You’d think winning Formula 2 would be a golden ticket. A launchpad. A done deal. But look closer, and you’ll see something stranger, sadder, and infinitely more revealing: F2 champions who never set foot on a Grand Prix grid. No debut. No debut press conference. No slick headshot with arms crossed in front of a car they’ll never drive.
They were good enough to win. Just not lucky enough to matter.
The Numbers Don’t Lie — But the Sport Does
On paper, the F2 champion should be a future F1 driver. It’s the whole point of the pyramid, right? Win at the top of junior racing and you graduate. But racing isn’t a straight line — it’s a chessboard on fire. You can be the king of F2 and still find yourself out of moves.
Oscar Piastri won F3 in 2020. Won F2 in 2021. Then spent 2022 in a damn simulator while the Alpine-Ricciardo-McLaren fiasco unfolded like a rejected HBO miniseries. He got lucky — eventually. Others? Not so much.
Felipe Drugovich wiped the floor with everyone in 2022. Calm, clinical, fast. A champion by Monza. And yet — no F1 race seat. Instead: test driver duties, media day purgatory, and the creeping suspicion that the peak came too soon. He’s still hanging around, smiling politely. But time isn’t kind in this business.
Then there’s Nyck de Vries. 2019 F2 champion. Waited. Waited some more. Finally got one shot at Monza in 2022 — scored points on debut for Williams — then got the call from AlphaTauri. Ten races later, he was out. Swallowed whole by the same system that ignored him for three years.
So What’s Really Going On?
F1 is a sport with just 20 seats. And even fewer chances. If you think it’s a meritocracy, you haven’t been paying attention. Winning F2 isn’t enough. You need timing, budget, backing, political capital, and at least one team principal willing to risk their job on your name instead of a legacy hire or a Red Bull reject.
And money? Oh, it matters. It always matters. An F2 champion with no serious sponsor package is like a lottery winner who misplaced the ticket. Especially when there’s a pay driver with $30 million and a clean suit hanging in the paddock.
It’s also about perception. Win too early? “Needs another year.” Win too late? “No upside left.” Win with no flair? “Lacks star power.” Win with too much flair? “Might be difficult to manage.” There’s no winning, even when you win.
The Cold Politics of the Paddock
Teams don’t pick drivers just to reward them. They pick them because it’s strategic. Safe. Politically useful. If your junior driver wins F2, and your F1 team has no seat free, tough luck. You’ll park them in Super Formula. Or worse — tell them to “stay sharp” for a seat that never opens.
Red Bull’s pipeline used to be the most brutal. Win or you’re out. Now, it’s so clogged that even winners can’t squeeze through. Alpine has a junior program so confusing it might be a sociology experiment. And Mercedes? Great support system — unless your name isn’t Antonelli.
The truth? Most F1 seats are already spoken for before the F2 season starts. The musical chairs game ends early. And if you’re not standing near the right people when the music stops? Enjoy the endurance paddock, kid.
The Ones Who Slipped Through
The hall of forgotten champions is stacked.
Davide Valsecchi. 2012 GP2 champion. Never raced in F1. Turned into a Sky Italia cult icon instead — forever screaming into a microphone about drivers who got the chance he didn’t.
Fabio Leimer. 2013 champion. Blink and you missed him.
Jolyon Palmer at least got two seasons at Renault — and then became a better analyst than he ever was a driver.
Even Antonio Giovinazzi, who was runner-up, got more chances than some champions. And that wasn’t down to performance. It was because Ferrari wanted an Italian in the car. Sometimes it really is that simple.
What Now?
F2’s credibility depends on its champions meaning something. If another title-winner fails to reach F1 in 2025 or 2026, we’re looking at a structural failure — not a personal one. The sport risks becoming a parody of its own development system: a ladder that never leads anywhere.
So when we watch this year’s title fight — Antonelli v Bearman v Bortoleto — remember: they’re not just fighting for the championship. They’re fighting for relevance. For oxygen. For the right not to disappear.
F1 pretends it’s a dream factory. But sometimes it’s just a magician’s trick.
Now you see them.
Now you don’t.
