Free Checkered Flag by Chris Fabry Page B

lap or two from seeing them give out on you.”
    “I gotcha. Just need to stay out here a few more laps.”
    Pit road emptied, and the other cars tried to catch up with him. The camera showed a problem on pit road with Butch Devalon’s team. The jack failed and they had to use a backup, but that took precious seconds from him. It was clear he was mad as he banged on the steering wheel. The TV coverage didn’t air his audio, but Tim could tell it wasn’t appropriate for a family audience.
    Mrs. Maxwell put her head in her hands, and it looked like she was praying.
    “This looks good for Dale now,” the former racer said, “but I’ve gotta tell you, with the race on the line and the Chase on the line, this is one risky move. He blows a tire out there, and at best he could fight just to get back to his pit stall—worst case, he slams into the wall and doesn’t even finish.”
    “You would have played it differently?” the announcer said.
    “You bet. He’s in contention for the championship, and the worst thing you could do here is take a risk to win something and not finish. The cars behind him have fresh tires, and they’re already making up time.”
    “Well, he’s not listening to you.”
    “He’s not listening to his crew chief either. Listen to this exchange on that last lap.”
    “Dale, you need new tires,” T.J. said in what Tim thought was as much of a pleading voice as he’d ever heard on an exchange between crew chief and driver. “There’s no way around it. We’re past our window, and you’ll run out of fuel within five laps. Six tops.”
    “Ten-four,” Dale said.
    They showed another shot of Dale in the cockpit bearing down on a lapped car. He looked to Tim like a guy sure of himself. Tim couldn’t see Dale’s face through that helmet and visor, but he imagined a smile there.
    “There are 32 laps left here at the Kansas Speedway,” the announcer said. “Can Dale Maxwell keep this lead on little fuel and no tires? We’ll find out when we return.”
    The coverage cut away to a commercial, and Mrs. Maxwell told Kellen to turn down the volume. She had her eyes closed and her lips were moving. Kellen closed his eyes too, and Tim couldn’t help but smile because there was still some Crunch ’n Munch on his face.
    “Father, in the whole scheme of things a NASCAR race doesn’t mean that much,” Mrs. Maxwell prayed. “But you know how important this is to Dale and what he wants to accomplish for you. I pray you’ll give him wisdom that can come only from you. Show him your path and help him follow it no matter what.”
    “And help him stay in front of Devalon, Lord,” Kellen prayed.
    As they ping-ponged back and forth, Tim watched the commercials, thinking at any minute they’d break back into the coverage and show Dale’s tire flopping on the side of the car like a fish in the bottom of a bass boat.
    “No matter what happens, help him to give glory to you,” Mrs. Maxwell finished. As soon as she opened her eyes, the screen went black and the coverage of the race continued.
    The first image shown was the #14 car of Dale Maxwell speeding past the start/finish line, no competitor within 20 car lengths of him. Instead of being caught, he’d actually extended his lead. The shot switched to the camera on the blimp above, showing the gap.
    “Only 25 laps left in this race and Dale Maxwell still leads here in Kansas,” the announcer said, “and T.J. Kelly sounds desperate over there in the war wagon.”
    They cut to the on-track reporter. “What’s going on out there between you and Dale?” She stuck a microphone in T.J.’s face.
    “Sometimes drivers can be stubborn,” T.J. said, shaking his head, half smiling.
    “How much fuel does he have left?”
    “He should have run out a lap ago. Running on fumes.”
    “And his tires?”
    “You couldn’t use the rubber on those tires to make a tennis ball,” T.J. said.
    “Trouble in turn four!” a commentator shouted.
    The shot