Anthony DeCuzzi

Some kids remember playgrounds. I remember cold mornings at the racetrack.

The air biting at my face before sunrise. Engines cracking to life in the distance. The smell of fuel and rubber hanging in the paddock. Those mornings meant time with my family, something to learn, and another day alongside my dad.

I started karting at seven years old in a blue sprint kart powered by a Yamaha KT100. I can still picture myself behind the wheel, eager to put my foot down. There was always a little nervousness before heading out. Once I was on the track, my attention settled on what was right in front of me.

As I grew, so did my responsibilities. Handing my dad tools became helping with repairs, understanding the equipment, and earning more seat time. I learned about apexes, drafting, car control, and awareness long before I could drive on the street.

Summit Point Raceway felt like home. Years later, New Jersey Motorsports Park gave us another place to drive and make memories, but Summit held so much of my childhood.

Some lessons there were harder than others. I remember coming through the carousel when my wheel net failed and flew off. Moments like that teach you how quickly things can change—and how much it matters to stay composed.

I had a good example.

My dad, Robert, is one of the best drivers I’ve ever watched. What has stayed with me just as much is how he handles pressure. When something broke or a day went sideways, he stayed calm and worked through it. Spending years beside him taught me patience, resourcefulness, and the value of understanding a problem before reacting.

In 2001, we founded DeCuzzi Motorsports together. I was young, but I understood that we were building something of our own. Seeing our name take shape as a team gave me a sense of belonging and responsibility. I admired the history behind names like Ferrari, and I was excited that we were beginning a story we could carry forward.

My mom and my brother, Craig, were part of that story, too. They showed up, encouraged us, and shared the long days. As a kid, you don’t always understand how much that support means. Looking back, I know how much it helped me believe in myself.

My mom also introduced me to a different kind of craftsmanship.

Trips to King of Prussia Mall and New York City opened my eyes to fashion, presentation, and personal style. Walking through Neiman Marcus and Nordstrom with her, I began noticing how materials, fit, and small details could change the way something felt. Those experiences stayed with me alongside everything I was learning in the garage.

We worked with what we had. That carried into my education: two associate degrees from Camden County College, followed by my bachelor’s degree at Rutgers–Camden. I built my way forward in stages.

My first cars followed a similar path.

I found a black Porsche 944 sitting in a farm field near the Jersey Shore and bought it for $490 using my high school graduation money. It needed a lot of love, but I was excited by what we could make of it.

My dad and I worked on it together and learned plenty along the way. His rheumatoid arthritis affected how much we could physically tackle, so progress wasn’t always as quick as we wanted. We did what we could and appreciated the time we had in the garage.

The Porsche even had a Fast & Furious–style flamethrower kit on the exhaust. It had plenty of personality, and to a kid with his first car, that was part of the fun.

I kept it for a while before selling it for $1,200. That money helped fund my next car: a $790 BMW 325is, bright yellow, with two doors, an automatic transmission, and 200,000 miles.

It needed nearly everything. I loved it anyway.

We gutted the interior and worked through its problems together. I still remember the head gasket sealant job and the hours we spent trying to bring that car back. Every improvement carried a memory of the people who helped make it happen.

Then someone hit me on my way to college.

The BMW was totaled.

I thanked God I was alive. I was also heartbroken over losing a car my family and I had put so much into. Walking away from that accident gave me a lasting sense of gratitude, even while I grieved the work and memories wrapped up in it.

The insurance payout eventually led us to a Craigslist ad in Staten Island for a 1995 BMW M3.

That car would grow with me for years to come.

But first, my dad and I had to get there before another buyer did.

From my Yamaha KT100–powered kart at seven years old to my first project cars, the machines kept evolving as I grew. They got faster, the work became more involved, and my dad and I kept finding new things to learn together.

The next step was waiting in Staten Island.

We had found a 1995 BMW E36 M3 on Craigslist, but the seller told us someone was coming from New Hampshire to buy it. If we wanted a chance, we had to get moving.

By the time we arrived, it was dark. We took a test drive through a crowded neighborhood, and I fell in love. The next day, we returned with our SUV to collect the boxes of spare parts that came with it.

I still own that M3 today.

It has been with me through thick and thin. Even after everything we have changed, getting behind the wheel still brings back the feeling I had that first night.

My dad and I spent years working on it. We started with small problems, interior repairs, and bodywork. As our confidence grew, we took on bigger projects, eventually working our way up to full engine builds. Today, it has an S52 engine with a Rotrex supercharger, an upgraded transmission, Bilstein suspension with H&R springs, and more hours of our work than I could possibly count.

That car has taken me to prom, through the mountains around Jim Thorpe, and to countless shows and gatherings. So much of my life has happened with its keys in my pocket.

Eventually, my dad bought a second E36 M3 through Copart after a bidding battle with buyers in Russia. Now we had two to work on, drive, and take to events together.

Over the years, those cars introduced us to an incredible community. We made friends, got to know local businesses, and met people whose knowledge and generosity helped us along the way. Showing up became as much about seeing familiar faces as seeing the cars.

We also began buying, restoring, and selling BMWs on a very small scale for local friends and family. People wanted reliable transportation and someone they could trust to help them find it. We cared about doing the work properly, explaining what had been done, and helping people feel confident about what they were buying.

We took pride in every project. We still do, and we appreciate the people and businesses who have been part of that journey.

As I grew up, the cars seemed to grow with me. They became faster, cleaner, and more complete as our skills developed. Sometimes they almost felt alive, always evolving, always giving us another reason to spend time together in the garage.

Then my dad’s health changed everything.

His cancer diagnosis and the hospital stay he nearly didn’t survive brought a different urgency into our lives. At the time, we still had a few vehicles waiting to move through the DMV process because of delays lingering from the pandemic. There was work to finish and plenty of uncertainty about what came next.

There was also a promise.

When I was seven, I had my first ride in a Ferrari 360. My dad promised that someday we would own one together. Years later, after coming so close to losing him, that promise took on a weight neither of us could have understood when he first made it.

He wanted to fulfill it while he still could.

After his hospital stay, we found the blue Ferrari at a dealership in the Midwest and bought it sight unseen. Getting there took difficult negotiations and plenty of uncertainty, but we finally made it happen.

The Ferrari we had talked about for years was ours.

For a moment, time seemed to stop. I thought about being that little boy, about everything my dad had been through, and about the fact that he was still here to share this with me.

He had wanted to keep his promise before he passed away. Instead, he survived and continued finding ways to thrive. We got to enjoy something together that, for a while, I had been afraid we would never experience.

The blue car became part of our lives.

We drove it, learned its systems, and gradually became comfortable working on it ourselves. Our connection with GTE Engineering and our growing relationships with people at LIQUI MOLY became part of the journey. Shows, drives, conversations, and new friendships gave us more reasons to get out and enjoy our time together.

About a year and a half later, we found the black Ferrari.

When we went to see it, we learned about its unusual working life. Its owner, a gentleman from Afghanistan, had used it to transport visiting sheikhs and delegates from the Middle East to medical appointments. It had stories of its own, and it needed considerable attention.

Inside, there was a subwoofer box with wires hanging out and drywall screws driven through a door panel. I could see the work ahead of me. I could also see the car it could become.

After buying it, I spent roughly a month taking it apart and carefully bringing it back toward its factory finish. Piece by piece, I worked through the details, undoing makeshift repairs and giving it the attention it deserved.

I loved that process.

By the time I drove it again, I knew the car in a way I couldn’t have on the first test drive. Every repaired detail gave me another reason to appreciate it. The time I spent bringing it back made driving it that much more meaningful.

From the blue kart to the Porsche, the BMWs, and eventually the Ferraris, each machine has marked a different stage of my life. I remember the places they took us, the people we met, and the work my dad and I did side by side.

I still get that familiar feeling when I climb into my M3. And every time my dad and I head out together, I’m grateful we have another memory to make.