The Final Word

It might have been Kansas, but the action was a whole lot like a Las Vegas slot machine. Gold bar. Gold bar. Grapes. Dammit! Take Kevin Harvick, for example. He was second best on the opening stage. He was the best in the second stage. He was dominating the third stage, at least until he went speeding on pit road. Dammit!

Talladega was a ratings bust. Talladega. For fans who follow the sport, those four Stewart-Haas cars up front, doing what they had to do all day long, was something to behold. For those who simply tune in to watch incredible action, they had to wait for the final 20 laps for the payoff. However, they had to have tuned in to witness either. They did not even bother. That is troublesome.

If only I could time travel. Going back a few days, I could have been able to pin-point exactly what one needed to do to win at Talladega on Sunday.

Do not count your chickens before they hatch. That was the lesson we got in Dover on Sunday. A lot of things can happen between the time the egg emerges from the backside of the hen to when that little pecker bursts from the shell. A lot of bad things.

The Charlotte Roval promised to be chaotic, a fantasy design straight out of the old video games that was going to tear cars up and dash hopes. Well, that narrative did not pan out, at least in the early going on Sunday. As for the ending, well, that was another story.

Richmond, the second race of the opening rung of the championship ladder. Only four storylines awaited to be written. Who would win, and would it be Brad Keselowski for a fourth straight contest?

Now it gets real. There is no argument as to whom the contenders are, and who are the pretenders. Say what you will, but even though there might be forty cars on the track, only 16 matter.

Yet, the big story was the start of the race. When would that be? The wet cold rainy weather punted both practice and qualifying, thus nobody would have any laps in their car when the green waved. None. Zip.

Darlington was a day all about time. A time when in 1950 the first Southern 500 was run. A time when some of the great names from the past were brought back to be saluted by their sport in the present. A time when 0.6 seconds can mean everything.

Officially, Saturday night’s race was not billed as the Bristol Busch Brothers 500. Those two boys are almost always front and center at the venue. Even when they do not want to be.