animatedly to fans during lulls on the track, the exchanges shown live on the Jumbotron planted in the center of the infield. He said he had never come across any racism there. "I'm Jose," he added, pointing to the name stitched into his shirt pocket, "and no one ever said a thing to me. Don't get me wrong, the fans are rednecks. But that's not a socioeconomic thing. Guys worth millions could be camping out next to people who scrape for this one trip."
According to Humpy Wheeler, someone like Dale Earnhardt Sr. was so appealing to the core audience because he was a "John Wayne character, a kind of Civil War hero, a Confederate soldier." But Wheeler also agreed that the sport could gain traction in the big urban markets if it fielded a diverse group of drivers. He ran down an imagined lineup of multicultural all-stars, envisaging diversity as an ensemble cast in a Hollywood caperâan immigrant ex-cabbie from Long Island or Queens, an Italian driver from Chicago, a Hispanic kid from East L.A., with tattoos, a ring or two in his nose, who had been caught speeding forty-nine times in his rice rocket but was now sating his need for speed on the racetrack. What NASCAR really could use, Wheeler insisted, was a dramatic new star pitted against someone who was his opposite. He cited one of the young drivers on Max Siegel's Revolution Racing team, a New Jerseyan of Syrian descent named Paul Harraka. Then he had me consider the potential in setting Harrakaâan Arab American, a northerner, a student at Duke, which Wheeler called "the wrong part of the South"âagainst an up-and-comer named Jordan Anderson. Anderson was a dirt-track racer from South Carolina, still a kid, whom Humpy Wheeler liked to call "Preacher" for his ability to quote anything from the Bible, Old Testament or New, but who in an instant could turn "Scots-Irish red, absolutely vicious." Wheeler said, "See, the contrast creates the rivalry."
Max Siegel said that NASCAR's decentralized ownership model actually made it less exclusive than other professional sports. There was no league, no franchises, no old boys' club barring entry. Anyone with the $30 million or so to own and operate a car could start a team and enter a race. He felt minority-owned businesses and black professionals needed to look very closely at NASCAR simply for the economic opportunities it offered. In North Carolina alone, motor sports had a $5-billion-a-year impact.
We were speaking by phone, and Siegel suddenly interrupted himself. "Right now I'm at the barbershop in Indianapolis," he said, "at Fresh Kutz, on Sixtieth and Michigan Road, where I grew up in the 'hood. And there's a dude getting out of a car right next to meâthe guy's got on an M&M's NASCAR jacket. It's just ironic."
Â
Ricky Stenhouse Jr. would not lead the rebel yell or rise up as NASCAR's fiery new star. He was a chubby-cheeked twenty-two-year-old from Olive Branch, Mississippi, who started racing when he was sixâfirst go-carts and then open-wheel cars on dirt tracks for his dadâand he answered just about every question with a "Yes, sir" or "No, sir." "When I raced up north, in Indiana and Ohio, I always got that I was polite. That's just the way I am. That's how my dad taught me," he said. Ricky Stenhouse Sr. built race-car engines for a living. He worked on customers' cars during the day and then stayed up through the night to build engines for his son. Racing is an incredibly expensive pursuit for a kid, costing around $10,000 a year for anyone serious about it, but the father's job made the burden a little more tolerable. Ricky Jr. grew up playing baseball and football and riding skateboards, but he stuck with motor sports, winning the go-cart races and getting noticed on the circuit. In 2007 Roush Fenway Racing, one of the sport's top teams, signed him to run Fords for them. It was Ricky's first time racing stock cars, and now he was in his first full season in the Nationwide series, the JV to
According to Humpy Wheeler, someone like Dale Earnhardt Sr. was so appealing to the core audience because he was a "John Wayne character, a kind of Civil War hero, a Confederate soldier." But Wheeler also agreed that the sport could gain traction in the big urban markets if it fielded a diverse group of drivers. He ran down an imagined lineup of multicultural all-stars, envisaging diversity as an ensemble cast in a Hollywood caperâan immigrant ex-cabbie from Long Island or Queens, an Italian driver from Chicago, a Hispanic kid from East L.A., with tattoos, a ring or two in his nose, who had been caught speeding forty-nine times in his rice rocket but was now sating his need for speed on the racetrack. What NASCAR really could use, Wheeler insisted, was a dramatic new star pitted against someone who was his opposite. He cited one of the young drivers on Max Siegel's Revolution Racing team, a New Jerseyan of Syrian descent named Paul Harraka. Then he had me consider the potential in setting Harrakaâan Arab American, a northerner, a student at Duke, which Wheeler called "the wrong part of the South"âagainst an up-and-comer named Jordan Anderson. Anderson was a dirt-track racer from South Carolina, still a kid, whom Humpy Wheeler liked to call "Preacher" for his ability to quote anything from the Bible, Old Testament or New, but who in an instant could turn "Scots-Irish red, absolutely vicious." Wheeler said, "See, the contrast creates the rivalry."
Max Siegel said that NASCAR's decentralized ownership model actually made it less exclusive than other professional sports. There was no league, no franchises, no old boys' club barring entry. Anyone with the $30 million or so to own and operate a car could start a team and enter a race. He felt minority-owned businesses and black professionals needed to look very closely at NASCAR simply for the economic opportunities it offered. In North Carolina alone, motor sports had a $5-billion-a-year impact.
We were speaking by phone, and Siegel suddenly interrupted himself. "Right now I'm at the barbershop in Indianapolis," he said, "at Fresh Kutz, on Sixtieth and Michigan Road, where I grew up in the 'hood. And there's a dude getting out of a car right next to meâthe guy's got on an M&M's NASCAR jacket. It's just ironic."
Â
Ricky Stenhouse Jr. would not lead the rebel yell or rise up as NASCAR's fiery new star. He was a chubby-cheeked twenty-two-year-old from Olive Branch, Mississippi, who started racing when he was sixâfirst go-carts and then open-wheel cars on dirt tracks for his dadâand he answered just about every question with a "Yes, sir" or "No, sir." "When I raced up north, in Indiana and Ohio, I always got that I was polite. That's just the way I am. That's how my dad taught me," he said. Ricky Stenhouse Sr. built race-car engines for a living. He worked on customers' cars during the day and then stayed up through the night to build engines for his son. Racing is an incredibly expensive pursuit for a kid, costing around $10,000 a year for anyone serious about it, but the father's job made the burden a little more tolerable. Ricky Jr. grew up playing baseball and football and riding skateboards, but he stuck with motor sports, winning the go-cart races and getting noticed on the circuit. In 2007 Roush Fenway Racing, one of the sport's top teams, signed him to run Fords for them. It was Ricky's first time racing stock cars, and now he was in his first full season in the Nationwide series, the JV to
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