Since the adoption of the latest generation of Formula 1 regulations, Red Bull Racing has achieved a dominance that echoes the legendary eras of Mercedes and Ferrari. Their chassis, the RB series, is often hailed as a masterwork of aerodynamic and mechanical engineering, a titanium-and-carbon sculpture of speed. Yet, alongside this unprecedented success—a winning machine tailored for the prodigious talent of Max Verstappen—runs a dark, persistent counter-narrative: the “Second Seat Curse.”

It is a curse that doesn’t target the car’s reliability or the team’s strategy, but the very soul of the driver who dares to occupy the cockpit next to Verstappen. One by one, promising careers have been fractured, confidence has been annihilated, and drivers who arrived with titles and ambition have left bewildered, struggling to explain their sudden, systemic failure. The latest victim clinging desperately to his position is Yuki Tsunoda.

Tsunoda’s promotion to the senior Red Bull team for the 2025 season was supposed to be a moment of triumph and vindication. After years of development, flashes of unbridled speed, and an evident maturing of his aggressive style within the junior outfit, he was seen as the logical, homegrown answer to the second seat dilemma. The timing was steeped in symbolism: his move was confirmed just before the Japanese Grand Prix, his home race, creating a powerful wave of fan anticipation.

In the beginning, the script played out perfectly. Yuki showed pace, delivered solid, composed laps, and offered the distinct impression that he had finally balanced his raw aggression with the consistency demanded by the elite level. For a fleeting moment, the curse seemed to have been neutralized by a young driver’s sheer will and development.

But Formula 1 is a sport where momentum is as fragile as carbon fiber. Across the most recent five races, the dream has soured into a nightmare. Tsunoda has failed to score a single point, a performance drought utterly unsustainable for a team ostensibly fighting for both the Drivers’ and Constructors’ championships. The nadir was reached at Silverstone, a classic F1 circuit, where he finished a dismal 15th, behind not only the top tier but several of the mid-field teams that the RB car should dispatch with contemptuous ease. In Austria, he was not only penalized for a collision but ended the race two laps down, completely off the pace. The question is no longer if he can perform, but why a driver of his caliber, in a car of that quality, is failing so spectacularly.

The Tyranny of the Technical

To understand Yuki’s struggle is to zoom out and analyze the unique, almost alien DNA of the Red Bull car. Unlike a chassis designed to offer broad accessibility and a wide operating window—a car that any talented driver can quickly extract 95% of its potential from—the Red Bull RB has, for years, been an extension of Max Verstappen’s singular driving style. And Max, arguably, drives unlike anyone else on the current grid.

The RB cars are characterized by an ultrasharp front end and a twitchy, loose rear. This technical configuration demands a driver who is comfortable living perpetually on the edge of grip. To maximize the car’s performance, a driver must commit to constant, aggressive inputs, sliding the car into and through the corner before catching the rear end and stabilizing it on exit—all without losing crucial momentum or tire life.

Verstappen is a savant in this instability. He possesses an almost superhuman ability to process rapid-fire feedback from the car’s contact patches and make instantaneous, millimetric corrections. He thrives where others panic.

For the other 99% of professional racing drivers, however, this setup is described in devastating terms. Sergio Pérez, a multi-time Grand Prix winner with years of experience, once chillingly described driving the Red Bull as “walking through a minefield.” The car feels unpredictable, unforgiving, and, ultimately, punishing. It offers a razor-thin operating window, a point Tsunoda himself has publicly confessed to struggling with, stating that while the car initially feels manageable, the longer he drives, the less predictable it becomes. This is the classic, tragic sign of a driver whose mental and physical sync with the machine has broken down, a misalignment that a ruthless team like Red Bull exposes immediately.

The Ghosts of Drivers Past

Tsunoda’s predicament is merely the latest installment of a recurring tragedy, transforming the second Red Bull seat into a modern-day F1 penitentiary. The list of those who have tried and failed is a who’s who of highly-rated talent, their careers bruised by the experience.

Pierre Gasly, a young French prodigy, lasted just half a season in 2019 before the pressure and the inability to adapt forced a swift demotion back to the junior team (then Toro Rosso/AlphaTauri). His talent was undeniable, but the car’s demands were too high, too specific.

Alex Albon was given more time—a testament to Red Bull’s investment in him—but by 2021, he too was replaced, his raw speed overshadowed by an inability to consistently match Verstappen’s pace and tame the chassis.

Even a seasoned, experienced, and proven race winner like Sergio Pérez ultimately succumbed to the pressure. While he enjoyed periods of success, his later seasons were defined by a systematic decline, culminating in one of the toughest stretches of his career, plagued by poor qualifying performances and race results that constantly left him miles behind his teammate. Pérez proved that neither age, talent, nor experience can overcome a car that fundamentally rejects your driving style.

The constant pattern suggests that the “curse” is less about the driver’s inherent ability and more about a fundamental philosophical issue: Red Bull’s greatest strength—a car tailored for Verstappen’s genius—is also its greatest weakness when anyone else steps in. It’s a binary system: perfection for one, failure for the rest.

The Inevitable Successor and the Cold Calculus

With Tsunoda’s points tally stagnating, the Red Bull hierarchy, famous for its ruthless and sudden decision-making, is already looking elsewhere. The spotlight has rapidly shifted to Isack Hadjar. The young French driver is a standout rookie, confident, quick, and composed, proving his mettle in the junior categories.

Naturally, the F1 rumour mill is churning: is Hadjar next?

Hadjar himself has demonstrated a maturity beyond his years, openly expressing caution about rushing into a promotion before he is truly ready. He has studied the cautionary tales of Gasly, Albon, and Tsunoda and understands the immense, almost crippling risk involved. The promotion is a career-defining opportunity mixed with a potentially career-ending danger.

Yet, history tells us that Red Bull often operates outside the conventional timeline. If Tsunoda’s form does not reverse course with spectacular speed, Hadjar could be fast-tracked, regardless of his own sense of readiness. The talent conveyor belt at Red Bull operates on a cold, economic calculus where ruthlessness trumps sentimentality. The team needs the second car to score points, and if one driver can’t deliver, another is always waiting, eager to try and break the curse, no matter the psychological cost.

The drama of the second seat is, therefore, a story of incredible opportunity juxtaposed with crushing pressure. For Yuki Tsunoda, this remains his last, desperate chance to prove he belongs among the elite, to validate the years of investment and to finally conquer the mechanical beast that is the RB car.

But looming over all these immediate concerns is the biggest question of all: Max Verstappen’s future.

Red Bull has placed all its technical, strategic, and philosophical eggs into one basket—a basket that holds the most dominant driver of his generation. While this has delivered championships, it has also created a singular car that is now dependent on a singular talent. If Verstappen were ever to depart, the challenge facing Red Bull would become existential. They would not only need to find two top-level drivers but, more critically, they would need to fundamentally redesign their car concept, moving away from the “twitchy” perfection of the RB and toward a more conventional, driver-friendly setup.

Until then, the second seat will continue to be F1’s greatest enigma: a seat in the best car on the grid that somehow manages to destroy the careers of the most promising young drivers. The tyranny of Max Verstappen’s perfection has created a culture where winning one championship is everything, and the cost of the driver in the second car—be it Gasly, Albon, Pérez, or now Tsunoda—is deemed a necessary, and repeatable, sacrifice. The curse continues.