Formula 1: The GOAT

“As I was saying,” Burak continued, his earlier astonishment giving way to unrestrained enthusiasm, “your son is a genius. I’m not saying this just to coax you into having him join the academy, but I’m absolutely certain no one his age – no one I’ve ever seen – could do what he just did, especially in such a short period. It took him only three laps to get used to both the kart and understand this track’s grip levels and racing lines. After that, he immediately started putting in hot laps. Every single one of them was within half a second of each other, and more importantly, they were all more than seven seconds faster than the existing track record for this type of kart! That record, by the way, was set by a kid two years older than Fatih, who had been training on this specific track for over three years. He knew this circuit inside and out. That wasn’t the case for your son at all.” Burak was on a roll, words tumbling out.

“Calm down, Burak, you’re starting to ramble again,” the receptionist interjected gently, trying to prevent him from overwhelming Rümeysa. It was a characteristic of his; his passion for motorsport could trigger these enthusiastic, sometimes lengthy, monologues, which could seem adorable or odd to those unfamiliar with him.

“I’m sorry about him,” the receptionist said to Rümeysa, offering an apologetic smile. “He’s just incredibly excited about the talent your son has shown.”

“Ah, apologies,” Burak said, scratching the back of his head, a flush of embarrassment rising as he realized he’d been carried away. “I can’t hold myself back when I find such a talented child out of nowhere.”

“It’s quite alright,” Rümeysa replied, waving a dismissive hand, though the proud and excited smile never left her face. “Everyone has their own way of expressing excitement.”

A brief, slightly awkward silence followed before Rümeysa broke it. “So, is the testing officially done, or was that still considered the practice session it initially was?” she asked, keen to move things forward.

“There’s no need for any further testing,” the receptionist stated decisively, knowing that if she left it to Burak, he’d have Fatih drive another ten laps just for the pleasure of watching. “He has already met all the qualifications to receive a full scholarship. We can move to the registration immediately if you’re still planning to go forward with his application.”

She then peeked through the observation room door. “It’s done, Fatih, you can come in.”

Fatih, who had been patiently sitting in the kart awaiting instructions, nodded, climbed out, and walked into the observation room, taking off his helmet as he went to sit next to his mother.

“Aren’t you curious about whether you passed or not?” Burak asked, noticing Fatih calmly joining his mother, their conversation seemingly unrelated to his lap times.

“I broke the lap record,” Fatih stated simply.

“How did you…?” Burak began, surprised. While there was a timing board, it wasn’t typically used for these initial assessments.

“I counted in my head while I was driving,” Fatih replied, delivering a well-practiced fib. The System, of course, displayed his lap times in real-time, and he’d received a notification of mission completion after his very first hot lap.

“…” Burak was momentarily speechless. He just accepted it. The kid was a monster if he had enough spare mental capacity to accurately time himself while learning a new track and pushing the limits.

“Please follow me to fill out his application,” the receptionist said, guiding them to a meeting room. “We’ll need his health information to show he’s fit and able, a passport-sized picture, a copy of his birth certificate, and a document of parental consent for our license application procedure with TOSFED. As for the rest, we’ll be responsible for handling those.”

The remainder of the day passed quickly. It only took about an hour to complete the forms and go through all the registration procedures. They agreed on a training schedule of three days a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday. Burak enthusiastically volunteered to be Fatih’s primary driving coach, an offer Rümeysa and Fatih gladly accepted. After bidding them farewell, Rümeysa took Fatih shopping as a reward for earning the scholarship before they headed home.

For the following months, Fatih’s days settled into a predictable pattern. The main change was his regular attendance at the Karting Academy. He also started subtly requesting a computer from his mother, planting the seed in preparation for his upcoming sixth birthday, which was now just two months away.

……

“What? You want to register him for a championship when he only started formal training three months ago?” the Academy Director asked Burak, his eyebrows raised in surprise at the audacious request.

“Yes, Director,” Burak affirmed. “In these few months, he has absorbed everything I can possibly teach him at this stage. Most of his academy time is now spent garnering experience, track time, and competing in practice races against other children. And in those races, he’s consistently lapping everyone else by more than two laps by the end of the session. I genuinely don’t see any benefit in him training at this same level for another year before participating in official competitions.” Despite trying to maintain his composure, Burak could feel his usual enthusiastic rambling starting to take over.

“Stop, stop, stop,” the Director interrupted, holding up a hand, clearly taken aback. “By more than two laps? Are you absolutely sure about that?”

“Yes, Director! Since the practice races are half an hour long, his speed and incredible performance consistency allow him to lap the entire field within just ten minutes. Depending on track conditions, and assuming no one crashes into him – which he usually avoids as if he has eyes in the back of his head – he will have lapped them at least twice by the end. The results are the same even when I make him start from the very back of the grid in nearly all races. He’s in the lead within the first ten minutes and then just extends it, lapping them with the remaining twenty…”

“How old is he again?” the Director asked, trying to recall the details. He remembered being informed about a talented child breaking a lap record and receiving a full scholarship but hadn’t focused on the specifics of his age.

“He is currently five but will turn six during the championship season, so he will be permitted to participate as per TOSFED regulations,” Burak answered, having meticulously prepared and reviewed the rules beforehand.

“You do realize that participating in these championships costs the academy a significant amount of money, don’t you, Burak?” the Director said, his gaze steady. “And since he’s a scholarship student, all of those expenses will be coming directly from our budget. You’re asking the academy to heavily invest its resources to support a child who isn’t even six yet, in a championship category designed for kids aged six to eight.”

“I am certain he will be among the top contenders, Director,” Burak stated confidently. “And since he will be racing in our academy-branded kart, the amount of positive exposure and prestige we will receive if he performs well should far outweigh our expenditure on him for this championship.”

“That’s if he actually delivers on your claims. Otherwise, it’s a waste of money,” the Director countered, still skeptical. “His current records are against other inexperienced children at our academy. You want to take those results and pit him against kids who might be on their third year participating in this national championship, and you expect him to beat them and be among the title contenders?”

“Yes, I do,” Burak said firmly. “Normally, I would say he will win it outright. But, taking into consideration factors outside his control, I’ve conservatively estimated him as a contender. If none of those external factors play a significant role, he will most certainly win the championship by the end of the season.”

“Haaaaa…” the Director sighed, rubbing his temples. Common sense screamed at him to disapprove; it seemed like a potential waste of funds and risked putting immense pressure on a young child if he were to be crushed by more experienced competitors after being labeled a prodigy.

“How about we do this?” Burak interjected, sensing the Director’s hesitation. This was his trump card. “If he doesn’t win the championship and isn’t in the top ten overall by the end of the season, I will personally cover all the costs incurred by the academy for his participation. But if he wins, or is in the top ten, the academy will match his prize money, if any, as a sponsorship stipend. How about that? There’s nothing for the academy to lose.” If this failed, Burak was prepared to enter Fatih as an individual, without official academy backing.

“You would go that far for him?” the Director asked, genuinely surprised by Burak’s conviction and personal financial risk.

“Yes. That is how much I believe in his work ethic, his talent, and his passion.”

“Alright then, how about this,” the Director proposed, offering a compromise. “We will sponsor his entry. However, if after the second championship round he is not ranked within the top ten overall, you will have him withdraw from the remainder of the championship.” He saw Burak about to negotiate further and quickly added, “And if he wins the championship, I will personally double any prize money he receives as his reward from the academy.”

“Then please approve his application,” Burak said, a triumphant smile spreading across his face as he slid a pre-filled championship funding application document across the desk. Only the Director’s signature was missing.

The Director picked up a pen. Just as he was about to sign, he looked up. “Have his parents approved his participation in this championship?”

“Yes,” Burak replied, smoothly sliding another document forward – a parental consent form, already signed by Rümeysa.

The Director looked at Burak one last time, a wry smile playing on his lips. His attempts at delaying had failed. He had no other option but to keep his side of the agreement. He signed the document.