Woody: Enough Of The Gripes Of Wrath, Already
Larry Woody | Senior Writer
Judging from all the media hissing and moaning, Carl Edwards and Brad Keselowski should be ashamed of themselves, whaling away on each other and disturbing NASCAR’s nap-time.
Yeah, Keselowski took a wild ride at Atlanta. So?
Wild rides are what stock car racing is all about. Or at least it used to be, back before they started racing with dollies on the dashboard and their pinkie fingers extended.
I think NASCAR handled the situation about right. They sat Carl down and told him not to knock anybody else into the cheap seats for the next three races.
A lot of fans and media wanted Carl’s head on a platter. A silver platter, I presume, with some Perrier to sip and truffles to nibble while they watch curling on the Snooze Channel.
They seemed shocked that they witnessed a (gasp!) crash in a stock car race. Goodness gracious, what’s the world coming to?
Anyone remember a driver named Dale Earnhardt? Went by the name of “The Intimidator.” Ran over everybody but the pace-car driver. Widely considered the greatest racer in history. How come they didn’t wail about Dale they way they’re crying about Carl?
Everybody knows that Keselowski and Edwards have a history. They’re Hatfields and McCoys with lug nuts. Jimmy Carter couldn’t negotiate a treaty between these two. It’s just bad car karma.
First Brad hit Carl. Then Carl hit Brad. Carl is ordered out of the sandbox and Brad gets a cookie.
See how it works?
Meanwhile laptops continue to short out from distraught sports writers weeping into their consoles. They’ve worn the t off their keyboard typing “tisk tisk.”
They’ve left no tongue un-clucked.
I haven’t seen so much angst since, well since Cale Yarborough and the Allison brothers’ muddy smack-down in the Daytona infield. NASCAR was so embarrassed by the brawl that it used the replays to promote next year’s race.
When the violets get through shrinking they might look around and notice how interest in NASCAR has perked up.
Fans who had been bored silly by the same two tired old story lines – Danica the Hottie and Jimmie the Awesome – are starting to wake up and smell the rubber burning.
After an off-week to let the dust and car-parts settle, look what’s coming up: Bristol. Brutal, bruising, brawling Bristol.
A joint so mean that it should be served with a restraining order. A place where the Lap Leader Award usually goes to the wrecker driver. The only track with its own zip code: 911.
All the media and fans who were so shocked and chagrined by the rowdy racing at Atlanta might want to avert their eyes.
Bristol’s the kind of place where somebody’s liable to bump into somebody and lose their temper. Gosh, there might even be a wreck. Nobody wants to see that. Do they?
– Larry Woody can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org Comments