Someone asked me the other day about the Chili Bowl and what I expected to see happen there in a few weeks. I talked about the usual suspects and how the big teams will probably dominate. Then they asked me what I would LIKE to see happen. Ah, now that’s a much more interesting question.
I’d like to see an under-funded, shorthanded team roll into Tulsa, Okla., and pool their money to buy pit passes and meals. They’ll sleep in their truck, parked in the faraway reaches of the Expo Center parking lot, slogging back and forth through the cold the entire weekend.
They’ll be pitted in the farthest corner of the building, with a handful of tires and spares scattered around their car, which will be several years old and wearing signs of age and action like a badge of honor.
Their driver will be a hardened, tough-but-lovable blue-collar midget racer, a guy who has a full-time occupation that is as inglorious as their ancient race car. Maybe he’s a welder, machine operator or ironworker. Regardless, he’ll be a long way from polished, just barely presentable in mixed company.
They’ll run surprisingly well on their qualifying night and lock themselves in for Saturday night’s feature. While we’re all talking about the stars — Stewart, Kahne, Kruseman, Coons, et al — they quietly continue to prepare their car in the darkened corner of the Expo Center, completely off the radar screen.
On Saturday night they’ll remain an afterthought, while the huge crowd buzzes about who will win tonight’s race. They will quietly get their car ready and enjoy the great pre-race hoopla in relative anonymity.
Then their guy will climb into the car. His uniform, devoid of sponsor names or patches, will be dotted with grease and dirt, particularly at the end of the sleeves. They will talk about how they wished they had enough money for a full set of new tires, but they’ll just have to race on what they’ve got.
The crew guys and the driver will have a last-minute discussion, and they’ll pat the top of his helmet and wish him good luck. He’ll nod, with a fiery, burning intensity visible in his eyes. He’ll feel the car jostle from the contact of a push truck’s bumper, and he’ll wave his arm, feeling the truck surge forward.
From the outset, he’ll stalk and storm, carefully picking off cars. Twenty laps in he’ll have the leaders in his sights, feeling the car working perfectly, even on those old tires. The crowd will roar even louder as they see the old, plain race car moving forward, and when he gets to about fourth people will turn to each other and shout, “Who is that guy?”
With 10 to go he’ll lock up in a spectacular duel with one of the big stars, and in the waning laps will somehow find something in that old car that brings magic. Maybe it’s the setup, maybe it’s the driver, maybe it’s those unlikely old tires. Maybe it’s karma, when the racing gods allow even the most unlikely things to happen.
Coming off the final corner he will be side-by-side with the superstar, both cars clawing and digging, desperately straining and reaching toward the finish line. But the tired, ancient old race car will summon its strength from its spirit, drawing from great races from three, five, even 10 years ago.
As they get to the line there isn’t any doubt. The under-funded, shorthanded team will win, with the unheralded blue-collar guy scoring the most sensational, spectacular win of his career. He’ll climb from the car and scream in delicious, delirious joy, joining the roaring cheers of the massive Chili Bowl crowd, the crowd that despite their infatuation with the stars, loves the underdog in Tulsa.
That’s what I’d LIKE to see happen at the Chili Bowl.