The deaths of NASCAR driver Kyle Busch and hockey player Claude Lemieux are chronologically circumstantial but linked in a broader sense by public reaction, which has run largely along the line of grudging admiration turning to fulsome admiration, not despite but because of all those grudges. They were highly and sometimes objectionably competitive men, and as such were held to be villains of a sort during their careers. In both cases, their brilliance became easier to acknowledge after the hesitations and qualifications related to all that were shocked back into perspective by their deaths.
Busch died at age 41, due to sepsis caused by bacterial pneumonia. That shockingly untimely death ended a nearly two-decade run as the driver who most, in the words of fellow driver Ryan Blaney, "made you feel inadequate, and [made] you feel talentless because you see him do these things, and it’s like, ‘I don’t know how he does it. I really don’t understand it.’" He was the hardest of chargers, a man who suffered competitors sporadically and fools not at all; before he died, Busch could be equally commodious and disputatious depending on the day. This was the result of the work he'd done and had to do, and his general mood. If that is villainy, then the world is full of them.
Lemieux was equally notable on the merits. Over 21 years in hockey, he had compiled four Stanley Cups and 459 goals in combined regular seasons and playoffs; he ranked sixth overall in playoff goals with 80, and was regarded as one the game's elite defensive forwards. This was not what he was best known for, though. He was best known for the vicious hit he put on Detroit's Kris Draper that was so egregious—Lemieux checked Draper from behind into the boards during the 1996 Western Conference final, breaking Draper’s jaw, nose, and cheekbone—that it sparked not just a brawl in that game but a rivalry between the Red Wings and Lemieux's Colorado Avalanche that lasted until well after Lemieux left the Avs and the Wings had turned over their management and roster. ESPN made a documentary about the rivalry, back when documentaries were actually documents rather than self-preening projects. The sentence "You hated his guts until he was on your team" was invoked so often in Lemieux's case that, had it come with a price tag per use, his family would have enjoyed generational wealth through the remainder of this century.
According to police, Lemieux died by suicide, leaving the living to speculate on the whats and whys. He was found by his one of his sons in a rear warehouse of the furniture store he owned with his wife in Lake Park, Fla. The question of whether his often confrontational and always high-collision style of play led to some level of brain impairment is an inevitable one; the idea that he died performing for fans is one each person must wrestle with individually, and as they choose. Lemieux had carried the ritual torch used to excite crowds before Montreal Canadiens games three days earlier, and that appearance gave the impression of someone who fully enjoyed his life and careers. But of course, these sorts of public particulars—a franchise icon in his glory; a small business owner in good standing; a busy sports agent, most notably for Carolina Hurricanes goalie Frederik Andersen, against whom Lemieux's Canadiens have struggled in the Eastern Conference Finals that will resume Friday evening—do not really tell you anything about how Lemieux was actually doing. They are just what he was doing.
Lemieux's truest link with Busch is more attitudinal than proximal, in that they both performed with an inherent understanding that they were not the types of competitors that would win over opponents, crowds, or media influencers with their play, except for that grudging "you hated his guts but" line. Their calling card was the fact that they could reliably stop you from doing what you wanted, almost at will, and that they did just that for many years, to the great frustration and later acknowledged respect of those to whom they did it. Many players who were vanilla in their greatness will have more abbreviated and easily forgotten legacies. An ace troll is a joy forever.
Neither is in their respective halls of fame, but almost certainly will be; Lemieux had not played since 2009, and so his resume as a player was complete. Busch was still an active driver but knew that his career was entering that sometimes painful transitional phase that leads to running a team, doing media analyst work, watching his son Brexton tackle NASCAR life, or just Being Kyle Busch for a living. His prospects were bright there.
"This sport is a badass sport," NASCAR CEO Steve O'Donnell said after Busch's passing, "Kyle Busch is an American badass." One could substitute the country and sport as needed and get the same quote for Lemieux; the closest anyone came was longtime NHL executive Lou Lamoriello, who knew and liked Lemieux as one of his favorite players during their shared stint with the New Jersey Devils, right up until Lemieux wanted his contract voided and was angrily traded to Colorado, "You separate the business, and you separate the personal," Lamoriello said. "The player’s the player when he’s got the uniform on and when he doesn’t have the uniform on he’s the person."
Both Busch and Lemieux recognized early that the job was what you did, and that the reputation you got for doing that job was something other people bestowed upon you. They approached their jobs as if your reaction to it was your problem, not theirs. In death, both will be lionized for their willingness to place the work above its reception. Like and admire or dismiss and dislike—if they didn't care about that, you sure don't have to. If the tragedy of their sudden ends means that they are only now getting the appreciation they merited all along, it at least fits. Both competed as if they believed their work would someday speak for itself. And now it does. What you hear it saying is your choice.
The 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline is a hotline for people in crisis or for those looking to help someone else. To speak with a trained listener, call or text 988. Or visit 988lifeline.org.
