Columnist Ron Kantowski: Will Busch’s chase rev up hometown?

Wednesday, Nov. 3, 2004 | 10:45 a.m.

Ron Kantowski is a Las Vegas Sun sports writer. Reach him at ron@lasvegassun.com or (702) 259-4088.

Last weekend, a colleague showed up for work with a soft drink cup roughly the size of a NASCAR gas can with Kurt Busch's picture on it that he got at a local fast food joint and I thought "cool," at least somebody around here is aware of the local kid's pursuit of one of the most cherished trophies in auto racing, NASCAR's Nextel Cup.

But on Monday, that same colleague showed up for work with another 64-ounce tankard, only this one had Elliott Sadler's picture on it.

So much for local awareness of Kurt Busch.

In just his fourth full season on the Cup circuit, 26-year-old Busch may be on the verge of winning its most prized possession outside of a race-worn Dale Earnhardt Jr. firesuit. One of 10 drivers qualified for NASCAR's new 10-race Chase for the Championship, Busch is on top of the standings with just three races to run.

In fact, had he not had an engine failure at Atlanta on Sunday, they might already be engraving his name on the Cup. Busch's once dominating lead has been trimmed to a more manageable 59 points over Jimmie Johnson, another West Coast interloper who with three consecutive victories is hotter than a bag of barbecue pork rinds heading into this weekend's stop in Phoenix.

Still, it's Busch's championship to lose, and the fact that a kid from Durango High, who just a few years ago was running for chump change on the local bullring with guys who wash their hands with Lava, finds himself in that position is one of the most remarkable success stories in Las Vegas sports history.

In my mind, anyway. In yours, I'm not so sure.

If there's a buzz about Busch's championship run, I'm not feeling it. Winning the Nextel Cup is arguably every bit as difficult as winning the NCAA basketball championship, but I don't see the local media tripping over each other in the garage area at Martinsville. I don't see fans gathering in sports bars to watch the races. And I don't see kids wearing T-shirts with Busch's No. 97 on them to school.

When the Rebels last went to the Final Four (if I can remember that far back), all those things were true. But with Busch on top heading into the Final Three, nobody around here seems to have their flame retardant underwear in a bunch.

In fact, during my lunch hour Tuesday, I spotted four pickup trucks with a No. 8 decal (Earnhardt's number) on the back window, three with No. 3 (his old man), and one each with No. 20 (Tony Stewart) and No. 24 (Jeff Gordon). I didn't spot a single F-150 or even so much as overheating Escort with Busch's No. 97 on it, although a friend did say he spotted a NASCAR dad standing in the voting line Tuesday wearing a Kurt Busch jacket.

When I called Global Distributor, a NASCAR-themed souvenir store in the Boulevard Mall, a woman with a thick accent didn't know Kurt Busch from George Bush.

"What number is he?" she asked.

"Ninety-seven," I told her.

"Ninety-seven, he doesn't sell so good," she said.

So I asked who did sell good.

"Number eight, number three, number twenty-four," she said, rattling off the car numbers of NASCAR's holy trinity.

Maybe part of the reason for the indifference toward Busch is that many people still consider NASCAR a niche sport, even though based on its TV ratings, that niche is now being carved with a 10-foot chisel instead of a pocketknife. When the uppity New York Times is running NASCAR stories on the front page of its Monday sports section during the middle of football season, rest assured the interest level is there.

Another argument I've heard about the lack of interest in the Busch campaign is that although NASCAR is a team sport, it's still presented as an individual one. Individual athletic feats traditionally don't galvanize a community the way team ones do.

But there are exceptions. Every time native son Andre Agassi makes a run at Wimbledon or the U.S. Open, the phone in the sports department is constantly ringing with callers seeking Agassi scoring updates or wanting to chit-chat about his chances.

The only call I've received about Busch during the past couple of weeks was somebody trying to convince me to vote for the one without the "C."

Busch, like just about everybody else who drives a stock car for a living, now makes his home outside of Charlotte in a "compound" where he has plans to build homes for himself, his racing brother Kyle and his parents, Tom and Gaye. So you can't bump into him at Albertson's or P.T.'s pub anymore, or working the graveyard shift at the water district, which is what he used to do.

And there are those who claim that even when Busch was living in town, he wasn't always accessible to the local media. Nor is he the most charismatic driver on the circuit.

But then how many of us can say we really got to know Larry Johnson? Heck, according to Sports Illustrated, some of his kids can't even say that.

With superstars Gordon and Earnhardt Jr. among those with a realistic chance to overtake Busch atop the standings, the local guy isn't exactly winning any popularity contests these days, even though he has a done a nice job of rehabbing his image after his celebrated run-ins with journeyman driver Jimmy Spencer last year that turned Busch into Public Enemy No. 97.

On Sunday, during the ESPN SportsCenter, even anchor Stuart Scott started blasting Busch for using the word "catastrophic" to describe his engine failure a week after 10 members of the Hendrick Motorsports team, for which his brother drives, perished in a private plane crash en route to Martinsville.

I guess maybe Busch should have just said "we blowed up" and left it at that.

What Scott should have been doing is praising Busch for showing some class and giving thoughtful answers after reporters stuck their microphones in his face after a tough early exit, one that could have put his championship aspirations on the trailer.

Had it been somebody like Stewart, who has the demeanor of a grizzly bear with an impacted wisdom tooth when things aren't going well, those microphones probably would have been jammed up somebody's rear exhaust pipe.

In my profession, there's no cheering allowed in the press box. But when I sit down on my living room sofa to watch Sunday's race from Phoenix, I will be pulling for the guy driving the No. 97 car.

Somebody around here has to do it.

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