out of the second and then poured on the power down the backstretch. It was just the number 13 and George Peters ahead of him now.

Pulling up on the 13, Stacy tried for the inside. The 13 followed suit. Into the first turn where Stacy switched to the outside only to be cut out again. Jerry and another driver moved in to put pressure on him. Down the backstretch and Stacy tried the inside but to no avail. Into the third and fourth turns then down the straightaway and into turn one. Stacy switched to the outside. The 13 slammed the door on him again. Stacy felt a hard jolt as Jerry connected with the back of his car before moving up to take over the inside lane. Fine, let him come. Stacy let up on the gas pedal slightly, giving Jerry a small advantage. The driver of the 13 took the new bait and cut over on Jerry. Stacy put the pedal to the metal and flew by both cars and into second place.

It was just George Peters now, so Stacy went after him. He blasted down the chute and into the first turn, sliding, getting it back. Into the second on the very edge of traction. Down the backstretch, burning up the track and gaining rapidly on Peters’ car. Into the fourth turn and down the straightaway. He pushed the Chevy hard into turn one, Peters now fighting to maintain his slim lead. Hardly an inch separated the two cars as they tore out of turn two and flew down the backstretch. Stacy tried for the outside the moment they hit the front chute. George blocked. On the backstretch, Stacy went for the inside but the number 1 was there. The battle raged through the third and fourth turns and down the chute. The two lap flags were out,