Maybe It’s Not NASCAR — Maybe It’s Me
A few weeks later, we watched a NASCAR race together on TV. I found myself droning on about how things were tougher back then, when drivers settled scores with bumpers, not press conferences. My son just gave me that patient look.
It hit me: maybe it’s not NASCAR that changed, maybe it’s me. The Next Gen cars look slick, but I can’t name half the grid. The drama feels manufactured — stage breaks, overtime restarts — almost like reality TV.
Meanwhile, IndyCar seems alive, teetering on the edge of disaster at 230 mph. The strategy’s sharp, the coverage crisp, the fans younger. It’s what hooked my son.
I realized I was chasing a ghost of my own youth, trying to make NASCAR today feel like my Saturdays with Dad. But times change. Maybe I needed to meet the sport where it’s at — or follow my kid’s lead to something new.
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