I was standing in a liquor store when I found out Kyle Busch had died.

That feels strangely appropriate, though I don’t mean that in some cheap or obvious way. A liquor store has nothing to do with NASCAR, grief, mortality or the sudden silence that follows news you weren’t expecting. But one of my odd little connections to Kyle Busch over the past several months has been a bottle of bourbon with his name on it.

Rebel Single Barrel. Kyle “Rowdy” Busch Edition.

I already owned one bottle. I had already written about it more than once. Actually, I’ve written about that bottle seven times on this site, which is probably more than I ever expected to write about any celebrity-selected bourbon connected to a driver I never especially rooted for.

Then I heard the news.

Kyle Busch, two-time NASCAR Cup Series champion, was dead at 41 after a sudden illness. NASCAR reported that he died Thursday, and Reuters reported that his family, Richard Childress Racing and NASCAR confirmed his death after he had been hospitalized with a severe illness.

Forty-one.

That number does not feel right.

It is too young for anyone, but it feels especially jarring for someone like Busch, whose public identity was built around speed, force, fire, aggression and an absolute refusal to fade quietly into the background.

Kyle Busch was never boring.

That may be the safest thing anyone can say about him.

He was brilliant behind the wheel, and he could also be maddening. He had the kind of talent most drivers only dream about, but he also had an impulsive streak that could make you want to grab him by the shoulders and say, “Kyle, what exactly did you think was going to happen next?”

There were times when the fire that made him great also got him in trouble.

One moment in particular stuck with me for years. In a Truck Series race, after contact on the track, Busch retaliated against Ron Hornaday Jr. under caution and sent him into the wall. His own crew was trying to calm him down over the radio, but it did not work. Busch went ahead and did what anger told him to do, and NASCAR parked him for the weekend.

That moment lodged itself in my memory not only because it was such a spectacularly bad decision, but because I had seen that kind of emotional flash before.

Not in a race car. In my own house.

When my daughter was younger, she had a hot streak. Not all the time. Not even most of the time. But when it flared, it could flare quickly.

One day, we were in a pool, and my hand accidentally caught her lightly in the face. It was not intentional at all, and I immediately apologized. I felt terrible. But she was angry, and in that moment, only one thing was going to satisfy her. She wanted to hit me back.

I told her no. I told her she needed to back off. I told her this was the moment when she had to make a choice. She agreed that she would not hit me in the face, and then she hauled off and punched me in the chest as hard as she could.

That decision cost her.

She had been looking forward to a night with a friend — a sleepover, pizza, ice cream, a movie and the whole thing. Suddenly, all of that was gone. Not because I wanted to ruin her night, but because actions have consequences, and sometimes the thing anger tells you to do for one hot second costs you something much bigger.

Later, after the punishment had settled, I talked to her about Kyle Busch.

I told her about that race. I told her about what happened when he let his temper drive the car. I told her that sometimes the most dangerous moment is not the original offense, but the retaliation that follows.

And I told her that from then on, when I saw that look starting to rise, I was going to say, “Kyle Busch. Kyle Busch. Kyle Busch.”

That would be the warning.

Back down. Trouble is ahead. Do not let one angry second wreck the whole night.

It became a strange little family shorthand. Kyle Busch, of all people, became a caution flag in our house.

That is part of why the news hit me in an unexpected way.

I was not a lifelong Kyle Busch fan. I did not wear Rowdy gear. I did not celebrate all of his wins. I did not defend every decision he made. There were plenty of times I rooted against him.

But I respected the talent.

You almost had to.

Busch won Cup championships in 2015 and 2019, and his 63 Cup victories rank ninth on NASCAR’s all-time wins list. Across NASCAR’s three national series, he piled up 234 victories, which is the kind of number that does not happen by accident.

That seems fitting, because Kyle Busch was not the kind of driver people shrugged at. He made people feel something.

That is rare.

Some athletes are great and still somehow forgettable. Busch was never that. He was too gifted, too fiery, too stubborn, too successful, too irritating and too compelling. He was a villain to some, a hero to others, and probably both to more people than would admit it.

And then, somewhere along the way, bourbon gave me a different little point of connection.

I bought the Rebel Kyle Busch Single Barrel because I was curious. That was it. A NASCAR-themed Rebel single barrel selected by a driver nicknamed “Rowdy” sounded interesting enough to try. I did not expect much beyond the novelty of it.

Then the bourbon surprised me.

The first thing that struck me was the sweetness. This was not some harsh celebrity-adjacent bottle slapped together for the label. It had real character. Cherries, caramel, vanilla, brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, oak and orange zest kept showing up across different tastings. Sometimes there was a little chocolate. Sometimes there was a little ethanol that needed time to settle. But when it settled, it worked.

In one tasting, it came across with warm brown sugar, nutmeg, caramel and vanilla on the nose, then cinnamon, orange zest, cherries, caramel and brown sugar on the palate. The finish lingered with cinnamon, brown sugar and citrus.

In another matchup, it did not dominate the field, but it held its own. In my Best-of-the-Shelf Challenge, it advanced because once the heat calmed down, the fruit-and-caramel combination found a clearer lane. It was not flashy. It was not perfect. But it was integrated, enjoyable and memorable.

That feels about right for a Kyle Busch bottle.

It is not quiet or delicate. It is not the kind of pour that politely disappears into the background. It comes in a little sweet, a little fiery and a little rough around the edges at first, but it gets better when it settles in. It is memorable enough that I kept coming back to it.

And tonight, that bottle feels different.

Before, it was a good Rebel single barrel with a NASCAR name on the label. Tonight, it feels like a reminder that the people we watch from a distance are still people.

That sounds obvious, but it is easy to forget.

Athletes become characters in our minds. Drivers become paint schemes, interviews, rivalries, highlight reels, wrecks, wins, radio clips and nicknames. They become the guy we root for, the guy we root against, the guy who makes us cheer, the guy who makes us roll our eyes, and sometimes even the guy we point to when we are trying to teach our daughter not to let anger make the next decision.

But they are also husbands, fathers, sons, brothers and friends. They are people with families who expected more time.

Busch is survived by his wife, Samantha, and their two children, Brexton and Lennix.

That is the part that matters most tonight.

Not the statistics, though they are remarkable. Not the controversies, though they were real. Not even the bourbon, though I’ll admit that bottle has become a little more meaningful now.

The human part matters most.

A life ended too soon. A family is grieving. A sport is stunned. A whole lot of people are realizing that someone who always seemed loud, fast and impossible to ignore is suddenly gone.

So tonight, I’ll pour the Rowdy bottle again.

Not for tasting notes, not for a score, and not to decide whether it advances, loses, punches above its price or belongs on the Bourbon Cheapskate shelf. Tonight, it is just a pour and a toast to a brilliant, fiery, complicated racer whose talent, temper, victories and mistakes all became part of the story.

It is also a toast to the strange way public figures sometimes become part of our private stories in ways they never could have imagined.

And most of all, it is a prayer for his wife, his children, his family, his team and the fans who loved him.

The engine stops.

The glass rises.

Rest easy, Rowdy.