FORT WORTH, Texas -- Before he was Jimmie Johnson, he was Brad Noffsinger.

At least, that's what the firesuit said. A decade ago the man who would become the most dominant NASCAR driver of his generation was just another guy trying to climb up from the depths of the Busch Series, scrambling for whatever ride he could find. So at Homestead-Miami Speedway when someone from Curb Motorsports handed him a used firesuit with Noffsinger's name scrawled across the belt, Johnson did what any other driver in that situation would have done -- he put it on and went out to race.

"People were saying, 'Hey Brad, sign this or sign that,'" Johnson remembered at Texas Motor Speedway, site of Sunday's race. "And I'm like, cool. They don't know my name, but I don't care. I'm wearing the suit. I signed."

It wasn't the first time. He had also worn somebody else's old firesuit in his first Busch race in 1998, for Tad Geschickter's team at Indianapolis Raceway Park. The 25th-place finish in the event, won by Dale Earnhardt Jr., left him devastated. Here he was, wearing an unfamiliar uniform and struggling with an unfamiliar car, wondering if he was ever going to make it. He conveyed that disappointment over the telephone to his father, Gary, who was just proud to see his son compete in what then seemed like the big time. The amazing metamorphosis of Jimmie Johnson, from unknown off-road driver to Sprint Cup champion, had begun.

Given where he came from and where he is today, it's an unbelievable transformation. Because of his Southern California roots, because of his unflappable demeanor, because of the way he's always -- one golf cart surfing incident aside -- on his best behavior, mindful of the sponsors and the organization he represents, he's become something of a target. He's not as hardscrabble or as rough around the edges as some would like him to be. In a sport where much of the fan base is blue collar and idolizes drivers who remind them of themselves, Johnson doesn't always fit the mold. If you want a driver who's going to curse, who's going to call someone out publicly, who's going to take unpopular stances or a swing at another competitor, you need to look somewhere else.

And you know what? That's just fine. Hey, it's a free country. Just don't let a personal dislike of Jimmie Johnson the racer devolve into a belittling of his accomplishments or a rash assumption about his background. Because two facts are absolutely unassailable -- Johnson is on the verge of becoming one of the best ever, and he's traversed a very long and difficult road to get there. The perception is that he's some spoiled California kid who's always been handed everything, a canard that's been around since his first days in the American Speed Association, when the nice clothes he brought along for sponsor appearances led to snickers behind his back. The reality is a guy who grew up in a mobile-home park, whose dad worked for a tire company and mother drover a school bus, who consciously crafted himself into a sponsor's dream because he knew that's how drivers earned money to get on the track.

He didn't have a family with enough disposable income to finance his racing dream. What he did have was enough savvy to know that if he looked and acted and raced a certain way, he'd have a chance at getting noticed. He worked in television. He crafted business proposals. He networked and cashed in on relationships he made along the way. No wonder he's so good in the Chase playoff format, on the brink of tying Cale Yarborough's 30-year-old mark of three consecutive championships. He learned how to work the system long ago. (Continued)