The roar of the engine drowned out everything else. Cody tightened his grip on the wheel of the #7 sprint car, heart hammering in sync with the 900-horsepower beast beneath him. The track lights buzzed overhead, throwing long shadows across the packed clay of the half-mile oval.
This was his shot. Last lap. One turn to glory.
He’d grown up in these pits, a grease-smeared kid clutching a worn tire gauge while his father—legendary driver Rick “Lightning” Lawson—tuned engines and muttered curses at bad carburetors. Cody was never supposed to race. Not after the crash. Not after the fire that took Rick’s life and nearly Cody’s leg.
But here he was.
Fourth gear. Slide job into turn three. He felt the tires bite into the earth like a lion clawing prey. The top driver, Mason Rudd, was just ahead—too wide, too confident.
Cody dipped low, almost kissing the inside rail, and floored it.
The 410 sprint car screamed as if it knew this was redemption.
They came out of turn four neck and neck. The crowd rose, breath held, as the finish line surged toward them.
Cody crossed first by inches.
He didn’t hear the cheers in the sudden quiet after the checkered flag. Only his father’s voice, echoing from memory:
“Drive it like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.”
And tonight, he had.
Michael J McCluskey 