This past Saturday's Sprint Cup race at Bristol Motor Speedway was one of the greatest non-events in NASCAR history.
Leading into the evening, all who watched were led to believe this would make UFC look like a tea sipping contest. Tempers were hot. Tensions were high. Bumpers were being triple-reinforced with titanium, all the better for bashing anyone in the way. Everyone had a grudge against, a score to settle with, everyone else. Call-outs were more popular than hot dogs at Martinsville. This was going to be old-school stock car racing, the kind NASCAR had been intimating would take place since before the season started when it said in so many words have at it, gentlemen. Instead of robotic corporate spokespersons it'd be Rock'Em Sock'Em Robots. The brawl to end it all.
So what happened?
Forty-three bunnies quietly hopping along, with nary a Bugs to spice up matters.
Thrillsville.
The lead poseur desperately striking an image as a cottonmouth water moccasin, yet on the track becoming Peter Cottontail, was Kyle Busch. He accomplished the hitherto unknown feat of whipping up on lesser competition in both the truck and Nationwide series, then negotiating his way through Sprint Cup en route to winning in all three series at the same track in an extended weekend. Busch is a first-rate driver and third-rate third-grade schoolyard bully, the one who continues to run his mouth for the sole reason no one can seemingly be bothered to shut him up.
It's not that the desired outcome was a demolition derby. However, with the sole exception of Juan Pablo Montoya taking out Jimmie Johnson, all the pre-race blather about how this driver was going to get revenge against that driver who had done him wrong was revealed to be so much hot air. The on-track action wasn't. It was Alphonse and Gaston. Instead of saying "clear" the spotters were reminding their drivers to mind their manners and say excuse me whenever they went by someone. The end result was a race that stultified rather than sizzle.
Thanks for not much of anything, boys.
Comments