Bowling over perceptions: throw a few games with NASCAR bad boy Tony Stewart, and out rolls evidence that he is amiable, generous and even fun. But there's one stereotype that can't be dislodged: his passion for—make that obsession with—racing

Sporting News, The, April 5, 2004 by Matt Crossman

Jillian's Billiard Cafe is a popular hangout in Concord, N.C. It has a restaurant, a bowling alley, an arcade and a pool hall. It's in the heart of NASCAR country, in a suburb of Charlotte, so it's not uncommon to find Nextel Cup drivers there, though you'll probably have to look hard to find them among the hundreds of teenagers. Maybe it's millions of teenagers, judging by the sign near the front door:

No sweats or athletic wear.

No torn or soiled clothing.

No profanity on clothing.

No brimless hats.

No shiftless vests or jackets.

Baseball caps must be worn forward.

No excessively baggy clothing.

No sleeveless shirts.

Such were the house rules when I went bowling with Tony Stewart. That sign made me wonder what I had gotten myself into--how bad must the hooliganism be for such a stern lecture before you even get inside? But that sign suggested problems that never materialized--the place was hooligan-free-and the Tony Stewart often written about was nowhere to be found.

The more time I spent in Jillian's, the more that sign seemed silly, and the more time I spent with Stewart, the more I knew widely held perceptions about him are wrong.

Stewart's a jerk? No.

Stewart thinks anything less than a win is a failure? No.

Stewart is passionate about racing? No--because passionate is too mild a word. Obsessed is more like it. He'll race anything, anywhere. "He'll race you to the bathroom," says his girlfriend, Jaime Shaffer.

I got to Jillian's early to throw a game or two and was in the middle of a delivery when Mike Arning, Stewart's P.R. guy, introduced us. "You can't interrupt a guy when he's throwing," Stewart said.

They added their names to my score sheet: Stewart was Luke Warmwater. Arning was High School. Shaffer was Jammin Jaime. Photographer Harold Hinson was Harold the Hammer. I was ... Matt.

It wasn't long before I realized Stewart, 32, though hardly lukewarm about anything, isn't the man he's reported to be. A few minutes into the first game, I said, "I have a stupid question, but I've always wanted to know the answer, so I'm going to ask it anyway."

Stewart: "Do you know the answer?"

Me: "No."

Stewart: "Then how can it be a stupid question?"

Me: "So, is it any advantage for a driver to be lefthanded?"

Stewart (with a smile): "Don't know. I've never been righthanded."

That's Tony Stewart. Ask a question, get an answer--all day long.

NASCAR's bad boy? The scourge of the motorsports press? Whatever. Unfortunately, the thumbnail sketch of Stewart as a short-tempered pain in the butt is the only part of the story most people hear. Fans hear about his temper tantrums at the track. They don't hear about his reverence for the sport; they don't hear about his generosity; they don't hear he's a fun guy to hang with.

In 2002, the year he won the Winston Cup championship, he seemed to be in the headlines for problems out of the car almost as much as he was for success in it. He has been mostly free of controversy since then, hut Stewart, who's fourth in Cup points this season, hasn't changed. He's still feisty, emotional, brash and opinionated. He's still going to bang fenders sometimes. But he knows now how to go cool off.

I went bowling with Stewart because, to get to know him, you have to talk to him away from the track. But it is hard to get to know Stewart away from the track because he is away from it so infrequently. The level of his involvement in his profession--he runs a full Nextel Cup schedule, owns teams on several open-wheel circuits and might show up at just about any dirt track in the country any night of the week--is unparalleled in pro sports.

His love for racing is so ingrained, he's not even sure what he loves about it. Asking him about that is like asking somebody why he loves his brother. "I'm trying to figure it out the same time you are," he says.

One way to find out what fuels his obsession was to find out what doesn't fuel it. Between frames, he checked them off.

He's not obsessed with driving.

He's not obsessed with speed.

He's not obsessed with cars.

He's not obsessed with money.

He's not even obsessed with winning, though he's extremely fond of it. His reputation is that he's only interested in winning and that he's a petulant loser. Neither is true. After the Daytona 500, he said he was "tickled to death" that Dale Earnhardt Jr. won. The week before the Daytona 500, he raced in a winged sprint car event. "I was like a kid on Christmas Day, even though I started second and finished seventh."

If it's not speed, not driving, not cars, not money, not winning, what is it? Competing and exceeding expectations. "There are times when I go to racetracks and I drive a guy's car that may not be a premier car," Stewart says. "But if I can go out there and maybe not win but beat guys who do have premier cars, they go, 'Wow, that guy got up on the wheel, took that thing to the front.'"

As much as he wants to win, he also wants to be known as a "wheel," a great driver. Considering he has won championships in every car he has concentrated on, you'd think he has met that goal. Yet he's still flying across the country, racing as often as he can, sometimes paying more to get to an event than he ever could make by winning it.