Ludzik recounts glory days of Memorial Arena.
The old and wrinkled gal has seen better days: She’s saggy in some spots, leaking in others, she was a beauty queen in her day but time has not been kind to her.
The stories she could tell would fill a hundred books but she has been silenced by old age.
She was always in the same spot at the corner of Lewis and Centre. She was easy to find — 5145 Centre St.
Over the years, she has had some cosmetic work done on her. A face lift or two accompanied by some minor internal repair. Every one of us was embarrassed that she had let herself deteriorate the last decade or so.
She had two siblings, Stamford was younger by a few days, and Jack Bell was the baby.
Our kids all skated there, learned to win and lose.
She is the Niagara Falls Memorial Arena, and she has been sold to the highest bidder.
Much to her chagrin her value on the free agent market was only about $1 million, and a group of Russian investors swooped in and purchased her.
Embarrassingly, there were no other serious suitors at her door step.
The old gal who was custombuilt in 1950 and was erected to honour the fighting forefathers of Niagara who fought and paid the ultimate price in the Second World War.
She welcomed everyone, and saw to it that even when soldout there was always room for a couple more.
It was also the landing pad to a bevy of beauties, clowns, tigers and trapeze artists, religious crusaders and top-notch boxers. High school graduations, cheerleader competitions and slow-pitch dinners were the norm. Lacrosse and ball hockey in the summer, with an inferno like heat.
When attendance dwindled, the finger-pointing excusemakers always came back to the old girl’s relic and rusty figure. In actuality, she was just 60 when locked up for good.
She was an unpredictable gal. One night during a closedcircuit boxing match, she was so stressed out she exploded leaving an angry mob in the dark and a nervous Bob (Heater) Lavelle who had some ’splainin and refunding to do.
A huge fan favourite was grappler Tony Parisi, a homebrewed muscle man known as the Cannon Ball.
He rented the old gal periodically and put on wrestling shows that attracted young and old alike. Parisi, who sang with a classical deep-dish baritone voice, literally quaked the arena walls while showering in stalls that dribbled water as his voice reached paint-peeling Pavarotti plateaus.
For an encore he towelled down and delivered head butts’ and flying forearms to anyone who pooh-poohed his profession. He loved to bring along with him a mass of monsters who made you nervous. Thick-necked men who answered to monickers like Bobo, Bruiser, Butcher and I believe even a Baron or two goose-stepped into the old barn.
An hour after they finished pounding the pulp out of each other, they pounded beer, and five-star whisky at the Drake Motel ... and answered to names like Bob, Richard, Larry and Mike.
The cast and crew in the Memorial Arena would have made for a great reality show.
You could see them any day, any time led by the Bearded Buddy Lowe who was the wizard behind the curtain. His secretary Val who was always cool under pressure and preached yoga. You might have seen the Mobes, chatted with Butch, had a coffee with Joe Bomber, chit with Eats and chat with Big Al.
Characters like John Hymes, Pete Ferral, Bobby Wilson and the late Marcel made sure everything was good.
Frenchy , the Roccos and the legendary Gus Crescenzi, who’s head of hair seemed to expand like a fuzzy chia pet every season. The Masterson boys were always in the house. They are the hardest-working family in hockey, and supplied thrills and chills for 40 years. They were caretakers for a lot of our kids. Hockey was her first love. And if you entered the building, you would cross paths with “The Ticket Man” Frank Billota who wore a pompadour hair do, and resembled famed comic Lou Costello. The eloquent Terry Hobson worked the front door for 50 years, and welcomed you royally.
You could stop and chat with 300-pound door man/ bouncer, the barrel-chested Mr. Rorrison who usually had no problem convincing truculant troublemakers from out of town to vamoose before he had to take matters into his own mammoth mitts. He was a very kind man.
The late great Doug Austin was The Review’s sports editor and moonlighted as the public address announcer for all events.
The combination of a shipshoddy speaker system, and Austin’s tangled tongue made for some interesting evenings. Eventually you decoded his utterances or at least pieced them together to understand who scored and who assisted.
Terry, Pam, Norma and Nancy ran the consession stands, and always pleased you with popcorn burgers and fries.
Ross Angiers, now 91, confirmed a rumour that the old girl was very attached to the Shreddies supplier via secret underground pipeline that saw the Nabisco boy heat up the shivering arena queen for 60 plus years.
Terry Masterson said it best: “I met my wife there and had my oldest boy Matt 23 years later present me the Sutherland Cup there.”
Thanks for the memories, my dear, you will never be forgotten.