Tony Stewart hits and kills driver in race, Caution Graphic Footage
- Thread starter lgna69xxx
- Start date
He's the Montoya of NASCAR
I never liked him
Even Jeff had problems with him :
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=NekiBV9b5jE
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Smuler
I never liked him
Even Jeff had problems with him :
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=NekiBV9b5jE
Best Regards
Smuler
This guy was an idiot for running out onto the track
But Stewart ran him down :
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=_QJdB...has_verified=1&layout=mobile&client=mv-google
Best Regards
Smuler
But Stewart ran him down :
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=_QJdB...has_verified=1&layout=mobile&client=mv-google
Best Regards
Smuler
Wear a black suit, a black helmet, on a dark muddy track at night and go in front of a car running a 35 mph with almost no grip and ask yourself :"Why did it happen" ?
Draw your own conclusion ...
Draw your own conclusion ...
As a Tony Stewart fan, I have to admit that this is the most plausible explanation for what happened. The only real question mark is, did Tony try to give the kid a scare or spray dirt on him, and didn't realize he was too close? Or did he really not see him?
Phil Mushnick in the NY Post:
Through the detritus of Saturday night’s upstate dirt-track disaster, the editorial postmortem of 20-year-old Kevin Ward Jr. remains open for interpretation.
As a senseless death, it seems to have made a lot of sense. In fact, it causes wonder as to why within sanctioned motor racing, such “senseless” road-raging carnage, fueled by the human condition, doesn’t occur weekly.
Testosterone and gasoline do mix, always have, often to no good end other than dead endings.
And auto racing for decades has been sold as an endeavor that romances and stokes Billy The Kid gunslingers, gunning for fame and, in Saturday’s case, lethal misfortune, Boot Hill.
And here Ward was racing near his own turf, in front of friends and family, a regional reputation to either maintain or enhance.
Such Saturday night theater, in need of an antagonist, had the perfect one: Tony Stewart. At 43, the Black Bart of auto racing, the spit-on-your-cowboy-boots legend, the tough hombre other drivers gun for or get out of his way. Stewart’s vitriolic post-race hassles, replete with accusations and fines for on- and off-track confrontations, are nearly standard.
In Western shoot-’em-up movies, when a gun-totin’, dead-eye, leather-slappin’, law-scoffin’ legend hits town, the townspeople shudder, the town’s shuttered. But when Stewart hit western New York last week, the townsfolk headed for the track. Love him or loathe him … you know how it works.
Of course, modern bad-is-good marketing strategies allowed Stewart, at least until Sunday morning, to cash in on his heel appeal — product endorsements and extra TV attention, like Bobby Knight in a flame-retardant jumpsuit.
And so, as rotten endings go, this one seemed to be a go from the start. The pieces, the people and the place were all in place.
The notion that this stuff only happens in the movies — the James Dean hot rod race scene in 1955’s “Rebel Without A Cause,” Paul Le Mat vs. Harrison Ford in 1973’s “American Graffiti” — would be great, if such movies didn’t rely on the genuine, specifically male, human condition.
Motor races of all kinds occur at the junction of Avoidable and Inevitable, where good sense and get-even meet and often collide. I don’t know enough about vehicular forensics or auto racing to know what I saw. But I know what I suspect.
I suspect that young Ward, assuming the role of upstart hometown gunslinger, wasn’t going to let Black Bart get away with it; wasn’t going to let Stewart nudge him into a wall and out of the race — not in front of his fans — without taking the next opportunity to call him out.
And so he left his walled, turned-around sprint car and stayed on the track, waiting for Stewart to come ’round, to let him know, and to show the world, at the very least his world.
And Stewart, staying in character, did what he thought he had to in service to his image and conditioning — scare the hell out of the kid, maybe spit some dirt in his face, show the kid, perhaps for a second time, who’s boss. But he hit the kid, ran into him, killed him.
One wonders: Had it been anyone else who Ward felt had forced him into that wall, intentionally or accidentally, would he have remained on the track, awaiting that driver’s return?
I suspect that both men — their machines and their macho — played a significant role in Ward’s death, thus it’s now a matter of calculating each one’s responsibility.
Regardless, Saturday night, bad didn’t bother with worse; it jumped directly to worst, an episode of death imitating art. Or so I suspect.
Phil Mushnick in the NY Post:
Through the detritus of Saturday night’s upstate dirt-track disaster, the editorial postmortem of 20-year-old Kevin Ward Jr. remains open for interpretation.
As a senseless death, it seems to have made a lot of sense. In fact, it causes wonder as to why within sanctioned motor racing, such “senseless” road-raging carnage, fueled by the human condition, doesn’t occur weekly.
Testosterone and gasoline do mix, always have, often to no good end other than dead endings.
And auto racing for decades has been sold as an endeavor that romances and stokes Billy The Kid gunslingers, gunning for fame and, in Saturday’s case, lethal misfortune, Boot Hill.
And here Ward was racing near his own turf, in front of friends and family, a regional reputation to either maintain or enhance.
Such Saturday night theater, in need of an antagonist, had the perfect one: Tony Stewart. At 43, the Black Bart of auto racing, the spit-on-your-cowboy-boots legend, the tough hombre other drivers gun for or get out of his way. Stewart’s vitriolic post-race hassles, replete with accusations and fines for on- and off-track confrontations, are nearly standard.
In Western shoot-’em-up movies, when a gun-totin’, dead-eye, leather-slappin’, law-scoffin’ legend hits town, the townspeople shudder, the town’s shuttered. But when Stewart hit western New York last week, the townsfolk headed for the track. Love him or loathe him … you know how it works.
Of course, modern bad-is-good marketing strategies allowed Stewart, at least until Sunday morning, to cash in on his heel appeal — product endorsements and extra TV attention, like Bobby Knight in a flame-retardant jumpsuit.
And so, as rotten endings go, this one seemed to be a go from the start. The pieces, the people and the place were all in place.
The notion that this stuff only happens in the movies — the James Dean hot rod race scene in 1955’s “Rebel Without A Cause,” Paul Le Mat vs. Harrison Ford in 1973’s “American Graffiti” — would be great, if such movies didn’t rely on the genuine, specifically male, human condition.
Motor races of all kinds occur at the junction of Avoidable and Inevitable, where good sense and get-even meet and often collide. I don’t know enough about vehicular forensics or auto racing to know what I saw. But I know what I suspect.
I suspect that young Ward, assuming the role of upstart hometown gunslinger, wasn’t going to let Black Bart get away with it; wasn’t going to let Stewart nudge him into a wall and out of the race — not in front of his fans — without taking the next opportunity to call him out.
And so he left his walled, turned-around sprint car and stayed on the track, waiting for Stewart to come ’round, to let him know, and to show the world, at the very least his world.
And Stewart, staying in character, did what he thought he had to in service to his image and conditioning — scare the hell out of the kid, maybe spit some dirt in his face, show the kid, perhaps for a second time, who’s boss. But he hit the kid, ran into him, killed him.
One wonders: Had it been anyone else who Ward felt had forced him into that wall, intentionally or accidentally, would he have remained on the track, awaiting that driver’s return?
I suspect that both men — their machines and their macho — played a significant role in Ward’s death, thus it’s now a matter of calculating each one’s responsibility.
Regardless, Saturday night, bad didn’t bother with worse; it jumped directly to worst, an episode of death imitating art. Or so I suspect.
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