Mark Martin tries to pass Kyle Busch in the closing laps of the Sharpie 500 at Bristol Motor Speedway. Busch led the final 68 laps of the race. (Photo Credit: Jason Smith/Getty Images for NASCAR)
Last night’s Sharpie 500 at Bristol Motor Speedway was a classic NASCAR race at its most beloved track in only one aspect.
It was a classic example of why Mark Martin has never won a Sprint Cup.
And in all likelihood never will.
Even the most gentlemanly great drivers in NASCAR history have possessed the heart of a cold-blooded assassin when what Magic Johnson refers to as “winning time” comes around. They have unfailingly exhibited the gift for rooting out an opponent when the situation required doing so in order to come out ahead. Some were far more blatant about it than others (*coughdaleearnhardtcough*). But they all had, and for those currently active have, the same knack for the kill. Whatever it takes to win. Apologies can wait for afterwards. Go for it now.
Consider the three drivers now locked into the Chase: Tony Stewart, Jimmie Johnson and Jeff Gordon. Nine championships between the three of them. None of them came with NASCAR’s equivalent of the NHL Lady Byng trophy awarded annually to the league’s most gentlemanly player attached. Whatever the off-track persona of these three might be, when it’s crunch time they have been far more determined than their opponents to make the other guy go crunch if need be. I win, you whine.
But not Martin.
He is so addicted to his everything-is-beautiful outlook on life that when the only thing standing between him and victory is not using the chrome horn to announce his presence, he lets it stand. This has made him tremendously popular with his fellow drivers over the years. Why shouldn’t it? They know he will not do unto them as they would do unto him were the positions reversed. What’s more, he’ll hop out of his car parked on pit row rather than in Victory Lane after the race and smilingly say how great it all is and of course whoever is presently celebrating the win would never ever ever do anything different than he did in an effort to take the checkered flag.
And Middle Eastern peace is right around the corner.
Back to the Saturday night that wasn’t much at Bristol. The first part – the vast majority, actually – of this race was a rather dull affair, so much so that when a brief rain shower passed over the track it was quickly determined not to be actual rain but rather tears of boredom shed by the guardian angels of all present. Martin handedly led most all laps, other drivers rising and falling on the scoreboard with minimum fuss. Or excitement. Not that a return to the wreckathon days of Bristol would have been better, but with the outside groove working far better than the inside there were a lot of people getting around each other without any sense there was actual passing going on.
Near the end the intensity picked up, with assorted outbursts of impatience plus the occasional blown tire leading to several cautions. Meanwhile, Kyle Busch worked his way ever closer to the front, finally seizing the lead amid the growing sheet metal carnage. Not to worry, thought the faithful gathered to among other things commemorate Martin’s one thousandth start in NASCAR. His Pop Tarts pastries had pasted the field throughout. Surely he’d scoot by the Candy Brat and secure the win.
Guess again.
On the final restart, Martin quickly positioned himself behind Busch. Or underneath him. Or next to him. It didn’t matter. When it was clear the only way he could win was nudging Busch, Martin couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, Busch delivered the win while Martin delivered yet another sunny side up sermon complete with insisting Busch would have raced him the exact same way had their positions been reversed.
Sure, Mark.
Sure.
Enjoy not winning the race or championship again.
