There are certain athletes who become inseparable from the feeling of a sport.

In NASCAR, Kyle Busch was one of those figures.

The No. 18.

The M&M’s car.

The boos during introductions.

The swagger.

The smoke from a burnout hanging over the frontstretch before Busch stepped from the car and bowed toward the crowd.

Love him or hate him, people paid attention.

And maybe that is what has made his passing at the age of 41 feel so difficult to process over the last week.

The shock came first.

How could it not?

Busch was still racing. Still winning. Still carrying the same intensity that made him one of NASCAR’s defining personalities for more than two decades. One week earlier, he was celebrating a victory at Dover. The next, NASCAR was trying to imagine itself without him.

That emotional whiplash has been difficult to fully grasp.

But as the days have passed, the emotions have slowly become more layered. Reflection replaced some of the shock. And maybe that is because losses like this have a way of stirring something deeper than sports itself.

Racing has been part of my life for as long as I can remember, which is perhaps why this loss has prompted so much reflection over the last week.

For many fans, Busch became inseparable from the experience of NASCAR itself.

There was never indifference.

People may not have always cheered when Busch won, but they were always paying attention. NASCAR fans do not waste energy reacting to drivers running 20th every week. Busch drew emotion because he mattered. He made people care.

And perhaps more than anything else, he helped shape the emotional energy of NASCAR itself.

The passion already existed in the sport long before Busch arrived, but when he showed up, it somehow felt turned up to 11.

It did not matter whether he was racing for a Cup Series victory on Sunday or competing in a Truck Series race on a Friday night. Busch carried the same urgency and intensity into everything he drove. Fans respected that, even if they did not always admit it in the moment.

My own perception of Busch evolved over the years.

During his championship seasons with Joe Gibbs Racing, he often felt larger than life — the driver fans loved to boo and competitors hated seeing in their mirrors. But something seemed to change during his years with Richard Childress Racing. The victories became harder to come by. The struggles became more visible. And perhaps because of that, appreciation seemed to replace some of the animosity.

I know it did for me.

The swagger remained. The intensity remained. But so did an appreciation for just how much Busch meant to the sport.

Somewhere along the way, the boos became only part of the story.

Maybe that is why another Pocono weekend approaching feels emotional in a different way now.

Around here, Pocono is more than a race weekend.

It now arrives just once each summer and then disappears again before you know it. The familiar routines return — the campgrounds, the midway, the traffic, the anticipation — until eventually they become part of your own timeline.

Soon, the engines will still roar through the mountains. Fans will still fill the grandstands. The midway will still buzz with noise and anticipation.

But something will feel different.

For many fans, Pocono is NASCAR.

And for an entire generation, Kyle Busch was part of that experience.

Whether fans cheered him or booed him, he made race weekends feel bigger, louder and more alive. Seeing Busch step from the car through the smoke of a burnout while the crowd reacted instantly from the grandstands became one of those lasting NASCAR images that feels permanently attached to the sport itself.

And perhaps that is where this all becomes something larger than racing.

Loss has a way of reopening entire chapters of our lives. It reminds us of people who are no longer with us, traditions that quietly changed over time and moments we never realized were becoming memories while we were still living them.

That realization can feel harsh.

It is difficult to realize certain times in life have passed us by.

But maybe that is also why moments like this linger.

Not because they provide answers.

But because they remind us to appreciate the experiences we are fortunate enough to still have. The weekends. The traditions. The people beside us in the grandstands or on the couch.

Because none of us ever truly know how different things may look the next time we return.

Or if there will even be a next time.