Star For a Day

Star For a Day By Larry Sternig and William C. Gault He had the touch that made him champ.

Old Russ tried to teach his son a lesson in dirt-track tactics. And young Russ tried to make him eat the words—with star-dust

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scheduled for next day at Forham, the town ahead. The other names meant nothing; just local jaloppushers, probably. But Russ Ellery! I thought back to that golden afternoon Russ had kicked old “64” home in front at Indianapolis, with me in the

MUST’VE been doing sixty when I saw the sign. I jammed the brakes, slued to a stop, and ground the bus in reverse. Sure enough, there it was in letters a foot high: RUSS ELLERY. It was a poster ballyhooing a tin-lizzie race 1

Larry Sternig & William C. Gault

Star For a Day

12 Sports Aces, January, 1940

tomorrow.” The kid went pale. “At Arco? Say! That’s a tough field. Pop’s too old for that.” He looked at me, puzzled. “Are you—?” “Barney Riggs,” I finished. “I used to hot ‘em up for your pop.” He nodded. “Pop told me a lot about you, Barney.” Then he looked me square in the eye. “We’ve got to stop him. He’s doing it because he wants to buy a farm for me. But I’m no farmer. I’m a pilot.” “I know one way to stop him,” I said. “How?” “I’ll tell him you’re racing here tomorrow. He’ll come here to lay down the law.” Junior said nothing. Then: “Okay. He has to find out sometime.” “Sure. And you will withdraw—at the last moment.” “No.” “Yes,” I said. The kid’s jaw set. His eyes glazed. “I’ll fight it out with Pop.” Well, I should’ve argued some more, but being a mech taught me never to argue with a pilot—long. I drove into town and wired Russ. Then I moseyed back to the track. A few of the cans were wheeling now and I saw Junior’s junker lay down a barrage of grit like a Kansas cyclone. That fourwheeled monstrosity did everything but fly. As it hit the south turn, I closed my eyes, tensed and waited for the crash. When I opened them again he was boring into the north. I shuddered. I’d seen all kinds of wheeling on boards, brick and dirt, but this was something else. Delayed suicide, I called it. When he clanged into the pits I said: “Look, I’ve got enough dough to buy a fair to middling used job. We’ll rebuild it and it’s yours. You’ll get your baptism in something with a little more class.” “No.” “Yes,” I insisted. “Think of the Ellery name.” “I am,” he said. “Not enough. You’ve let those cheesy promoters fool the public into thinking your pop will wheel here tomorrow.” “The public won’t be disappointed.” Cocky. Just like Russ.

seat beside him sick, very sick. Now, Russ Ellery in a flivver race. I meshed gears again and drove on slowly toward Forham, trying to get things straight in my mind. Something was definitely haywire. Here I’d been burning up the road because I thought Russ was entered in a tough grind and I meant to stop him if I could. Now this poster had him mixed up in a flivver race the same day he’s supposed to be wheeling at Arco. On the outskirts of town I saw a gate marked in faded letters: Entrance to Forham County Fairgrounds. From behind it came the dangdest racket I’ve ever heard. They were motors, that much I knew. Motors that should’ve been on a junk heap years ago. Well, I nosed my buggy inside, past the deserted stock barns and boarded hamburger joints to a huge, ramshackle grandstand. There’s a half-mile layout, poorly banked and dusty as the road to Reno.

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N THE PITS, directly opposite the grandstand, was the junkiest collection of alleged cars it has ever been my misfortune to observe. They were stripped to the bodies, these four-wheeled bathtubs. They were high and old and stubby. They were everything that racing jobs are not. My heart turned over slowly and I thought, if Russ Ellery intends to commit suicide here he’ll have to commit homicide first. Because I won’t have it. I made straight for the pits. A lanky, coveralled youth was bent over an idling motor. I tapped his shoulder. “Pardon me,” I shouted. He straightened. I liked his friendly, freckled map. “Yes, sir?” “Know where I can find Russ Ellery?” He reached over to switch off the ignition. “Sure,” he said, “you’re looking at him.” “No. I said Ellery. Russ Ellery. He’s an older man, the guy they’re featuring on the posters.” “I’m the feature attraction.” The kid grinned. “But I think you’ve got my dad in mind.” Russ Ellery’s son! “Thought you were in Ag school,” I gasped. “So does Pop,” he admitted cheerfully. “But I guess this is in my blood.” “If you mean the yen for suicide,” I said bitingly, “it must be in the blood. I suppose you know your esteemed pater is slated to race at Arco 2

Larry Sternig & William C. Gault

Star For a Day

12 Sports Aces, January, 1940

bent over his motor. Russ started walking up the fence along the pits. “Where now?” “To buy a car.” I grabbed his arm. “You’re crazy! Russ, I’ve watched these boys wheel—and ignorance is bliss on this circuit.” He didn’t answer. He was studying a junker. I tried again: “Your arms, Russ. This daffy game is for muscle men. You....” The jalop was turning over now, sounded like it might have the stuff. Russ tapped the young redheaded owner on the shoulder. “How much?” The redhead turned. His blue eyes widened. “Ain’t you Russ Ellery—the real one?” Russ nodded. The sorrel-top looked puzzled. “You want to buy my crate?” “Buy or rent. I only want it for today.” The kid gulped “How—how’s this? I’ll take half of your winnings.” “Okay.” The promoters waived any and all formalities for the real Russ Ellery. I argued but everything was settled in spite of me. “It’s like this,” Russ explained. “If I can’t cop here, with my experience, I should quit. And the boy—this isn’t his life; he just thinks it is. Pilots aren’t made, they’re born.” “Sure,” I said. “And your kid was born right.” Russ looked surprised but piled into his junker without a word. “Take it easy,” I warned. “This is a flat dish.”

I didn’t sleep much that night for thinking about those junkers and that flat, half-mile oval. I prayed a little, cussed a little, and smoked a lot. I thought of old Russ, who had nothing left but his memories, this kid, and almost enough for the farm. “Gentlemen farmers we’ll be,” he’d always said. And now fate was throwing the Stillson into the machinery.

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WAS eating breakfast when Russ showed up. He was gray, but his face hadn’t changed much Only his eyes were old. “Where’s the kid?” he asked hoarsely. “Where’s the kid?” “The race ain’t till two o’clock,” I soothed. “Sit down and I’ll spill the works.” Well, I did my best. I knew there’d be fireworks in an hour or so, and I tried to dampen ‘em a little. But Russ always was stubborn. “He’s coming home with me,” he said grimly. “Damned ungrateful, I call it.” In a little while, I thought, the irresistible force is going to meet the immovable object. When we got to the track, the kid was already there. Russ brushed away the stripling’s outstretched hand. A long time he stared at the junker. Then he said: “You can leave it here.” “Leave! I’m racing today, Dad.” I had never seen Russ crossed before. His temper had a rep and most of the boys had learned to leave him alone. He was under control now, though. “No you’re not,” he said. “You’re coming up to Arco with me. Then we’ll iron out this foolishness.” Junior shook his head. “I’m staying here. So are you, Pop. You’re too old for that Arco gang.” “Am I?” The old man was coldly amused. “It might interest you to know I’ve won the pole spot, set a new track record.” Junior looked proud for a moment. Then: “Time trials are one thing. Racing in competition is another. Better stick around, I’ll give you a good show.” “Think well of yourself, eh?” Russ said. If he hadn’t been so hot he might have remembered his own self-assurance of twenty years ago. “Okay, I’ll make a deal. If you cop here today, you’re the boss. If not, you go back to Ag school where you belong.” “It’s a deal,” Junior agreed. He turned away,

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E NODDED. The next minute the great Russ Ellery clanged out onto the track. He sailed into the first turn, laid it on in the backstretch and went gunning for the north bend. The lizzie was in the groove, the rear sluing. I held my breath as he broadsided toward the outer rail. Regaining control, he skidded into the front lane. I sensed the tension in the pits as he rattled past. This was a new sport with a new technique, and Russ was no youngster. He slammed into the south, fighting the wheel, fighting the gilhooley that was coming sure as fate. Come it did. The rear wavered, swung wide. The jalop slithered up the turn, shot for the outer rail. I swallowed my heart, stared at the blinding 3

Larry Sternig & William C. Gault

Star For a Day

12 Sports Aces, January, 1940

the five rows rattled down the stretch, hit the line to the dip of the green. Russ wasn’t so crazy this time. He found the groove, rode it for five laps like a robot, ignoring the storming, jockeying field. Twenty years of wheeling had taught him plenty. He was saving those oval-wearied arms for that final bid. I felt heartened. At ten laps two clunkers had hammered into the pits. Two more locked wheels on the south turn, piled up against the outer rail. Russ moved up to sixth place. He was wheeling that contraption like a horse on a merry-go-round, round and round without fear or fire. And it was paying dividends. We were still sixth at twenty laps. Ten miles gone, forty to go. At thirty laps, Junior and the “Two” car staged a little dog fight. For ten laps they battled, seesawing on the rim of disaster. Slowly, they were lapping the field. Then, as we hit the grandstand stretch, they closed in on us. I gripped the cowling and prayed silently. But Russ let them sweep by without a challenge. Russ must’ve noticed my questioning look. “The race is young,” he shouted, “and the track rough. I can make it up later.” I nodded. With luck, we could make it without a pit stop.

cloud of dirt. I was halfway across the infield when the dust cleared. The boiler was still right side up. It rested against the fence, facing down-track. But not for long. Russ turned the jalop around and zoomed into the backstretch. I cussed. Those Ellerys were madmen! They were at it again when I got back to the pits. “You win, Pop,” the kid was saying. “I’ll withdraw. But it’s dirty pool, if you ask me.” Russ was white. “Meaning?” “Meaning you couldn’t wheel this oval for fifty miles without cracking up. I’m quitting to save your neck.” Russ’ voice was low, dangerously low. “Is that so? Well, you’re not quitting. You’re racing. So am I. I’ve got the feel of it now.” He paused. “Unless you’re scared.” That did it. “I’ll race,” Junior snapped, turning on his heel. For the first time in my life I felt sorry for Russ Ellery. His pride and his confidence had been killed in the last hour and he was alienated from his son. It was enough to make any man sick. “You think I’m washed up, don’t you?” he rasped. I thought back to the golden days, at Altoona, at Fulford, those years we had barnstormed the outlaw circuit. And I thought of that hot afternoon at Indianapolis, that one of the many. I faced him squarely and I faced death at the same time, “No, I don’t, Russ ,” I lied. “You’re still tops with me. I’m riding with you.” A part of his confidence returned at that, and some of his pride. “No,” he said. But I insisted. He could use me. It would be like old times. And this time the pilot yielded to the mech. The rest was a nightmare: the bustle, the filling of the stands, the nostalgic smells of oil and dust and sun, the jeers and cheers at the comic imitations of racing cars. We were lined up in rows of three, Junior on the pole. They offered Russ the No. 2 spot. He refused, saying he hadn’t earned it. So we started back in the ruck. Five rows of junkers surged forward. Watching Russ I thought: “This is a hell of a way for the greatest living pilot to go out.” It was a clean start, in perfect formation as

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UT at fifty laps we still rode sixth. Almost a lap and a half behind the leading pair. Russ upped the pace a bit, his hands white on the wheel. We challenged the “Five” car in the back lane. Russ rode wide, fighting the wheel, the centrifugal force sending us outward. A split second we teetered, a half hair from broadside, the liz trembling in every bolt. Then those digging rear wheels found traction. Nose and nose down the front alley, hub and hub into the south. Suffocating dust clouds, sickening oil stench. Russ steered clear of the soft outer track, gunned as we hit the turn. We pulled ahead gradually, took fifth place. Junior was still leading the pack a half lap ahead. Russ glanced across the infield and something like a smile touched his dirt-grimed lips. His kid was a wheeler, no doubt of it. At seventy laps the “Four” job went out,

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Larry Sternig & William C. Gault

Star For a Day

12 Sports Aces, January, 1940

was hitting the track limit. Nobody, nobody could carry that pace on the outer track. Nobody but Junior. The kid didn’t lose an inch all the way around. There was something besides determination in Russ’ eyes now. There was a great pride—and it wasn’t for himself. Well, I’ve seen ‘em in my day. Smiling Jimmy Murphy, De Palma, Barney and his cigar, the immortal Lockhart—I’ve seen ‘em all. But I’ve never seen wheeling as purely inspired as Russ Ellery Junior displayed on that forgotten oval. Russ fought back, calling on the gleanings of twenty years to stave off that screaming, youthful challenge. We were like one broad car for three laps. Then, the kid began to move by. Slowly at first, faster as he hit the groove. We watched, Russ and I, watched him hit the line, the checkered flag, going away. We were still sitting in the car, staring dumbly at nothing, when the kid came back. His smile was hesitant, his eyes searching. Russ had always been a good winner. I hoped now he was going to be a good loser. He smiled, stretching wearily. “You’re a wheeler, kid. One of the best.” “The best,” I echoed. The kid grinned. “Thanks.” Then: “This isn’t my first race, Pop.” “Obviously.” “I’ve been driving under another name. Making money, too. When these promoters offered me five hundred dollars appearance money if I’d use your name, I accepted. I just wanted it for your farm. You deserved it, Pop “ The old man’s eyes were misty. “That’s the place for me—and Barney here. And I’ll take your money. Because it’s a cinch you’ll be making more, plenty more.” I nodded. “We’ll be down at Indianapolis to cheer you home, kid.” And Russ and I were silent, remembering.

hammering, and we took the spot. Five laps later we challenged the third car. For five laps it was ding-dong, cat and dog. Russ was wincing with the strain now, his arms trembling, face a mask. But he still had the touch, the touch that had made him Federation champ five years running. The “Three” car went down to oblivion on the eightieth lap. Still, Russ held back, waiting for the leaders to make a pit stop. It wasn’t possible they could’ve ground out that early pace without damage to rubber. Otherwise, a half lap lead so late in the grind was a cinch. The No. Two car sailed in two laps later. Russ upped the pace. So did Junior. Russ shot the works. The world was a teeter-totter, the fence a blur, the motor racket straight from hell. Like drunks in a nightmare we pounded that short oval, the stretches melting into the turn, the turns dynamite. His strength gone, Russ was riding on his nerve—nerve and skill. But it wasn’t enough to shorten the gap between Junior and us. Russ didn’t look too sad about it, just weary, and sick. And then Junior pulled into the pits! Russ took on new life and we screamed into the stretch for all the liz was worth. The stands rose in tribute. I’m not sure about the south. We must’ve made it, because I’m alive. The north was just a bad dream. Past the pits again. Junior wasn’t there. He was somewhere behind. Now, I thought, comes the fireworks. And they did. When Russ heard the roar coming up behind, he threw away the anchor, laid our lives on the laps of the gods and stretched out. For five laps we skimmed that bull ring, flirting with timber on every turn. Russ opened that complaining can to her last shrieking notch. Still that noise from behind kept growing. Junior came up for his challenge in the front lane. We hit the bend abreast. Russ, in the groove,

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