The Spaghetti Bowl

It certainly wasn’t Michigan vs. Ohio State. There were no roaring crowds of thousands in the stands or tailgaters ringing the stadium, unless you count the patrons in the bar; no cheerleaders bouncing up and down and waving pom-poms; no marching band, led by high-stepping Drum Majors twirling batons. Keith Jackson was not bringing it into your living rooms from his perch up on my grandmother’s front porch, but if he was, he might have sounded something like this:

“Wh-o-o-o-a, Nellie! We got us a real barn burner today, folks. It’s the annual Russo Family Thanksgiving Day Spaghetti Bowl coming to you live from the Otten’s Harbor Stadium here in Wildwood, New Jersey, matching the visiting Glenside Gladiators of Pennsylvania against the home team, The Gingham Clubbers.”

No, it was none of that. It was only the biggest football game of the year.

The field of battle was Davis Avenue, a narrow strip of asphalt riddled with potholes and patches over older potholes. The sidelines were not defined by white chalk lines but by sidewalks. There were no yard lines or hash marks, only parked cars. A typical play call might be, “Go out to the blue Chevy and make a buttonhook and I’ll hit you.” Arctic Avenue was one end zone and Park Boulevard was the other, and if you went deep toward the harbor, you’d better have your head on a swivel.

Leading the way for the visitors from the Pennsylvania side of the family, was Gordon Clement, the ex-halfback from Penn, his brothers Joe and Mike, with the rest of the roster filled by the older cousins from the Duca, Trombetta, Thompson, and Tague families.

The home squad featured an ex-Wildwood Warrior and Villanova fullback by the name of Joe Russo. The quarterback was the former basketball center from Hudson, Ohio known as ‘cherry-picker Sanford,’ who was known for dropping back to pass with a cigarette dangling from his lip. The bench for the Clubbers team consisted of Santaniello’s Russo’s and Breakell’s most of whom were not allowed to play until they were old enough or big enough, as if a sign reading, ‘You Must Be This Tall To Play’ was posted on the sideline, just like up on the boardwalk. Eagerly, we awaited our turn. Once we youngsters finally got in, we did everything necessary to stay out on the field, including giving up the body while crashing into a parked car to catch a pass or going all-out to sack the quarterback. As for me, I was not a receiver. I was a lineman, one of those whom Mr. Jackson fondly referred to as “The Big Uglies,” and my assignment was to block and tackle.

The Spaghetti Bowl was our family tradition. By November, Wildwood was nestled comfortably into the cozy bosom of the off-season where free time, so rare only weeks before, was abundant. Our cousins would come down from Pennsylvania for the holiday and we always welcomed the opportunity to blow off some steam with a game of touch football on an empty street. Nothing was at stake except for bragging rights for the next year and it continued until time, creaky knees, and the expansion of waistlines and families rendered it obsolete.

At the onset of each fall season, when the brisk winds scatter dry leaves, and steel gray clouds block the sun, I still feel the urge to bundle up and head out to the street to toss the pigskin around, just like the old days. And when I am driving on the island I am always careful when I turn a corner just in case there is a game in progress.