Back to the Basics

(Val) There is a scene in the movie The Rookie where Jim Morrisey is torn between hanging up his big league dreams once and for all, or sticking it out in the minors just a little bit longer. He wanders out into the night and hears the sounds of a nearby little league baseball game so he makes his way over to the fence to watch for a while.

A young outfielder sees him, tips his hat, and Jim nods back. That’s it, just a tip of the hat and a nod, not a word is exchanged. Yet in that moment, a whole conversation takes place, and it is that unspoken dialog that sets the wheels in motion for one of the greatest player comebacks in the history of the game.

I have no idea the percentage of kids who start out in minor league sports, dreaming of some day making it in the big time, that actually see that dream through to reality. It has to be low, but not low enough to discourage hundreds of thousands of kids from trying.

Last weekend, Spring and I saw dozens of young athletes who have sports dreams of their own, and those dreams involve not baseball or soccer, but racing. These kids look, sound and more importantly, race like professionals. The only thing missing were snobby attitudes and big paychecks. I think that’s what made it so refreshing.

These kids don’t go out and race for big bucks every week. These cars don’t come into the track via million dollar haulers followed by million dollar motor homes. There are no deep-pocketed sponsors or sleazy agents knocking down their doors. Media circuses don’t exist at this level, and no one seems to mind. These guys and girls race for the joy of racing, for the thrill of taking home a little trophy or an even smaller check. They do it for the sheer love of the game. And I’ll bet those kids are more proud of those little plastic trophies than some professional drivers are of the real thing.

To me, this is what it’s all about. Grassroots racing at its very finest.

All evening long, I wondered if I might be witnessing history in the making because you never know which of those kids might just pursue that dream to the highest possible level. For all I know, I met a kid who may some day kiss the bricks or drink the milk at Indy.

Sure, the odds are against them, but anyone who’s worth their salt doesn’t let a little thing like odds get in the way of their ambitions. And yes, a large number of those kids may get just as tired of trekking to races every weekend as other kids get of making three baseball practices a week. For the majority of those drivers, it won’t be long before these days are all just fun memories tucked between the pages of a dusty scrapbook, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that because kids should be kids.

But a few of them feel the passion, fall asleep running through the turns of the next track in their mind, hands gripped tight, foot mashing the imaginary gas pedal. They live for the rush and even now they understand what competition really is. They understand defeat, and they yearn for victory.

These young drivers have one thing in common with the guys who suit up every Sunday afternoon and climb into cars that cost more than the average American home. And it’s the only thing that matters. They dare to dream and they won’t let it go.

It’s too bad more of the big guys don’t take a night off now and then and head out to a small town Karting event. Maybe they would see that kid in his Daddy’s too-big, hand-me-down driver’s suit nod, tip a hat in return, and then walk away remembering what it’s all about.