Photo by Efrem Efre via PPexels
Michael Schumacher wasn’t just Ferrari’s star drive, he was their cornerstone. The team fixer when he joined back in 1996, everyone knew that Ferrari will be different.
He was their golden ticket in a game that had grown unforgiving. By 1997 season, he’d already begun rewriting the team’s future one result at a time.
But let’s go back and see, WHAT REALLY HAPPENED? That Sunday in Monte Carlo? That wasn’t just a win. That was something Ferrari had been chasing through storms, heartbreaks, and broken engines for sixteen long years.
Monte Carlo, May 1997. Sixteen years. Five thousand, eight hundred and forty days.
That’s how long it had been since Ferrari last conquered these streets. Since Jody Scheckter stood on the top step in 1981, THAT;s long, YES? the red cars had been taunted by the twists of Monaco. Villeneuve had a win ripped away in ’81. Pironi crashed while leading a year later. And Jean Alesi, roaring in pursuit of Schumacher in ’94, had his engine burst just as a miracle felt possible.
For Ferrari, this wasn’t just a race. It was a ghost they couldn’t shake.
On race morning, things looked straightforward. Warm-up was dry. Williams looked unstoppable—Frentzen and Villeneuve locking out the top of the timing sheets. Schumacher? Quick, but not the story.
Then came the shift. Thirty minutes before lights out, the drizzle began. Just enough to make people sweat. Williams made a bold call—they stuck with slicks, banking on a quick dry-up. Schumacher, trusting feel over forecasts, opted for intermediates. Stewart and Jordan rolled the dice the other way and bolted on full wets. No one really knew what would happen next.
When the lights went out, Schumacher made the track his own, he knew that he can do something special for the team that day. Before the field even got through Casino Square, he’d muscled past both Williams cars. And then, Monaco turned brutal, upside down!
Pedro Diniz spun out at the hairpin on the first lap, his slick tyres completely useless. Damon Hill, trying to climb through traffic, tangled with Eddie Irvine and broke his suspension. Coulthard lost his McLaren in the tunnel and plowed into the wall. Häkkinen, caught in the chaos, smashed into Alesi. Five laps in, Schumacher had a 22-second gap. Behind him, the rain was chewing drivers up.
The chaos opened the door for unexpected names. The Jordans of Giancarlo Fisichella and Ralf Schumacher climbed into podium positions. But then came Rubens Barrichello, tearing through in his Stewart-Ford, those Bridgestone wets giving him the kind of grip others could only dream about. He passed the Jordans and didn’t look back.
As for Williams? Their weekend collapsed. Villeneuve’s race ended on lap 17 when he found the wall. Frentzen lasted a little longer, but the chicane got him on lap 39. The tyre call that was supposed to win them the race had backfired in the most public way possible.
Schumacher, meanwhile, was painting the streets with genius. He extended his lead to over thirty seconds and then cooled the pace. Just enough to keep control. Nothing more.
Then came the scare…
Lap 53. Sainte Devote. Schumacher locked up and overshot the corner. Straight into the escape road. Ten seconds gone in a flash. Ferrari’s pit wall froze—but he rejoined cleanly. Still leading, still in control. The curse had swung a fist. Michael didn’t flinch.
Only 62 laps were completed before the two-hour time limit cut things short. But it didn’t matter. The job was done. Schumacher crossed the line 53 seconds clear of Barrichello. Irvine, gritty as ever, clawed past Panis for third in the late laps, avenging a pass the Frenchman had pulled on him the year before. For Ferrari, it was everything. The curse was gone. The pain, finally, had an end point.
There were small stories tucked in the rain too. Mika Salo wrestled his Tyrrell to a battered fifth place, refusing to stop even once and driving with a bent front wing. Those two points? They would be the last Tyrrell ever scored in Formula One.
Then there was Irvine’s podium. A tiny quirk meant the Irish tricolour was flown above him instead of the Union Jack—because his superlicence had been issued in Dublin. It sparked more than a few conversations.
And behind the scenes, Nicola Larini quietly stepped away from F1. This would be his final race. No celebration. No fanfare. Just a quiet goodbye as the rain washed over the grid.
The thing about Monaco 1997 is—it wasn’t just about the win. It was how Schumacher won. He saw the weather better than Williams. He managed the pressure better than Barrichello. He handled the circuit better than anyone that day, full stop. It was patience. It was precision. It was Schumacher being everything Ferrari had needed for more than a decade.
He didn’t just survive Monaco. He tamed it. And with that, Ferrari’s longest-running heartbreak was finally, gloriously over.
