Papis living the American Dream

By Marty Smith
ESPN.com
August 14, 2009

Max Papis is a walking endorsement for the American Dream, a man stripped of all that mattered who found refuge stateside. A man who lost the dream and, worse yet, lost faith in it. The human spirit had failed him abroad, but the red, white and blue managed to rekindle the flame.

Papis is seated on a patio outside Positano, an -- what else? -- authentic Italian eatery in a bustling promenade north of Charlotte, N.C. He sips Greco di Tufo and talks wins and losses with a pair of old friends and an adoring bride.

Life's wins and losses more than racing ones.

He speaks "Italish." Has to, really. One friend, see, is from back in Italy, a childhood buddy, the son of an Italian auto racing legend, who is visiting the States to see Papis race at Watkins Glen and hang out for a couple of weeks.

The other? Well, he's a Southern boy. And we ain't talking southern Italy.

Papis smiles widely in recounting the climb to this nearly perfect moment, the happiest in a winding, hilly ride spent chasing racing. The previous afternoon he'd finished eighth at The Glen, marking the best finish of his stock car career. It was the realization of a dream, and a giant leap toward fulfilling a promise made to his dying father nearly four years before:

To become the first Italian driver to compete full time in NASCAR.

"Whatever it takes," Papis said with pause. "That is what I promised him."

To understand Max Papis, you must first understand his determination. Or try to. Most folks have but a fraction of it. Few would have tolerated the frustration, much less the humiliation. Most would have given up hope long before. Not Max.

In 2007, from Miami, he uprooted his family -- wife Tatiana and then-10-month-old son Marco -- and left for Charlotte. His father, Cesare, was dying of cancer. But Max didn't think twice.

"There was never any doubt in my mind he would succeed in this," said Tatiana, daughter of Formula One legend Emerson Fittipaldi. "It's how he handles everything -- all-in."

His good friend, Matteo Vecchi, explains it similarly.

"Max is a hard-head. He refuses to give up," said Vecchi, whose father, Mario, is a former team manager for Lamborghini F1 and for Scuderia Italia F1, and who introduced Papis to American racing. "That goes for everything he does."

To most NASCAR fans, Papis is the jovial guy who pops up on television sporadically, says funny things in a funny accent and finishes 27th on Sunday afternoon. While that is not inaccurate, it fails miserably to offer context.

Truth told, the fact Papis so much as sits in the No. 13 Cup car on Sundays is, by racing standards, a bona fide miracle.

Out-of-work race car drivers are a sad sight. On any given racing weekend several can be spotted wandering around the garage hoping to chat with team owners. For them, five minutes and a handshake somehow manages to offset five hours of aimless wandering.

All of them are talented, mind you. But rides are scarce -- especially for those with no résumé to speak of and no money on the table.

Papis had neither. But he had will. The indomitable variety. For years he paid his way to dozens of races and spent many restless nights in crappy $500-a-night, roach-infested rooms in hopes of seeing -- yes, seeing -- Richard Childress or Joe Gibbs. Grabbing a few minutes with Rick Hendrick was a productive day. A quick chat with Ray Evernham was the birdie chip on 18 that kept him coming back.

"So many times I felt like I was wasting my time," Papis said. "But I was never ashamed. I took a leap of faith and never wavered."

There was the time in Phoenix in 2006 when he woke at 4 a.m., scared silly he'd arrive late to the track and miss an opportunity. He showed up at 5 and slept in the car until the garage opened at 7. He ran to the bathroom, splashed his face with water, then set forth talking to every team owner he saw.

It was all grip-and-grin-and-stand-and-sway-and-nod until the very last moment.

As the garage was set to close that day he ran into Ken Howes, vice president of competition at Hendrick Motorsports. Bingo.

"First of all, I couldn't believe he even knew who I was," Papis said. "That was cool enough. Then, he invited me to come see the facility. That planted a seed."

At the time Papis was already under contract with General Motors. And before long HMS signed him to test its Cars of Tomorrow -- a learning tool that would prove invaluable. Here he was, a foreign-born, open-wheel castoff, testing gear boxes in Jimmie Johnson's championship wheels at Atlanta Motor Speedway.

Then there was the time last year when he drove to Martinsville for the hell of it, just to scour the garage and see what was shaking. He ran into an old buddy -- '89 Cup champ Rusty Wallace. Wallace just happened to be looking for a road course ace to put in his Nationwide cars.

"Boom! That day paid for all those days wearing out shoes in the damn garage!" Papis said.

Granted, guys land one-off deals from time to time, but they rarely turn into anything of substance. Sure, Papis had tested the COT for Hendrick and done some one-off road racing here and there. But he'd run just one oval race, a Nationwide event for Ricky Pearson at Texas in 2006.

"I love NASCAR because people understood who I am," he said. "I don't have to explain that to anyone. They know. I am the small guy versus the mechanism."

The machine typically wins. It would have chewed and spit most men in Papis' position like a rotten sunflower seed. His childhood dream was crushed in 1995, when he forked over the last dime he had to Formula One owner Jackie Oliver. All said, he'd shelled out $480,000 to Oliver to run seven races, only to be used up and forgotten.

He told the story of the 1995 Italian Grand Prix, when he pulled into the pits to find that his team was gone. They up and left him, he said. They had a plane to catch.

He told the story, too, of flying to Japan for the Pacific Grand Prix. He arrived to find the team peeling his name off the car. He went to the hotel, and was informed there was no room for him there. There was no ride, either. He packed his bags and headed to the train station.

"I lost it all there [in F1]," Papis said, again with pause. "Everything I made since I was a kid. Gone. They took my dream and threw it away. They stole a kid's dream and threw it in the trash."

His disdain for Formula One runs deep. He still has good friends there, but he hates the machine. When the machine mocks the childhood dream as if it were castaway rubbish, the taste left behind is not unlike curdled milk.

"F1 is the pinnacle of technology, it is," Papis said. "But the human factor is left as an accessory. That is why, for me, it is not what a sport should be."

The next year, in 1996, he took Vecchi's advice and jumped a plane to America. He was flat broke. He showed up at Daytona for January testing, bought a grandstand ticket and sat there all day watching gray race cars drive around stock car racing's Mecca. He didn't know who was driving what. He didn't much care. He got a taste. And a sunburn.

So began the intrigue.

>From there he landed in CART, and hopped around to several teams in a successful yet unfulfilling stint that included several victories. Throughout that time he concentrated mainly on sports car racing, where in 2002 he won the Rolex 24 at Daytona as part of the Doran-Lista Racing driving quartet.

NASCAR, though, was always a priority. He'd promised his father, remember.

Fast forward to 2007. Papis was on hand at Speedweeks in Daytona, where he'd run the IROC race Friday. On Saturday afternoon he was standing in the No. 7 Germain Racing pit prior to the Nationwide Series event. During brother-in-law Christian Fittipaldi's NASCAR stint, Papis had met Doug Barnette, who now was team manager for the Germain program. Casually, a man walked up with his kid.

"I thought he was fan," Papis said, laughing. "I was explaining drafting to him and stuff."

He was indeed a fan. He also happened to be the second man on the totem pole at GEICO, Papis said.

"We got home and he sent me a letter," Papis said, choosing not to give up a name. "I saw the business card attached to it and couldn't believe it. I was like, 'Whoa, he is the man.' That letter was my ticket to NASCAR. I still keep that letter."

That letter started a relationship from which Papis was ultimately tabbed to drive the No. 13 Toyota. He refused to believe it at first, figured it was just the latest installment in a trail of futile leads and near misses. Or an outright lie. Then he received a call with instruction to get his lawyer involved.

That moment was a victory for good guys everywhere.

"I looked at Tati and said, 'We might actually become a NASCAR driver,'" he said.

The term "we" is telling. Tatiana's sacrifice to get here may qualify as larger than Max's. She packed up and left home with zero complaint. She left behind family, friends and a sterling education with degrees in psychology, advertising and marketing from the University of Miami. All to stand by her man.

"I didn't think twice," she said. "Race car drivers are a different species of man. They're very selfish. Our lives basically revolve around them. It's not what I thought I'd do. I was very feminist. But you can't plan life, and we could never do this apart. We are all-in."

Indeed. There was the time in 2004 when team owner Travis Carter invited Max to test one of Darrell Waltrip's old Fords in Lakeland, Fla. It was electric blue. Like a bulldog, it was so ugly it was beautiful. The Papis' still have home video, which Tatiana shot from a perch atop the transporter. They flew to that test in Carter's private jet. They still get a bit giddy discussing it.

Last week at The Glen was the first time the couple ever stayed in a motor home. Tatiana had grown accustomed to changing her sons' diapers in the grass infield on a blanket. Other driver wives, she said, wondered how she did it. Well, she just did it.

There was the time a few years back when Evernham Motorsports sent Casey Mears to a test at Kentucky Speedway, and let Papis tag along. Papis had met Evernham at the Bristol race, and in the weeks that followed wore him completely out for a chance. Evernham liked Papis' enthusiasm and relented.

Mears went first, but Papis was ready. He didn't know when he might man the seat, but he put on his driving suit immediately, chomping at the bit for his chance. The motor blew. Papis thought it was a brief hiccup. It, in fact, sent them home. He was crushed, but Evernham kept his word, and later sent Papis back alone.

"This was a dream," he said. "I was testing Kentucky in an Evernham Motorsports car! It was a test! But if that was the whole NASCAR experience, I still would have been proud."

The winding road that peaked and plummeted almost simultaneously in a ruthless Formula One flytrap, that weaved through open-wheel and sports cars and in and out of the stock car thicket, ultimately molded a worldly, savvy, caring man who easily could have been the polar opposite.

There is plenty wrong with automobile racing, in general. Like most businesses there are politics and shady money deals and swords in the back. But Papis persevered. He is everything that is right about automobile racing.

And who knows? Maybe he'll help NASCAR catch on over there. His racing helmet is already on display in the Como, Italy, town hall, after all.

"I love NASCAR for the human factor," he said. "It is bigger than anything else, from the spectator all the way to all the people working in it. That is why I love it. It's hard for some people to understand that."

Not really. Not when you know the journey.

Max Papis is hope. He is the American Dream.


Marty Smith is a contributor to ESPN's NASCAR coverage. He can be reached at ESPNsider@aol.com.