At every race track on the circuit, they are out there: the drivers we
love, the drivers we hate, and the drivers we "love to hate"--each of
them with one common goal in mind: the pursuit of a Nascar championship.
Irrespective of the level of competition--Cup, Nationwide or Camping
World Series--the title "Champion" carries with it the ultimate mark of
prestige. It says to those in the racing world and to fans everywhere,
"I am the best," and it further sets apart each driver attaining the
honor into a most elite and exclusive group of individuals who have
placed a permanent and indelible mark into the sport's history books.
We are all familiar with the names: Earnhardt, Petty, Waltrip,
Elliott, Wallace, Stewart, Gordon and Johnson, just to name a select
few. Even if their respective tenures as champions took place before our
personal introductions into Nascar, nevertheless everyone who claims to
be a die-hard follower of the sport has at least "heard" of their
histories whether or not they were privileged to witness their
respective heydays on a firsthand basis. And everyone claiming at least
minimal knowledge of the sport is aware through sheer common sense that
in order to be crowned a champion, one must meet certain common
criteria--foremost amongst such being consistency on the track combined
with sheer talent behind the wheel.
But alongside of the "obvious," there is another equally important
characteristic that comes into play at some point along the line--one
that isn't so much written in objective black-and-white as it is
subjective through the eyes of the fans.
In one word: respectability.
Sure, a driver's personality must posess a certain "rough around the
edges" quality that lets his competitors know in no uncertain terms that
he means business on the track. Without the proper combination of "good
guy/bad guy" underlying his public character, one might otherwise be
perceived as too "vanilla"--bland, boring, and fitting somewhere outside
the realm of the appropriate "mold" that we the fans attribute to
someone of true championship caliber. But from the opposite extreme,
there exists an understandable level of fan displeasure and disdain when
the sport's "bad boys" behave a bit "too" badly for their own good or
the good of the sport as a whole. We have all witnessed the trademark
tirades of a select few individuals who erroneously believe that their
undeniable talents and abilities behind the wheel have somehow elevated
them to the status of a god of one sort or another, oftentimes to the
point where they practically demand the respect of both their fellow
competitors and their fan base--not realizing that respect at any level
is something that must be earned before it is extended.
When the rubber truly meets the road, who is the sport's "real"
champion as seen through the eyes of the public fan base? And what sort
of individual posesses the greater potential to properly and most
appropriately represent racing and all that it truly stands for during
his year-long tenure at the top of the charts? While thoughts may differ
a bit regarding one concrete response, it is the opinion of your writer
that a champion (or championship contender) who fails to earn the
respect and admiration of his public is just another "winner" whose name
and statistics are duly recorded in the history books.
Nothing more.
To illustrate, let's take a hypothetical look at
Driver A vs Driver B. Driver A's record on track speaks for itself.
Statistically, he races consistently--running in the top 5 and no worse
than the top 10 each and every week, and even scoring a few victories
along the way. He drives for an organization of "super power" caliber,
boasting of nothing less than the very best in equipment and personnel
that money can buy. But that's only half the story. On the race track,
he has somehow managed to earn himself quite the reputation for
"stopping at nothing" in pursuit of the sort of finish that culminates
in the ultimate prize: hoisting the trophy at the season finale. In his
quest to be the best, he has purposely wrecked countless competitors, on
some occasions including his own teammates, totally destroying their
equipment and perhaps contributing to some level of physical injury
along the way, and rarely if ever with an apology to follow. One step
further, his post-crash or post-race interviews are almost always laced
with some sort of self-promotion intended to make his fellow drivers
appear to be the villains while he emerges (or so he would like to
make everyone believe) smelling like the proverbial rose. And then he
wonders why he is continually greeted with a resounding chorus of boo's
and hisses during driver introductions and in Victory Lane. As if the
fans would actually take pleasure in hailing his accomplishments when
his focus is on only one thing--himself, at the expense of everyone else
in the field. Hmm--maybe he could stand to take a good, long look at
himself in a mirror; therein he just might find the answer to his
question.
By contrast, Driver B could represent any organization
in the venue, be it superteam level, middle of the road, or working its
way up the success ladder. He may represent the hopeful newcomer in
search of his first career victory, or the "middle ground" driver who
has tasted a certain level of success in the form of either a single
career win or a few "scattered" victories, or the driver who has been
the "bridesmaid" rather than the "bride" on multiple occasions, just
barely missing out on the smallest margin of points standing between
himself and the coveted title, yet always accepting his seasonal ranking
with the greatest of humility and sportsmanship. He is the driver who
hears the cheers of the crowd and responds with a smile and a wave
rather than an attitude of "everybody's looking at me." And he is the
one who, when all is said and done, leaves the track each week knowing
that he has given it "his all," irrespective of the outcome. He is
respectful toward his many loyal fans, often attributing just as much of
his success to them as he credits to his sponsors and his organization
as a whole, knowing that without the fans, his career (and the sport
itself) would be nothing. He is, in essence, the individual that
everyone takes pride in looking up to, or the one to whom his fellow
drivers often go seeking advice (which he extends freely, remembering
that someone once helped "him" get off the ground too.) And he is, in
many ways, a champion's champion who may or may not have ever actually
hoisted the trophy and held the title--and it all boils down to one
simple concept--respect.
I don't know about those of you amongst
my readership, but as for me, given a choice between "respectability"
and "mere ability" when defining what constitutes a true champion, I
would go for the former any day of the week. The objective criteria of
point standings and statistics only tell part of the story. The
personable, genuine driver who knows how to relate to the fans, sponsors
and media, and who is willing to extend a handshake instead of a fist
to the driver who takes him out of contention, or to the reporter simply
doing his job in the aftermath of a crash, is the one who posesses the
most basic qualities that exemplify championship character.
And that is something that every driver could ultimately stand to learn from.
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