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few races. Dale seemed to shine on the intermediate tracks, and at Michigan he finished in the top 10. New Hampshire brought a #12 finish, and Dale kept the momentum going, racing from back in the pack late in the race at Daytona to capture the seventh slot. He was moving up in points, but the problem was, all of the front-runners were moving up as well. By Chicago, Dale was in 17th place with not a lot of hope at reaching #12 to qualify for the Chase.
    As Tim watched the coverage, he remembered one of the times he and his dad had been to Chicago. The race was in July, in the heat of summer, and the year his dad had died they’d been given tickets to a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. They’d gotten a ride from the Joliet cornfields to a train station and rode it the whole way into the belly of the city. His dad had as much trouble following the track changes as he did, and once Tim thought they’d have to turn back, but they finally found the Red Line and got off at Addison, a short walk from the ballpark.
    Tim had been to minor league games beforebut never to a park like Wrigley, with the ivy on the outfield walls and players so close that it felt like he could reach out and touch them. Babe Ruth had played here, though he didn’t know much about him. The bases seemed twice as white and the grass was three times as green as anything he’d ever seen. His dad had told him to hold off on the hot dogs because he had a special dinner planned, so Tim did and his stomach nearly growled louder than the crowd around them when the Cubs won.
    They filed out with the other fans and headed back to the train. When they reached downtown, they went underground and his dad looked at a piece of paper he’d scribbled on. They got off the train and walked up the stairs, his dad pointing out a big brick building a block away and saying it was Moody something or other and that some famous preacher started the school. Tim’s stomach was past growling and had begun snarling. He followed his dad to a little restaurant with a green awning above it. It had a funny Italian name he couldn’t pronounce.
    “They say this is the best pizza you’ll ever have,” his dad said.
    “I could eat a horse pizza right now. With a side of porcupine quills.”
    His dad had laughed, and now Tim wished hecould bottle that sound and open it up any time he felt lonely.
    It was dark inside, and the tables all had those red-and-white checkered tablecloths. His dad ordered a pitcher of Coca-Cola and something called a deep-dish pizza, and Tim thought they’d have to order at least two of them to satisfy him. He ate a salad down to the bottom of the bowl while he waited.
    When the server brought the pan out still sizzling, Tim couldn’t believe his eyes. The thing was a good six inches thick and had all the ingredients he loved stuffed inside it instead of on top. He started to pick it up but decided on cutting it with a fork. The taste of the crust and the sausage and pepperoni and onions and peppers and mushrooms made him want to move to Chicago.
    His dad just watched him and smiled. “Something special, isn’t it?”
    Tim nodded as he cut another piece and put a little of his Thousand Island dressing on the side of the pizza and covered it with Parmesan cheese. The tastes melded together perfectly.
    They had two pieces left, and Tim carried the bag home on the train ride, not believing the two pieces he had eaten had filled him to overflowing. The only thing better than that dinner was breakfast the next morning when Tim pulled the bag out of the littlerefrigerator in his dad’s truck and ate both slices. The taste stayed with him all day at the track as they set up for the race.
    “You think we could go back to that place sometime?” Tim said.
    “Why don’t we make it our tradition?” his dad said. “We get one Chicago-style pizza every time we come here.”
    That memory rushed back, and Tim could almost taste that thick crust as he watched the green