Full Spectrum*

*Post title lifted from Jay Greenberg's book of the same name, an outstanding and thorough history of the Philadelphia Flyers.

In 1974, the Flyers won their first Stanley Cup in what I can only describe as the temple of my youth, the Philadelphia Spectrum. I was six years old. I played street hockey religiously, and my hero was a skinny, diabetic kid from Flin Flon, Manitoba; no front teeth; wore number 16. His name was Robert Earl Clarke.

Every day until dark, I played my eyes out, drank orange juice to raise my blood-sugar level, I got cut, and I fell down and still scored even as I was falling. I wanted to be Bobby Clarke so badly I was actually mad I wasn’t diabetic.

Thirty-some years later, l've migrated north to Boston, but still follow the Flyers with fanatical devotion. And I find myself disappointed beyond melancholy to read plans for the Spectrum to be torn down.

I'm a realist; I've got nothing against change. But when change breeds acres of ostentatious, soulless, repetitious crap meant to create a "'Philly Live!' experience," well then, I've got a problem with it.

The Flyers' current arena, across the massive parking lot — the CoreStates First Union Wachovia Center — is itself case and point.

The approach funnels you to an outdoor beer garden, followed by a WalMart-sized merchandising center, then escalators up, up, up to your seats, and so forth. It has the cavernous and artificial canned-air feel of a mall, or a cruise ship. Same as Boston's Fleet Center Bank North Garden.

On my first visit to the new Philly rink a dozen years ago, I witnessed a ticket-taker telling a young orange-and-black-painted fan that no cardboard signs were allowed in the arena. Obviously, there were no advertising dollars associated with his homemade "Let's Go Flyers!" sign. And the Big Bank Arena couldn't hear his protests, for all of its bone-jarring neon, blinking TV monitors, and arcade games, with enough wattage to tear the roof off the old Spectrum.

It seems we cannot simply build new arenas with comfy seats and better sight lines. No, we're told we need "thriving entertainment destinations." Because, apparently, we fans are so prone to boredom while walking from the parking lot to the arena; the arena entrance to our seats; and, of course, while we're watching the game itself.

You know, there's a fine line between successfully selling, and selling out. But the line is there if we care to heed it. Hockey players are still arguably the most unaffected in pro sports, yet with every new arena complex, diehard fans like me are priced out of tickets by fatcat hack owners concerned with the corporate dollars brought in by their expanding arsenal of luxury boxes — filled largely with wealthy suits who think “forechecking” is something that happens before one player checks another.

I would open my window and scream, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore!” like Peter Finch in the movie Network, but I can’t even do that because all of these big bank buildings attempt to manufacture enthusiasm (something the Spectrum — or the old Boston Garden — was never wanting for) by playing that exact video-bite on their big-screen jumbotrons.

So you real estate suits can go have your redevelopment project cakewalks, and then you can go screw. You're even worse than the fair-weather moguls who own our sports teams — and who are, themselves, often justifiably despised by their true fan base.

Me? Whether in Philly or Boston, I stay home and watch the games with a few other oldtime fans, all of whom have the ability to concentrate on only the game for a few hours — or in the event of quintuple overtime — for as long as it damn well takes.

I’m six again. It’s late in the game, we’re shorthanded, and we’re down a goal. I’m tired, I’m bleeding, and I’m diabetic. I don’t care. Give me the goddamn puck.

Postscript: I've got loads of great memories of the Spectrum. From hockey to hoops, to concerts, to a brief out-of-the-crowd spotlight moment I had with the Globetrotters, to '80s WWF wrestling, to a high school game skated on Spectrum ice (I think we played West Catholic, and I think they kicked our ass. But we got to change in a big-league locker room, and I met Tim Kerr as he arrived for that night's game), it was grandly labeled "America's Showplace." But that was marketing department wordplay, and in actuality, the Spectrum never presented itself as anything more than it was: a thunderous sardine can of a building with bad ice, sticky floors, basement bathrooms, and the smokiest concourse you could ever experience. But it was Philly, through and through — crammed with heart, soul, and genuine emotion. It was ours. And if you wanted to win in our Spectrum, you had to fight us for it.

The following are the five perfect memories of the Spectrum that will always spring immediately to my mind (I was there for 2–4, loving every minute of each):

5. March 28, 1992: Grant Hill inbounds to Christian Laettner, for the win in the NCAA east regional hoop finals.

4. May 16, 1985: Davey Poulin scores while two-men down to clinch the Wales Conference finals and send the Flyers to the Cup.

3. January 11, 1977: Flyers v. the Soviet Red Army Team.

2. May 28, 1987: J.J. Daigneault forces game 7 of the Cup against the Oil.

1. May 19, 1974: "The Flyers win the Stanley Cup! The Flyers win the Stanley Cup!"

Comments

[Rose's Lime]

Now, the Spectrum, like the Vet was an abomination of civic duty and efficiency. It was no Garden and the Vet was no Shibe Park. I find it interesting that we find more love for a blank canvas of concrete that we fill with our personal memories than for a commercially manufactured entertainment experience. The new Cit is nice, but for all the Richie Ashburne themed ARAMARK food, it's hardly a good venue for drinkin a Schmidts in the parking lot, packing your own hoagie and paradeing your tatoos around the 700 level. I'll pour one out for the Spectrum.

[BK]

Ah, Veterans Stadium.... It was adequate (in a '70s) way for baseball, but it was at Eagles games that The Vet really shined. That place was as close to a European soccer stadium as you could find in the States. Cold and concrete, orchestrated crowd cheering and singing, and more public drunkenness than you could spill a beer at. You'd go into the men's room to take a leak and you'd have guys lined up 5-6 deep @ the urinals, and 2-3 deep @ the sinks -- and *not* in a hand-washing sort of way.

My lasting memory was of getting on the subway after a particularly frigid Iggles game. We were all bundled up in a half dozen layers of clothing from head to toe, and a guy got on the train barechested, wearing only jeans and boots. He had binoculars around his neck and wasn't even carrying a jacket. Everyone moved a step away from him. I moved a step closer, and looked at him, and he looked at me, and I just said, "I've gotta ask." At which point, he unscrewed the eyepiece of his binoculars, and took a theatrical swig from it. He licked his lips and smiled and said, "Whiskey."