Seven at the Speedway ‘72 By: Jim Gandolf

Seven at the Speedway, '72

Poem

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The sun hung warm, a perfect summer haze,

Above the track in those bright, long-gone days.

I stood at seven, small beside my kin,

The roar of '72 was pouring in.

The Grandstands rose, a concrete, patient tide,

Behind the pits where all the magic hide.

My brother, two years older, stood my guard,

While Dad went down to Gasoline Alley, hard

At work, with owners, drivers, in the fray,

Handling the business that would make the day.

We were alone, a temporary break,

With all the sights a young heart could take.

The Practice sessions buzzed with heavy sound,

The different shapes of metal all around.

In screaming reds and blues and golds they flew,

A spectrum bright, exciting, fresh, and new.

We had our feast, no worry in the air,

Just easy trust and helpful folks everywhere.

But what I loved, that voice that filled the space,

The Announcer's call, setting the pace!

Each shift of gear, each slowing for the turn,

Each vital lap the drivers had to learn.

His words cut through the engine's mighty drone,

A narrative just for us, and us alone.

Then came the sight, a sight so strange and grand,

Hotdog wrappers dancing on the sand!

A silver army, whisked by sudden breeze,

They tumbled 'round the asphalt, quite at ease.

We watched them drift, a funny, fleeting show,

A little chaos where the great cars go.

That scent of fuel, the heat upon my skin,

The thrilling sense of where my Dad had been.

That day remains, cemented, clear, and true,

An unforgettable practice day view in 1972!

Jim Gandolf