By MONTE DUTTON

News like this is unsettling. I was well out of college when Kyle Busch was born. I’m at the age where life seems a bit more frail.

And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

The older I get, the more scary that prayer gets. Fred Neil wrote a beautiful song often associated with escape and freedom. I see it as a beautiful homage to death.

Banking over the northeast wind / Sailing on summer breeze / Skipping over the ocean like a stone.

Then it ends.

I don’t want to leave your love behind. …

Acquaintance with my own mortality occurred in 2025. Coming out of surgery, I wasn’t in any pain, and  I thought, well, that might not be good news. At some point, I had a bleary conversation with a man in what, I guess, was post-op. I don’t remember his name or what he looked like. All I remember is that he was from Greenwood. Sometime, in this dreamy blur, I realized I still had my marbles.

On Thursday, I was doing what I often do: writing and posting the story about Clinton High winning the Upstate baseball championship and advancing to the finals. I went to Steamers and bumped into Buddy Bridges, Harold Nichols and Gene Simmons. All the while, I was gradually hearing about Kyle Busch.

He was sick. Someone else was going to drive at Charlotte. He was seriously ill.

He was dead.

What?

Few die when they’re ready. I’m 27 years older than Kyle Busch … was. I was in the process of refurbishing my life before I found myself spinning across the universe. It postponed everything for the longest time. I wonder if I still have time to do what I want to do.

I need to rewrite my outmoded will. I’m waiting to determine what to put in it. My mind changes slightly every day. If I live long enough, there won’t be much left to quibble about. I’m stalled out with big plans. At best, I’ll become a success again. At worst, I’ll have enough money to make it to glory. Or thereabouts.

Nothing is guaranteed.

I first met Busch when he was 19. I was in Las Vegas to write a chapter on Brad Paisley for my book about Americana music. I didn’t get much of an interview, but I spent two nights at the best-run sporting event I’ve ever seen, the National Finals Rodeo. Kurt Busch had just won the Cup (I … think … Nextel) championship, and the city had a big party on the Strip to honor Kyle’s older brother.

I met the family, the mayor, mingled within the proximity of showgirls and with apparently influential people I didn’t know.

That’s when I came to understand the Busch brothers. They grew up in Vegas, which is a long way by several measures from Whitney Mill. Or Level Cross. Or North Wilkesboro.

Both Busch brothers were talented. Both were ambitious. When things didn’t suit them, they could be brats. Kurt delighted me with his exalted misstatements. He tried so hard to be smart that it sounded dumb. He didn’t turn a lap. He “circumferenced the track.”

My working relationship with both was mainly good. I understood them within the context of the place that raised them.

We get nostalgic. Time turns bad guys to good guys. These past three dry seasons left me hoping Kyle Busch would win another Cup race. We gradually accept in adversity what we overlook in triumph.

Nothing prepares us for the shock of sudden, unexpected death.

The site is supported by reader contributions. If you’re interested, you can make modest monthly payments on my Patreon page or a one-time contribution via Venmo (@DHKSports).

Or, if you’d like to make a contribution by check or cash, my mailing address is: Monte Dutton, P.O. 221, Clinton, S.C.  29325 (hutdut@outlook.com).

It means a lot to me that you enjoy what I write.

Most of my books are available at Amazon. Two of my novels, Cowboys Come Home and Lightning in a Bottle, are available in audio versions.