On Sunday, we will have one of those races, on one of those tracks, that provides must-see action. While we have no announcers covering NASCAR today who you might tune in just to hear their description of the action, to hear them enhance the excitement, even those we got can not detract from the spectacle we shall witness on Sunday.
As NASCAR swings into Chicago and begins the Chase, I can not help but notice that Denny Hamlin, and now Danica Patrick, have made mention that the season is too long. Reduce some races in length, reduce some altogether, run some mid-week are among their suggestions.
Michigan. A big track, a fast track. Sadly, not exactly a legacy event, like winning at Daytona or Bristol or Talladega or Indianapolis or Darlington or either road course. What it is, is a track where legends have celebrated since 1969. In fact, David Pearson, Cale Yarborough, Bill Elliott, Rusty Wallace, Mark Martin, Richard Petty, Dale Jarrett, and Bobby Allison have combined for 46 victories there. That is a lot of suds for a lot of Hall of Famers.
“I hate that I...” I love that phrase. It is the prelude to expressing some measure of regret for some on track transgression in the hopes that these mere words will make everything alright. For instance, "I hate that I got into Kurt [Busch] there at the end racing to the line.” So says Joey Logano after Busch got dumped on the final lap, crossing the line spinning backward in 23rd place Saturday night at Daytona.
Best damn finishes ever. Well, for two of the four events to date, that has been the headline for NASCAR in 2016. Daytona and Phoenix were decided by gaps measurable with a ruler, and that has to be a good thing. Hell, a great thing.
The return of NASCAR for 2016 was a smashing success. I mean, if smashing cars was the intent, they could not have done better. By the time the Sprint Unlimited, which is actually limited to 25 drivers, came to a conclusion, someone had tallied up that an estimated $2.5-million in damages had been racked up.
I loved watching Cale Yarborough in the No. 11 and Richard Petty piloting the No. 43. How I miss seeing Dale Earnhardt in that black No. 3. I wish I could see Rusty Wallace again in that blue deuce though my reasoning is that him driving means there was no way in hell he would be announcing.
Time is ticking down on major sports shortest off-season. A day short of three months is all that separates the last race at Homestead to the action coming up at Daytona. That is like Major League Baseball wrapping up the World Series in October, only to return in January.
I have walked the Little Bighorn Battlefield more than once, seen Devil’s Tower and visited Mount Rushmore. I have watched the Red Sox play in Seattle, and I believe the scenery in Wyoming is second to none. I’ve been there, but I do not live there.
The thrills and the moments of dread of Daytona are behind us. Kentucky is next on the agenda, yet something tells me it arrives with not quite the same sense of anticipation. It still is racing, there is still a measure of danger attached to it, but it is not the same thing. Some think that is a good thing.
