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The Entrance To The Big Top. Danbury's Own P.T. Barnum The Goat House

Gino's 5-window now... Then... Gino flew in this car and scared the hell out of a lot of drivers! I think this was the old Geoff Bodine ride.<br><br>

Nothing too unusual at Danbury...

Webbie wrecked here in one of his own creations...

Chick Takes #50 at the Racearena! Chick in the Pinto. Chick, upside down on the frontstretch...

The driveway was dirt, narrow, and passed between a sign shop and a set of trees. It passed over a one-lane bridge that was as long as it was narrow and carried us over a small brook. We pulled up to a cinder block structure set back from the road. The building’s face held a small sign: New Milford Radiator. We parked and got out. Not walking through the front door of the business but around to our left. Down another dirt, narrow driveway alongside that same brook we just drove over. My dad and I came around the rear; turned to our right, walked through an overhead door and I could not have been more in shock than if I met Santa Clause himself. There sat an actual modified. A group of men, probably 8 or 10, were busy working in and around the car. Each gave their own greeting of “Hey Jimmy” or some variation to my father. Others tossed some jokes his way. I stared at the racecar with intensity reserved for hypnosis. There were those huge tires again. No front fenders. A homemade hood. Steel tubing for a front bumper. A shiny black AMC Gremlin body. White roof. An orange number two on the doors. Thick headers covering part of the number. On the quarter panels were painted the words Colonial Wines and Liquors. It was the business my Dad owned and, as I learned, a sponsor of the car. There was the word in my head again to describe it all. Cool. “Hey Webby” my father called across the room. “This is my son Patrick.” A solid man around my Dad’s age sporting a crew cut came walking over. He had dark hair with hints of gray and two arms full of tattoos. A loud but friendly voice greeted me by saying hello. “Patrick,” Dad began, “This is Kenny Webb. He drives this car.” We shook hands. And in my eyes a hero was born. Webb gave me a piece of paper about three feet long. I unrolled it and was surprised by my new gift, a poster of this very car at speed going around the speedway. It was a black and white image that was in clear focus but had a blurred background, perfect for a speeding modified. Webb pulled out a blue colored marker and made out a personal autograph. He rolled my new poster back up, secured it with a rubber band and handed it back to me. I rushed it into my Dad’s truck for safety. I didn’t want anything to tarnish my new treasure. Some nervous conversation came out of my mouth trying to be one of the guys in the shop. But that went a little clumsily at best. Work continued on the car as time drifted by. Soon it was ready and loaded onto the trailer. This was another amazing procedure to me, sort of like staging a rocketship. This fast machine sat silent and confined. Straps tethered it to the trailer, which was just an open platform, two axles, and a pair of tire grooves for the car to roll onto. Enclosed racecar trailers were nearly non-existent at the time. This one didn’t even have as much as a tire rack or a tool box. Pulled by a black pickup truck with tools and tires in the bed, the racecar headed to Danbury. I climbed back into my Dad’s truck and we followed, arriving at the Fairgrounds in about a half-an-hour. Seen from the highway, there were 20-foot statues of Fairly Tale characters surrounding the property. Paul Bunyon and Geronimo were two of the figures that appeared to stand guard over the speedway but almost as if it were made to welcome a young boy. Large groups of people were already gathering in the parking lots waiting for the ticket booths to open. We met up with my Cousin Mike and Uncle Tom as my Father headed to the pit area. Dad would be with Webb’s crew and meet up with me after the races. I went with my Cousin and Uncle to the grandstand area. Racearena Review vendors greeted us upon clearing the turnstiles. This was my next purchase after my ticket with the money Dad had given me. I was going to get a program of my very own after several days of waiting. There was a photo of a single car on the cover each week denoting the previous week’s feature winner. This edition featured none other than Kenny Webb. There was the car I had spent the afternoon with. My Father’s business in clear view. An image similar to my new poster. The man I had just met. My new hero. There was his car spotlighted for the thousands to see. I felt a real attachment like I was in an inner circle that all these race fans wanted to be a part of. We found our seats and I alternated my attention between reading about last week’s race action and track history and the empty silent racetrack in front of me. Danbury was a paved one-third mile oval surrounded by a white guardrail and towering covered grandstands. The infield was filled with plush green grass that could pass for a golf course. Waiting for racing to begin Mike took me down a tall set of concrete stairs exiting through the stands and onto the midway where all the concessions were. Some of the crowd gathered and gave off an echo that multiplied the head count. That distinctive smell of fried dough that all fairgrounds have permeated the air. Directly next to any food booth one could smell what was cooking only a few feet away. After some sodas and unhealthy but great tasting snacks, we returned to our seats. Mike explained the race procedure to me: warm ups for all cars, 10-lap heat races to qualify the initial feature starters, a consolation race to give unqualified cars one more chance to make the main event, and the 25-lap feature. When practice did start the modifieds entered the speedway from the pit area off turns three and four. A gate in turn four was opened and a line of racers slowly entered the track. Mike was telling me who was good, who wasn’t, who he liked, who he didn’t. The different colored cars looked like a giant rainbow. The bodies, stripes, and number styles were all different. Some were nice, sleek, and good-looking. Others not so much. But no two were alike. Following a few slow laps the flagman twirled his green flag and the drivers accelerated. The thundering roar of race engines shattered the quiet, early evening summer air. Their speed looked unreachable by highway standards. I was impressed and excited. Roughly ten laps of practice were spun off when the flagman waved a yellow flag signaling all cars to slow. The turn three gate was opened and they exited the track. Another group was lined up and ready off turn four for their turn. I remember saying to myself “I want to do this the rest of my life.” The procedure was repeated until all teams had a turn, including Webb. When his car appeared on the speedway I probably looked no where else during his laps. He was in a later round that appeared to have a little more star power than the earlier cars. Men that would define the Southern New York Racing Association’s history were with him. Don LaJoie, Chick Stockwell, Jimmy Smith, Fred Foshay, Billy Layda, and Bones Stevens were names revered in the local community. Webb’s heat came and went, qualifying for the feature. I enjoyed all the race action although the lap-by-lap memories are faded. I have been to so many races since then some details have faded from my mind. Others are engraved into it. Later in the night is a memory that I picture like it was a photo on the wall. Kenny Webb winning the feature at my first race ever. After the race he exited his car at the start/finish line and was joined by his pit crew as fans clung to the catch fence on the grandstand side. I saw Webb posing for photographs with the checkered flag, my Dad, and all the other guys I met at the shop earlier that afternoon. Thousands of fans strained to get a clear view. I was too young to be allowed across the track but definitely felt like part of the family. Tom, Mike, and I walked out towards the parking lot but stopped short. We waited along with even more of the crowd on a track exit road where the cars were trailered out on the way home. Webb’s truck and trailer eventually came through and we met up with my father. I got back in his truck and clung to my poster all the way home. What a day this was. I think anything that could happen to attach me to this sport and these cars did. The stars lined up perfectly. Auto racing grabbed me and hasn’t let go. I returned to the Racearena many times before it was shut down to make way for a shopping mall in 1981. Some drivers continued racing elsewhere, some did not. Webb continued somewhat but eventually did retire. I ventured out to other tracks in the region; Stafford Springs, Thompson, Riverside Park, Middletown and Lebanon Valley after that. I attended my first then-Grand national race in 1984 at Pocono. I started working on modifieds in 1987 and have since worked on several professional NASCAR teams. I now make a living in the motorsports business. I was captured by racing that day in Danbury, Connecticut and it has shaped my life ever since. I am still in love. This past week Kenny Webb passed from this world to the next. To himself he was just a racer living his life and racing the best he could. He was one of the men who may not have known the influence and the effect he had on race fans’ lives. From the young boys who looked up to him or their favorite Racearena driver, to fellow competitors who admired him and ‘The Deuce’ as ones to beat. To me he was the first race car driver who I looked up to as a hero. He was ‘my guy’ on the racetrack before I had heard of Richard Petty or David Pearson. Webb’s passing shows that our heroes are not the immortal beings we make them out to be. They are humans just like the rest of us. And that makes their accomplishments that much more admirable. When we are gone, all that remains are the memories we left with those whose lives we touched. A community and a generation looked up to Webb and the men of the New Southern New York Racing Association. God speed Kenny. Thanks for the memories. (Patrick Reynolds is a former NASCAR team mechanic who hosts "Motorweek Live" Thursdays at 9pm ET. Listen at www.racersreunionradio.com.)

It is June 1976. I am seven years old. And I fell in love. The kind of love you remember from that first cute girl in Kindergarten. Or a favorite Saturday morning cartoon. Or a song from Mom’s car radio while still strapped to a booster seat. My heartfelt feelings were directed towards northeast asphalt modifieds. The first racecar I ever saw. The only racecar I ever knew at the time. Like most people involved in racing, be it the casual fan up to the professional competitor, we all have a soft spot for our favorite driver or type of car. Usually this impression revolves around our initial experience. In today’s racing world people can develop a like for a driver based upon a victory lane interview during that first race they finally sat down to watch on TV. Or maybe a car seen in a mall show that was, for no better word, just COOL. In the mid-1970s my tastes were developed at a Saturday night grassroots speedway, the Danbury Fair Racearena in Connecticut. When a boy is on summer vacation the world is a beautiful place. After a successful completion of first grade there was a lot more time for fun and visiting with friends and family. I hung out with my cousin a lot. He being two years older was elevated in status in my mind. One day he had in his possession a racing program. I thumbed through the Racearena Review as it was called and was absolutely fascinated with the black and white images I saw. Cars, cars, and more cars. Modifieds to be exact. One page to the next I kept turning. Real cars that men were driving, looking like life-sized models of ones I had only seen on a toy store shelf. Massive tires protruded on all four corners. Cars at speed. Cars side-by-side battling for position. Cars posed with the driver proudly standing alongside. And cars crashing. Oh, how they did crash. Not photos of fender benders. I mean crashes. Cars on top of one another, on their sides, upside down. I was captivated. I asked where he got this magazine. He said he and his Dad went to the Racearena last Saturday night. I asked my father if we could go with them this weekend. He agreed. That Saturday I got a whole lot more than I was expecting. Saturday finally arrived and it started with the usual fare. Awake early and to the television. Cartoons were starting and I couldn’t miss anything. Scooby Doo, Super Friends, Pink Panther, Captain Marvel, and the rest but not too loud. I needed to keep the volume low. I understood I liked them but not everyone was willing to sacrifice their extra sleep for Speed Buggy. Morning cartoons turn into early afternoon cartoons and after my weekly parental poking and prodding, I finally got out of my PJs and into actual clothes. I am sure the next part of my day was spent playing in the yard. Following that, I would say without exaggeration, began moments that would start to mold my life. Mid-afternoon rolled around and I climbed into my father’s pickup truck and headed out for the races. Our first stop was a building in town I had passed many times. Rest Of Story Here

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DANBURY -- Behind a table in the back of the O'Neill Center, former racecar driver Evie Pierce sat in a wheelchair, his wife Margie always close by his side. Gradually, everyone in the arena -- there for the Southern New York Racing Association's eighth-annual reunion -- came over to shake his hand. They knew Pierce (he turns 81 in October) as the man who started racing when he was 20, who raced for years at the Danbury Racearena, and is fourth on the all-time winner's list in the SNYRA's Modified Division. But on Sunday, in the wake of Pierce's recent stroke, they were also there to support him. Some fans handed him cards with money, others slid programs across the table and asked for his autograph. He stopped racing in 1978, but he was still a celebrity to these people -- a king in a castle of carburetors and worn-out tires. He speaks slowly now and he doesn't hear as well as he used to, thanks to years of sitting just a few feet behind roaring engines, but the memories are still vivid. Like the time when he didn't have a cherry picker to take the engine out of a car, and he had to lift it up with his bare hands. Or when he and a few friends pooled together all the money they had and bought a 1934 two-door Ford sedan for nine dollars. When they drew straws to see who would race it, Pierce was the lucky one. "It's really great that all these people still remember, it means a lot to me," said Pierce. "We were a big thing in Danbury." Several of the old cars were on display, some with trophies and old pictures next to them. The younger kids climbed in through the windows and sat in the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel, but for the old men with graying beards who remembered what the Danbury Racearena was like, it was a chance to reminisce. Many of the cars were over 50 years old, but the men still remembered everything about them. They wandered between the cars, mumbling the make and model with no hesitation. "When you're associated with all these people, and you're going to all the races, you remember all that stuff. It's like going to school for us," said Don Campbell Sr., a Danbury resident since 1964 who worked in a few pit crews, and also helped former driver and then-next door neighbor Billy Sunderland with his car. "I used to go to the races every Saturday with my father," said Mayor Mark Boughton, who said his favorite driver was Ken Webb. "It was a wonderful era in Danbury's history. For the people who weren't there, it's very hard to describe the kind of family atmosphere there was."Source Here.

http://pow.modifieds.net/PREVIOUS/MAR05/3-29-05.htm

http://www.davesracing.com/snyra.htm

CONNECTICUT Bradford Park – New Haven – 1/2 mile dirt oval (7/25/1899 – c.7/25/1900) Bridgeport Speedway – Bridgeport / (aka: Candlelite Stadium) 1/5 mile paved oval (6/30/1947 - 1954) / possibly ran in 1955 1/10 mile dirt oval (06/03/1951) < TQ midgets located on Eagle St. (SR 1-A) near River Street sold in February, 1955 for a Drive-In Theatre Bristol Fairgrounds – Bristol – 1/2 mile dirt oval (1933 – 10/21/1934) Bulkeley Stadium – Hartford – 1/5 mile dirt oval (c. 1936) Charter Oak Park – Hartford – One mile dirt oval (6/16/1905 - 1920) Cherry Park Speedway – Avon / built as a horse track in 1882 1/2 mile dirt oval (1933 – 6/16/1935) (5/30/1939 – 7/23/1939) 1/5 mile dirt oval (7/28/1946) / located on SR 177 / torn down in 1959 1/5 mile paved oval (8/11/1946 - 1951) (1954) / now a housing development Conetia Park Race Track – see: New Milford Fairgrounds Connecticut Dragway – Colchester / (aka: Connecticut Int’l Raceway) 1/4 mile paved dragstrip (c.1961 – c.1986) Connecticut Speedway – Derby / (aka: Island Park Speedway) 3/4 mile dirt oval (6/24/1934) (9/02/1934) (c.1937) Danbury Fair Racearena – Danbury / at the Danbury Fairgrouds 1/2 mile dirt oval (10/06/1908 – 10/07/ 1939) The grandstands were destroyed by fire on 10/08/1922 1/5 mile paved oval (06/01/1940 – 5/10/1942) (September, 1945 – 1947) 1/4 mile paved oval (5/31/1947 – 9/30/1951) 1/3 mile dirt oval (10/05/1958 – 10/12/1981) held boat racing in a moat outside of track in August of 1958 home track of the Southern NY Racing Assn. (1952 – 1955) (1958 - 1981) (aka: Danbury Fair Race Track) / (aka: Danbury Speedway) (aka: Danbury Fair Speedways) / the site is now the Danbury Fair Mall Danbury Mill Micro-Midget Oval – Danbury 1/20 mile oval (1960 - 1962) / ran Micro-Midgets The corners were paved and the straights were dirt Huntington Speedway – Shelton 1/2 mile dirt oval (05/06/1934 – 6/18/1939) Kenosha Avenue Race Track – Danbury 1/20 mile dirt oval (1957 – c.1959) / ran Micro-Midget races sanctioned by the Danbury Micro-Midget Racing Assn. Legion Speedway – Meriden – dirt oval (years unknown) New Haven Arena – New Haven 1/10 mile indoor wood oval (1936 – 3/24/1937) New Haven Velodrome – New Haven – dirt oval (c.1940 – c.1941) New Haven Veterans Coliseum – New Haven 1/10 mile concrete indoor oval (12/11/1993 – 1994) (1997) New London – dirt oval (1920’s) Newfield Park – Bridgeport – 1/5 mile dirt oval (5/14/1935 – 9/18/1940) Bill Holmes was the first winner formerly a trotter horse track on Eagle Street North Haven Speedway – North Haven – North Haven / ran motorcycles 1/4 mile cinder oval (1932 – c.1939) / maybe ran autos Norwich Fairgrounds – Norwich – 1/2 mile dirt oval (8/12/1934) (8/19/1934) located at SR 82 & Surrey St./ now the site of a housing development Plainville Stadium – Plainville – 1/4 mile dirt oval (4/10/1949) 1/4 mile paved oval (4/17/1949 - 1980) / located on SR 372 Plymouth Speedway – Plymouth – dirt oval (1965) (aka: Valley Park Speedway) Rockville Driving Park – Rockville – 1/2 mile dirt oval (late 1930’s) Sage Park Speedway – Windsor – 1/2 mile dirt oval (8/12/1934) (8/19/1934) four mile from Hartford on US 5-A / Hal French fatally injured at last race Silver City Speedway – Meriden / ran half-midgets a few times 1/10 mile paved oval (1985) / now a 1/4 midget track Stratford – dirt oval (1958) / ran Micro-Midgets Suffield – 1/4 mile dirt oval (late 1940’s – early 1950’s) Westport – paved road course (1960’s)

Lots of candidates toss around in my mind about the most memorable night at the Racearena. The most obvious choice is the night Ted Abbott died. Not a very happy moment and one we'd like to forget, but it was something we won't forget. BTW, I'll say it even though nobody does, LeBlanc caused that one. Another was the night Danny Gallulu wrecked all the top runners, one at a time and very meticulously during the feature. Remember the atmosphere later that night!? Bob Reilly in Jake Velleiux's brand new 66 wrecked it's premier night out of the box. Another great moment was Nicky Giardina flipping into the Pits knocking the hat off of Wild Bill Greco's Head, not to mention the numerous Billy Boo exits! How about the night Gino Spada single-handedly put an end to the "Match-Race" fiasco!!!! That was the most hilarious since it was the most foreseeable thing to happen in the world! And who can forget the famous "Let's Go Chick" chant the night Stockwell beat Lajoie to 50. And finally, the last night of the Fair. I'll never forget the closing of the Budwieser stand! Write in with yours, or elaborate on the moments I've just mentioned.

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Even thought it's not an pleasant topic, it is still one that should not be ignored. How many racing-related deaths were there at the Racearena? I always believed that there were only 2, one being Ted Abbott, and the other Joe Campanella, who died years later from possibly the indirect result of his crashing on the backstretch when he hit a big Oak tree in the Dutch Village. Any corrections to this are more than welcome. According to http://www.motorsportmemorial.org the track related fatalities are: Ted Abbott Death date: 25.Aug.1979 Role: track official Circuit: Danbury Fair Racearena Louis Jackson Death date: 06.Oct.1923 Role: driver Circuit: Danbury Fair Racearena Albert Odell Death date: 21.Aug.1965 Role: driver Circuit: Danbury Fair Racearena http://www.motorsportmemorial.org/query.php?db=ct&q=circuit_a&n=3274,1819

'Checking out Danbury' by Dean Nardi from the June/July 1978 edition of 'Racing Times' 'Somewhere under the rainbow lies the proverbial pot of gold for racers. The location is no secret - it's in Danbury. But cutting yourself in on the action may be difficult. Let's face facts! The Southern New York Racing Association (hereafter referred to as SNYRA) is the biggest closed club this side of the Mafia. This organization provides the cars and drivers, hires the officials, settles any and all protests, decides upon the rules and regulations for racing, divvies up the purse, buys insurance, sells the entire package to the Danbury Fair management, and protects their members against the undesired intrusions of high-dollar outsiders. In short, they're into everything, just like their Sicilian counterparts, except for selling beer and hot dogs. Most of this information I either already was aware of or elicited from Fred Fearn, who is president of the Leahy Corporation. In this capacity, Fearn presides over four separate companies, dealing with retail and wholesale oil, bottled gas, and, of course, the Danbury State Fair. Fearn's primary contact with the SNYRA consists of meeting with the eight-member liaison committee at monthly intervals. At these meetings, anything pertaining to racing at the Fair is discussed, from the scheduling of special events to writing an agreement for repaving the track (the club has been coughing up a 3% vigorish by taking only 37%, instead of 40% of the front gate). The new coat of asphalt was a definite necessity, however, as the previous threadbare layer had been creating a washboard effect and was causing an inordinate amount of crashing. The racetrack was covered with clay instead of asphalt until 1959, but prior to that, it had a liquid surface, and motorboats were raced on your basic Arthurian moat. They even had a drawbridge for crossing from the infield to the grandstand as the infield was occupied by a dirt track, which was used for midget racing. Motorboat racing was a disaster. The boats hadn't as yet acquired clutches or brakes, which made cornering a treacherous proposition. It was great sport for the fans, though, what with the boats hopping in and out of the water like frisky dolphins. Finally they gave the motorboats the old deep-six, and then the present third-mile facility began to coalesce and take form. Apple pie, motherhood, and the U.S.A. are positively in vogue here. "We run a family-type show," stated Fearn emphatically, "and our philosophy includes frowning on such things as profane language, fisticuffs, and excessive drinking." The Fairgrounds does reflect Fearn's philosophy. Everything is painted and in working order, and there is real, honest-to-God grass everywhere you go. It's almost as if he were expecting a visit from his mother-in-law. Anyway, what I was looking for was the pulse that makes Danbury tick, and to locate this, First I needed access to the pits. Not as easy as it sounds. The entrance to the pits is about as wide as the entrance to the Lost Dutchman Mine. Either you come with a car, have some pertinent business, or you're pleasantly directed to the grandstand, thank you. Once inside, I figured I'd start with Lou Funk Jr., who is a prominent member of the screening committee (which rules on the selection of new members). Funk, who drives "the only modified Kit Car in the country," won the season-opener the previous week despite the hampering effects of a dislodged steering shaft. I asked Funk how Danbury had managed to become so successful, and he answered, "It's the club! I don't know if it would work in all parts of the country, but it certainly has here. Most of the fellows have been here for thirty years, and now their sons or pit crew members are in too." Well now that he mentioned it, that was one of the things I wanted to determine. Just how does one go about obtaining membership in the SNYRA? According to Funk, "We are limited to how many numbers we can give out (sixty). The quota has been filled for as long as I can remember, and the waiting list is a mile long." I was to find out later that there is also a minimum weekly requirement of cars (36). Anything less and the club can be held in violation of their contract with the Fair. But to let Funk continue, "For instance, when I reached the age of twenty-one, my father had a crewmember named Bones Stevens. Bones wanted to become a member and so did I. But at that particular time there was only one number available. Bones drove it and I was the substitute driver, occasionally taking the car out in warm-ups. The following year there was another opening and I got it." "That's fine, Lou" I said. "But how does someone who does not have a connection at Danbury get in?" "Our primary concern is taking local people. The fans want to watch people they know and can relate to. The next thing we look for is if a man can afford to race his car or not. If he can't, we don't want him taking bread off his family's table to race." The further I delved into the machinations of the screening committee, the further the conversation lapsed into the silence that comes when you drop a pebble into an unexpectedly deep well and wait too long for a splash. "No, it's not true we don't look for established racers," funk insisted. He bases this judgment on the fact that " Years ago, Paul Pettit had all the experience in the world when he came to us. He was a NASCAR star, but he got in." Irrefutable evidence, but even as the Log Cabin oozed from his mouth, I realized that Pettit was admitted at a time when the club sorely needed to extract a few pounds of publicity from him. Moving on. Everything is spic-and span-clean; restrooms, concessions, grounds, brightly painted race cars, uniformed crews, snazzy officials. It's obvious they cater to the fans' enjoyment. "I've been racing here for twelve to thirteen years," stated George Bouley. "The place has a special brand of magic for me. And besides, you know you'll be racing against the same guys every week." "Well what do you think brings the fans (eight or nine thousand on the average) out in droves, George?" I asked. "Some may say it's the crashing, but I think those people are misinformed. The amount of crashing at Danbury is exaggerated. On a given night, any other short track can have just as much. I compare our popularity to that of football - you like the Giants, I like the Jets. Here the fans all sit in clusters according to their favorite drivers. It almost seems as if the fans think they're in the car themselves." Bouley has a brand new car, which upstaged Funk in all the papers last week. His fuel line broke, enveloping the Pinto in flames and leaving George to ponder the possibilities of roasting marshmallows. "The cars have undergone dramatic changes in the past couple of years, and the fans identify with this too." This is quite apparent to anyone who recalls the reign of the flathead coupes. As we were talking, a young driver wearing a freshly laundered and starched firesuit and an uneasy smile walked past us. "This is his first night" Bouley confided. "Hey, what heat are you in?' "I don't know," the kid mumbled. "Well you'd better check the board," Bouley admonished. "The first heat is on the track right now." As I approached other drivers, I began to notice a strange, inexplicable thing was happening. They were declining interviews as if I had appeared to them as a rattlesnake. They were definitely less than ingenuous, bordering on downright unfriendliness. It could not have been because of my morals, I figured - some individuals who have met me insist that I have none - so what was the trouble? This was a good time to check things out with the SNYRA's officials. Lou Badaracco is the president of the club. His hand was severed in a racing accident several years ago, and the club has taken care of him admirably. Naturally, Lou's fealty is reciprocal, and he faithfully fulfills his duties as does Jack Knapp, who was a scorer for fifteen years (never missing a Saturday) before ascending to the post of Vice-President. Badaracco asked me into his office, and as I entered I heard the footsteps of the four other officials falling in behind me. As it turned out, they were going to be in on the interview also. You think you've seen a tight act? Well these guys are as together as a Mercedes 450SE. I said "Lou, what's going on here? Do you have omerta - you know, a code of silence?" "Of course not," he chuckled. "Then why is everyone balking? What are they afraid of? The IRS? Their wives?" "It's not that," Badaracco answered. "It's just that a couple of years ago we used to post the pay-off on the pit board. Then some writer started publishing them and his figures were always too high, so guys became a little paranoid of people they don't know." "Yeah, but all in unison? Besides," I countered, "I haven't even uttered a word about money." Nevertheless, I was checked-out, though exactly what for never became clear. Maybe political persuasions? Then, as if the silent treatment had never been applied, Badaracco offered to "speak to the boys" about lifting the ban, which was fine, but did leave me a trifle confused. So back I went, wearing my newly awarded security clearance like a press badge. Having made a mental note not to re-open any interviews with drivers who had previously shut me off (on general principles), I looked up Rit Patchen, who had come within a gnat's eyelash of winning the track title last season in only his second year behind the wheel. "The most important thing," Patchen said, "is that we all have a good time. A lot of our friends come to the races. Also, there's no promoter telling us what to run for tires, motors, or what have you. We make our own rules and live with them." Now that's beginning to make sense. Buoyed by Patchen's response, I paid a visit to Don Lajoie. He is Danbury's Big Name Driver. A name that's well-known throughout New England. Lajoie was given a leave of absence from the club for two years to try his hand at NASCAR and has since returned to reap even greater glories than before. "It's just a freak thing how it worked out here," stated Lajoie. "But the reason it's so successful is that, unlike Stafford, racing here is still considered a sport. They try to control the spending of the dollars. Did you see Troyer's car at the Sizzler? If a guy came to race regularly here with that car, most of the guys would load up and go home." At that moment, one member of Lajoie's pit crew was transporting a sample of fuel to a booth where the "track chemist" would check the content of the mixture. Lajoie had a race taken from him for having too high an octane rating and is understandably wary now. He continued, "You know cheating is done in NASCAR all the time. I made the mistake once of letting the gas sit in the tank over the winter, and it got stale, which produced an abnormal reading. So you see, the guys have to be honest here because if they're caught cheating, they're subject to a very healthy fine, loss of points, and suspension. NASCAR only inspects the cars selectively according to who you are. When you win here they tear you apart because you're taking the major chunk of money." Next, I asked Lajoie what the straight scoop on new drivers was, and he responded by stating, "They like to raise their own from these grounds." Sounds like they are cultivating some kind of plant life. "They don't want to let better drivers in here, but they won't help the guys just getting started to get straightened out either. The newer guys are badly in need of experience. Maybe a second division is the solution. The cars have become too expensive to be continuously torn up." At last I had some meaty issues to discuss with Ev Pierce, who is one of the more influential members of the SNYRA. "Look how well my son Denis has done in one short year. And Patchen. Some drivers make it, some don't. It's as simple as that." "How about the driver from New Britain who had his application turned down without, according to his car owner, any satisfactory explanation?" I inquired. "And he was asked to apply in Daytona by one of your own officials." "That was very unfortunate," Pierce sadly commented, sounding a little like John Wayne after seeing his buddies killed in a shoot-out. "That official was reprimanded for misinterpreting his duties. We have to think of our own. If this driver had come to Danbury with the type of race car he has, everyone would have dropped down a place." As the late Mr. Leahy once said, "If you've got a good thing, why change it?" And who's to argue the logic of success? Finally, however, someone had admitted that name drivers were not being sought instead of swearing to the impartiality of the selection process on a six-pack of bibles. And if that's where they're at - big deal, at least it works. The majority, though, are conditioned to espouse the party line. Once you join the SNYRA, it seems, you'll find the agreement more binding than Kaopectate. The following statements are disjointed and unrelated, but they do reflect the feeling that runs deeply through each member of the club. "When Joe Campanella got injured the club put on a benefit show, which raised $10,000." "We're just one big, happy family. This system would work anywhere. It's without a doubt the way to go." "Accidents in stock cars have to be tolerated. They're appealing to the fans. And it's the kind of stuff you don't usually see on the streets (hope not!)." "The number one feeling is that the club comes first. If you screw up brother, you're out." "If Danbury were to close tomorrow, I'd get out of racing." Obviously to put that much wind into your sails, you've got to have something going for you, and Danbury has. In my opinion, the closed format is as close to a paradigm of the ultimate racing system as we're likely to see. Whatever the case may be, the sort of competition the SNYRA is offering is the type that resoundingly pushes the spectator's gratification button. And do they ever respond. Just look into the stands and you'll see thousands of rabid race fans, their emotions rising and falling with the fortunes of their favorites. They may not want (or need) Bodine, Evans, et al. They may run their club with iron-fisted authority. But the beauty of Danbury is its success. And I guess that beauty is success; success is beauty - that is all you need to know about Danbury. But remember - though underneath all that real tinsel you will find one sturdy evergreen. So if you take my advice, folks, you'll stop looking underneath tinsel already, and sit back and appreciate the racing here.'

Rules: Be nice and no stoopid nicknames. No Censoring/Editing unless it's something REALLY stoopid. Speak of anything about the Danbury Fair or Racearena here. There really seems to be a shortage of Fair pix on the net so if you have them, PLEASE post them, or links to them here. The pictures can EASILY be hosted/posted by clicking the Image-Floppy icon on top of the editing box when you post a message or use Imageshack at http://www.imageshack.us it is free &/no registration needed. Kaptainsteve http://www.danbury.k12.ct.us/elemweb/danburyhistory/Danbury/Photos%20DanFair.html