Spectators watch as OB is demolished
Row by row, block by block, the venerable Orange Bowl crumbles to pieces, battered and beaten by a wrecking ball and eight excavators.
And by early this summer, the entire 70-year-old sports cathedral will be reduced to rubble, clearing the land for a Marlins ballpark and leaving only ghosts and memories in its wake.
For anyone who attended an event on these hallowed grounds, it is jarring to witness the OB in this sad state -- a mangled mess of steel beams, concrete and demolition debris.
Look closely and you could spot a sink, pushcart, book shelves and a cabinet nestled in the rubble hanging outside the press box, high above the ground.
''I came here to say my private farewell to this grand old stadium . . . and I almost cried when I saw what was happening,'' Kendall resident Rafael Flores said Wednesday as he stood outside a perimeter fence. ``I have to say it made a bigger impression on me than I expected.''
Every day, more than a dozen people come and stand behind a fence to watch the OB crumble. Some bring lawn chairs and sit for hours. Many take cameras. Some offer workers $20 or $30 for a piece of the rubble, but the demolition crew isn't permitted to accept.
''It's sad,'' Kendall resident Ralph Valdes said as he watched and listened to the crushing sound of a wrecking ball pounding the suites and press box. ``This is really bothering me. It's like a part of Miami is gone. If I had the money to buy it and preserve it, I would.''
Since beginning the demolition six weeks ago, a crew of men (55 initially, 30 now) leveled nearly all the upper deck on the north side and part of the upper and lower deck on the south side. Gone are the light towers, most of the seats, the locker rooms, part of the press box and suites, and, of course, the OB turf -- which has been replanted at Miami's Gibson Park.
The demolition has proceeded rather unremarkably, except for an overnight fire April 2 in one of the stadium's north-side corners. The cause of the fire remains undetermined, according to Ed Hartman, the project's environmental health and safety manager.
Dumpsters sit in what would have been the open end zone. Concrete, steel, dirt and debris cover the field where Dan Marino once threw touchdown passes to Mark Duper.
For many of the men who toil here every day under the boiling sun, there is little room for sentiment.
''It's just another job,'' said Aaron Latiolais, a demolition crew worker from Franklin, La. ``There is no feeling.''
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