[Lucky161]

I got this from the URSS website and they in turn got it from the Williams Grove website so some of you may have already seen it, but I thought is was too good not to share.

Why We Do This - From The Williams Grove Speedway Forum

Once upon a time there was a small boy. From the time he was 5 years old this boy would look forward to Saturday and Sunday nights. For these were the days he would go with his grandpa and his dad to see the sprint cars races William's Grove and Lincoln Speedways. The magical cars held an attraction for the boy and stirred his imagination in ways that nothing else ever could. The speed, the sound, and their unmistakable look brought goose bumps to his arms even at such a young age.

These memorable days would often start with a trip to the garage of one of his favorites like Bobby Allen, Van May, or countless others: where he would watch with fascination as the driver readied his car for the night, his clothes covered in grease. Sometimes his grandpa would buy him a hat or a shirt. These shirts often had the grease stained fingerprints on them of the boy’s hero as he pulled it from the cardboard box from which it was kept. These stained shirts became a badge of honor for the boy. He would often sit at home and draw pictures for the shirts he would someday have with his own name on them.

After the races the boy and his family would go into the pit area or even the car wash and listen to the drivers in their stained, dirty uniforms tell of the feats of valor they just accomplished. He dreamed of someday wearing that same dirt and telling those same stories.

He can still point to the place in the stands at William's Grove where he sat as a teenager and told his father he would someday race a sprint car. The father laughed and said “sure” but the teen could hear the sarcasm in his voice.

A few years later the young man finished high school, graduated college, and got a job. Meanwhile, the dream continued. He saved every bit of money he could for 2 years and bought a car. The young man helped local teams so that he could learn the cars and absorbed every lesson that he could. He often sat in his garage and stared at the car, his imagination running faster than the car ever could as he saved for 2 more years to buy an old motor. The dream was now so near.

For several years this man raced as often as he could afford. He spent many long nights alone in his garage working and reworking things on his car. He often loaded his small open trailer alone and drove his rusty old truck to the track to park next to the behemoths the other teams brought their cars in. All the while he wished his grandpa were still alive to see him and reveled in the pride his father seemed to have in watching him chase this dream. But there were roadblocks. He also endured angry relatives, frustrated friends, and even failed relationships as a result. He sold much of the childhood memorabilia he had so cherished and sometimes worked second jobs in order to keep the dream alive. He even watched as friends were injured or sometimes worse as they chased their own version of the dream.

Then came the voices.

“You can’t afford it. Give it up"” some said.
“You shouldn’t be racing here.” others whispered.
“Go somewhere else to race.” some voices muttered.
“You don’t belong. You don’t fit in with us.” another chimed in.
"You don't deserve to be on the same track with some of these great drivers." came a chorus of voices.

For a long time these voices bothered the man. Then one day something monumental occurred to the man.

He thought about his wonderful circle of friends that supported him in every way they could. With time, with encouragement, and even sometimes with their own hard earned money. The voices weren't giving him anything. He thought of the long hours and late nights he spent alone working on the car. Those voices weren’t in that garage helping him. He thought of the sacrifices he had made. The voices weren’t sacrificing anything. He thought of his grandpa who loved the sport and the proud look on his father’s face every time he pulled off the track. The voices weren’t theirs. But most of all he thought of the little boy who LOVED this sport and everything about it. It didn’t matter to the little boy who won or lost. What mattered was that this sport was supposed to be fun.

Suddenly, the voices no longer mattered and ceased to even exist to the man. What mattered was the reason he fell in love with the sport to begin with. It wasn’t the overpriced motors, the oversized trailers, or the million dollar motor homes because they didn’t exist back then when the dream was born. What mattered was the magical car he worked so hard to have and maintain. What mattered were the friends and family he hoped to make proud. And what mattered most of all was the fun they all would have as participants in the wonderful world of sprint car racing.

As for the voices, many of whom can be found on this very board… “Shame on you for forgetting what makes this sport great.”

[flipalong]

Amen