Kyle Busch spent most of his career being the guy NASCAR fans loved to argue about. Some couldn’t stand him. Others saw him as the last real outlaw left in the garage. But after Busch’s sudden passing at 41, the stories coming from inside the sport are justifiably melancholy. The loud, polarizing person people saw on Sundays is being replaced by something more personal. And Chip Ganassi probably explained it better than anyone else has so far.

Speaking with David Land on X, the longtime NASCAR owner got emotional talking about Busch. Ganassi never actually owned a car that Busch drove, but their careers intersected consistently. 

“If you wanted this many races, you’re going to hit this many home runs, or his batting average is this — but no, they forget that these guys were people first before they were athletes,” Ganassi said, as a tear trickled down. 

Then he went straight at the reputation Busch had for two decades.

“Love him or hate him, he was all about him. To some people, he was a polarizing figure. But, you know, I think that was half an act. I think he wasn’t like that at all.”

That probably surprised nobody who actually spent time around Busch away from race day.

“He was a great guy, and he’s just a big hole with me — a big hole, you know, in the sport.”

It’s a shock how fast everything happened. Busch died on May 21, just hours after his family announced he would miss the Coca-Cola 600 because of a severe illness. Earlier reports showed Busch suffered a medical emergency while working inside Chevrolet’s simulator facility in Concord, North Carolina.

Looking back, the warning signs were there. At Watkins Glen earlier this month, Busch sounded exhausted on the radio and asked for medical help mid-race. Still, he kept racing. He even won a Truck Series race less than a week before his death. Ganassi’s biggest point, though, had nothing to do with wins.

“When I looked at him as a race car driver, I looked at him as a family man first. You know, that is a father and a husband and a brother and a son.”

That side of Busch rarely got the same attention as the meltdowns or the feuds. He and his wife, Samantha, spent years openly talking about infertility struggles, miscarriages, and failed IVF cycles. Instead of moving on with their lives, they started the Bundle of Joy Foundation to help families pay for treatment. By 2025, the charity had helped fund the births of more than 100 babies.

Then there was Kyle, the dad. Most weekends away from NASCAR were spent helping Brexton race dirt cars. Busch coached him hard, too. Videos from local tracks showed him breaking down throttle timing, corner exits, and braking points like he was preparing for a Cup race.

He did the same thing with young drivers coming through Kyle Busch Motorsports. Erik Jones, Christopher Bell, and many others got their first real shot because Busch believed they were talented enough to make it. All of that feeds directly into the word Ganassi kept coming back to: wheelman.

“And he was a wheelman, though, behind the wheel of a car. He was a wheelman. And that’s what people in this industry respect about him.”

Kyle Busch Earned That “Wheelman” Label Every Single Weekend

In racing, calling somebody a “wheelman” means something different. It is not the trophies. It means drivers trust that person could jump into anything with four tires and make it fast. That was Busch.

The guy won 65 races in one season as a kid driving Legends cars in Las Vegas. At 16 years old, he nearly won his first NASCAR Truck race. Hendrick Motorsports saw enough almost immediately and signed him before he was even old enough to race full-time nationally. Then the expected started to happen. 

Wins with Hendrick. Championships with Joe Gibbs Racing. A career reset at Richard Childress Racing that somehow started with Busch winning in just his second race with the team. By the end, he had 234 wins across NASCAR’s top three series. Nobody else has touched that number.

But numbers alone do not explain why drivers respected him the way they did. Busch drove cars on the edge constantly. Busch wanted a car that looked half-out-of-control because he believed that was where the speed lived. He attacked corners using the right-front tire, catching slides with insanely quick hands while balancing the car inches from disaster. That style also gave us some ridiculous moments.

At Bristol in 2008, Kyle Busch basically wrestled a damaged car for 500 laps and still parked it in Victory Lane. In 2015, he broke his leg and foot at Daytona, missed 11 races, came back months later, and somehow won the championship anyway.

Then there was Chicagoland in 2018 against Kyle Larson. Larson shoved him into the wall during a last-lap slide job. Busch never lifted. He pinned the throttle, rode the wall down the straightaway, caught Larson again, and took the win back entering Turn 3. That is the stuff drivers never forget.

The wheelman title is not a namesake. With every turn, brake, and acceleration, Busch built his credibility on track, in dust and fumes. Something that’ll stay with us all.

That is really what NASCAR is mourning right now. Not just the champion. Not just the 234 wins. The guy who raced everything, pushed everything to the limit, and somehow became softer away from the track than most fans ever realized.