Kyle Busch And The Case Of The Mysterious Missing Elevator

Every parent worth their stay out of the cookie jar admonitions teaches, or at least attempts to teach, their children that with opportunity comes advisability.  Seldom as obvious, and one hundred and one out of one hundred times nowhere near the fun level of opportunity, but present nonetheless.  Can you do something?  Yes.  Should you do something?  That’s a different story.  You can eat nothing but cheesecake and wash it down with milkshakes, but unless your local theater company’s production of Star Wars: The Musical is holding open auditions for those able to play Jabba the Hutt sans makeup you might want to take a pass on said dietary habit.  You can also walk into your nearest Filipino public business establishment wearing a PACQUIAO SUCKS t-shirt, but unless you’re willing to accept the imminent onset of intense physical discomfort best advised to choose a different ensemble before leaving the house.  The list goes on.

Far be it from I to cast doubt on Kyle Busch’s parentage, as I am confident that despite assertions to the contrary heard at racetracks across the land his parents were in fact married at the time of his conception and his mother’s maiden name was not Lassie.  However, either they took a flier on the “every ‘can I’ comes with a ‘should I’ attached” lesson, or Shrub skipped that portion of the proceedings.  Whichever the case may be, the boy just don’t get it.  Which is why he continues to get it.  On the track, that is.

Even his most passionate detractors acknowledge Busch is an extremely talented driver.  He can throw a car around the track like most no one current or prior.  Sometimes it seems as if he’s literally throwing his car around the track, driving every which way but not loose as he performs a two hundred or so lap skid.  Watching Busch in action is like playing with a slot car on a track with the voltage set to eleven on a scale of one to ten.  Which brings to mind a quote by the legendary guitarist Nigel Tufnel of Spinal Tap, the greatest metal band that never was:  “It’s such a fine line between stupid and clever.”

Guess on which side Busch rimrides.

Busch’s elevator either never makes it from the can I to should I level or is permanently out of service.  Regardless of the lap count, position on the track, place in the running order or number of chickens in the henhouse Busch is all out flat out and if sheet metal gets flattened out in the process that’s what the guys in the shop get paid for.  There is no question of Busch’s insatiable passion for winning every lap of every race.  This is a good thing.  It’s what racing is supposed to be.  However, when winning time draws nigh Busch is just as if not more likely to place too much faith in both his driving ability and ability to win the battle of wills with his opponents as he is to advance.  “How did he do that,” good.  “Why did he do that,” bad.  Way too many of the latter this year.

Take this past weekend at Lowe’s.  In the truck race, Busch was sent to the tail end of the longest line for unnecessarily rough driving when he played a game of bash and dash with an opponent who was in no fashion a threat to Busch’s securing the victory.  That he battled back to finish second is a testimony to his skill.  That he had to battle back to finish second testifies to his earlier being thick as a brick.  The next night, in the all-star race he had as good a shot at victory as anyone.  Oh no.  Let’s make it three wide when we don’t have to!  Those other guys will lift, right?  Wrong.  Jeff Gordon was wrecked, Ryan Newman was rumpled, and Busch received just enough of a ricochet to send him charging in reverse to a seventh place finish.  All because he wouldn’t exercise a modicum of patience by not forcing the issue at a place on the track where doing so could have only one result for all parties concerned.  Namely, not good.

Kyle Busch’s biggest threat is Kyle Busch.  Until such time as he stops doing with benefit of thinking he will remain as he is, one to always watch not for the many ways he can win a race but for the many more ways he finds to lose them.  As long as his elevator remains stuck at ground level, so shall it be.