Todt's idea was… insane. Not just a little insane. It was completely, utterly, monumentally insane.
There was a very good reason why motorsport academies, Ferrari's included, never invited street racers for trials. This wasn't prejudice; it was objective fact.
Street racing and Formula racing were two entirely different universes. It wasn't just about the technical aspects—the brakes, the throttle, the tires, the aerodynamics. The real difference lay in the fundamental approach to driving the car, to reading the track, to controlling the rhythm… and to understanding the very nature of speed.
In the world of Formula racing, everything followed a set of rules.
You started with karting, then progressed through F4, F3, and F2, climbing the ladder one step at a time until you reached the hallowed halls of F1. It was a gradual, methodical process.
The FIA didn't create these steps and stages for no reason.
Forget about a complete outsider, a self-taught wildcard from the world of street racing, trying to break in. Even skipping a single step within the Formula ladder was an exceptionally rare feat.
But surely, Todt knew all of this, didn't he?
Marchionne's fingers tapped lightly on his desk. After a moment of stunned silence, he sank into deep thought. "Jean, this idea… even for you, it's too unorthodox."
"Forget about us. Even that madman Marko wouldn't try something like this."
Helmut Marko. The advisor for the Red Bull Racing team, head of their junior driver program, and the mastermind behind Max Verstappen's unprecedented leap into F1.
A slight smile played on Todt's lips. The sleepy, distant look from last night was gone, replaced by a sharp clarity as he met Marchionne's gaze.
"Sergio, it's precisely because Marko wouldn't dare that this has the potential to break the deadlock."
"Neither of us likes Red Bull's methods, but the drivers forged in the fires of their internal competition have a killer instinct. They have that ruthlessness, that willingness to dance on the knife's edge between triumph and disaster."
"That is the courage and audacity our academy drivers lack."
Marchionne's brow furrowed. "Killer instinct?"
"No, Jean, no, no. Street racing is a different beast entirely. There's no professionalism, no technique, no data. It's all just instinct and guts. Grip is a matter of luck. But you can't rely on luck in Formula racing, can you?"
"If he can't even control a Formula car, what good is a killer instinct? So he can hit the wall with more conviction? The paddock is already full of rich posers who've bought their way in with a checkbook, all lined up waiting to crash into the tire wall. Ferrari doesn't need to supply another one."
Todt shook his head. "No. He can handle it."
Marchionne looked at him, completely baffled.
Todt adjusted his posture. "I mean, I believe he can handle a Formula car. Last night in Rome…" He paused, lost in the memory for a moment. Even though it was a street race, the intelligence and skill Kai had displayed were remarkable, especially his understanding of speed.
After the first corner, when Matteo had tried to ram him, Kai had absorbed the centrifugal force and the impact, pushing the Mini Cooper into a gap where the laws of physics barely seemed to apply. Later, through the S-curves at the Spanish Steps, he had extracted every last drop of potential from the car to pull away, showcasing the talent of a top-tier driver.
"He has instinct, and he has talent."
"Sergio, I swear to you, watching him take those corners last night brought back memories of Senna at Monaco."
Marchionne took a deep breath, trying to control himself, but an exclamation escaped his lips. "Jesus Christ."
He sat up straighter, leaning toward the desk. "Talent? Jean, every driver in our academy is exceptionally talented. Even the posers who buy their way in have talent. Without it, putting them in a Formula car would be a death sentence."
"Talent? Every driver in the paddock is a genius. Which of our academy kids hasn't been in a simulator day in and day out since they were in a kart? This kid has never driven a single-seater, never learned how to interpret data feedback. The talent of an outsider means nothing here."
Todt didn't respond.
He remained patient, waiting for Marchionne to vent his frustrations. When his friend finally looked at him, he offered a calm smile.
"I know."
Marchionne was cut short. Everything he knew, Todt knew too. And everything he didn't know, Todt also knew.
"I chose him precisely because he hasn't been constrained by those rules and conventions."
Marchionne was stunned into silence.
"It's not that I don't understand the fundamentals. On the contrary. It's because I understand them so well that I know if a system only produces carbon copies, only 'greenhouse flowers,' then that system will ultimately churn out a series of identical, predictable templates."
"My bet isn't on Kai's success. My bet is on his ability to stir up this stagnant water."
Marchionne stared at Todt, a storm of thoughts raging in his mind.
"Sergio, I'm only inviting him for a trial."
"If he fails? Then he fails. It doesn't matter. As long as he does something unconventional, something brilliant, in the simulator—as long as he forces those self-important academy drivers to feel even a flicker of doubt—then this trial will have been a success."
"We just need to send a message. A message of trust, of expectation. We need to let the academy drivers know that we are now willing to break the rules, to shatter the mold, to abandon our 'good little boys' and even bring in a street racer for a trial. We need to make them feel that their positions are under threat."
"And then, the Catfish Effect will have worked."
This was Todt's true intention.
He never expected Kai to master a Formula 1 car overnight. He didn't even necessarily expect him to pass the trial. He simply wanted Kai to show up, in the flesh, in front of those "standard-issue" academy drivers and make them feel a sense of crisis, a jolt to their system.
More importantly, he wanted them to realize that in the world of racing, there is more than one right answer.
From start to finish, Kai wasn't the point. The geniuses in the Ferrari Driver Academy were.
And in Todt's opinion, if Kai could accomplish that mission, then eight thousand euros was a bargain for a special guest appearance.
Finally, Marchionne understood. He looked Todt straight in the eye.
Todt didn't try to build the drama. He just stated it plainly. "But what if he succeeds?"
Marchionne froze. He took a deep, sharp breath, and his eyes lit up.
Of course. When it came to the art of racing, Todt was still the master.
He looked at Todt, a new interest dawning on his face. "So, you truly believe he has that kind of potential."
Todt's kind smile never wavered. "Well, there's only one way to find out."
"Mr. Marchionne," Todt said, formally extending an invitation, "I was wondering if you might have some time to spare to observe the trial of a promising new candidate?"
Marchionne understood immediately.
It was time to set the stage. Regardless of how the young street racer performed, the very presence of two titans like Marchionne and Todt, giving a trial driver this unprecedented level of attention, would be enough to send shockwaves through the academy, dropping a stone into the placid water and watching the ripples spread.
Marchionne was a man of action. He stood up at once and made a grand, inviting gesture. "It would be my honor."
The office door swung open again, and Marchionne walked out, his face alight with newfound enthusiasm. "I must admit," he said eagerly, "I'm now quite curious to see what kind of young man could possibly have earned your personal seal of approval…"
Todt looked straight ahead, the corners of his mouth turning up. "Well, there he is now. You can see for yourself."