Racers Dream: Written by Gerry Leblond April 14, 2025
A young boy's dream of accomplishing what his father couldn't do.
The crowd's roar was a physical thing, a wave crashing over five-year-old Bobby as his father, a blur of crimson and chrome, whipped his car around the final bend. The air hung thick with the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline, a scent Bobby inhaled deeply that would forever be etched in his memory. Then, a sickening screech of metal, a bone-jarring impact that silenced the cheers, leaving only a stunned hush. The crimson car, once a symbol of speed and power, lay twisted and still. Years blurred by, a montage of grease-stained overalls, the metallic tang of blood on scraped knees, the relentless ache in his young muscles as he pushed himself beyond his limits, mimicking his father's driving style in every race. His mother's quiet tears, the weight of unspoken grief settling like dust on their small home, became a silent pressure he carried. He heard her whispered words, “He would have wanted you to win, Bobby.” The words, a tiny seed of hope, grew into a fierce determination. The smell of fresh tarmac, the thrumming vibration of the powerful engine beneath him – it was all a familiar echo of that day, a constant reminder. His car, a sleek machine mirroring his father's, felt like an extension of himself. He gripped the wheel, knuckles white, his heart hammering a rhythm against his ribs. He pushed the car, pushing himself. The crowds were a blur, a muted roar he barely registered, focused only on the finish line, a tangible representation of the dream that fueled him. He crossed the finish line, a victor. The cheers exploded – a wave he willingly surrendered to this time. He climbed from the car, the scent of victory a sharp contrast to the memory of that devastating day. He raised a hand, eyes brimming. His voice, amplified by the stadium speakers, cracked with emotion. "This one's for you, Dad." The silence that followed was profound, a silent acknowledgment of a dream fulfilled, a promise kept.