W hat people remember of that Thanksgiving Day in 1973 was watching a 75-12 pasting of Passaic High Indians by the Mustangs. The win capped off Clifton’s second consecutive undefeated season and featured four touchdowns by running back Jim Jenkins and three by Ken Ritoch. That’s if you listen to what the fans, players, and coaches think they saw happened or believe what was written in the newspapers. What took place is a far different story.
T
hanks to a crack in time or a bit of magic—pick any explanation that fits—the game played in Clifton School Stadium that afternoon was one straight out of the Twilight Zone, involving players as unlikely as Shoeless Joe Jackson gliding across the Field of Dreams. On that day, Bobby Boettcher ran again and Denny Kleber was determined to stop him. Only a chosen few remember the game that was truly played that day. They tell the story quietly, expecting not to be believed. They start by describing a blue sky that began to change as the game approached, and then hearing thunder rumble in the distance. Here’s how they describe what really happened: It starts as a beautiful fall afternoon, an ideal day for football. Then, from the west, the wind picks up and blows cold across the field, up through the concrete stands and through the press box. Announcer
Bob Zschack
Bob Zschack feels the chill and wishes he had put on the extra pair of socks his wife Marlene told him to wear. The buzz usually preceding a game grows quiet and uneasy; fans sense something strange about to happen. Time stops. The shadows grow darker. Thunder crawls closer, and the Clifton and Passaic players and fans stare at the sky, watching a
large dark cloud rush over the old Doherty Silk Mill on Main Ave. and settle over the field. Suddenly, a single lightning bolt shoots through the clouds, striking the middle of the gridiron—scorching the grass at midfield and sending a charge through the long-forgotten sprinkler system buried underneath the grass. Like everyone, Coach Bill Vander Closter is shocked by the lightning—his eyes fixed where the bolt landed. When he raises them, he cannot believe what he sees—or doesn’t see—across the field. “Passaic,” Vander Closter says, gazing across the empty gridiron, “they’re gone—the entire team’s disappeared.”
Visitors from the Past As Passaic vanishes, an old school bus makes a right turn off Route 46 into the stadium parking lot. It slows as it gets close to the stadium’s brick wall, as many teenage faces press against its windows.
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October 2010 • Clifton Merchant
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