It seems like whenever I get to a party, it's just ending.
It was my first visit, my last visit to the fame-filled fortress I had seen so many times on television hosting its championship-caliber Hurricane teams. Upon entry, I knew exactly where I was; the sign was unmistakable: "The city of Miami welcomes you to the Orange Bowl."
The last game at the Orange Bowl had the likings of a red-carpet event. Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson introduced the Miami squad as players ran on the field to a celebration of fireworks and camera flashes from all across the grandstand.
But with all the glamour, one could easily forget that this was the Orange Bowl -- the wrinkled, decrepit shell of a once-thriving football facility. It was like putting makeup on a skeleton. It wasn't the fortress I had seen on television and Miami was no team to be reckoned with.
Chain-link fence wrapped around the top of the sun-faded bleachers. The small light fixtures dimly lit the field. It dripped, it creaked, and it was down-right creepy. I thought the bathroom was nice, till I saw the gigantic brown cockroach eyeing me at the door.
It was ugly. But the game was uglier. It was only fitting that a 48-0 thrashing be played in a stadium of comparable disgust. Finally, the Orange Bowl was violently put to rest.
"It was such a historic night, the last game at the Orange Bowl for all of the players and the fans," Miami quarterback Kyle Wright said. "For us not to play well and get it done, it's the worst loss I probably ever had to deal with."
The fans slowly leaked out of the stadium starting at halftime. Despite a capacity of 72,000, the Orange Bowl's final game sold 62,106 seats, its highest attendance since the first game of the 2006 season. Apparently even the locals had trouble finding much love for this place.
At halftime, the greats of the Orange Bowl returned to bid it homage. Andre Johnson, Otis Anderson and others stood with The Rock at midfield as the marching band played "We Are the Champions." Down 31-0, the song lacked a little pep, and the color guard waved its flags with lackluster support. I think I heard a few boos at this point.
Things went from bad to worse for Miami in the second half. Virginia tagged on 17 more points, and the 'Canes were dealt their worst home loss since 1944.
"We got beat in every aspect of the game tonight," Wright said. "I can't explain the frustration. That's not the way we want to go out tonight on senior night, the last game at the Orange Bowl."
As the game ended, I stood on the Virginia sideline, the crowd depleting and the noise down to a gentle murmur. The music that played over the loud speaker was "Enter Sandman" by Metallica. Metaphors of the stadium being put to sleep and the light finally going out on Miami ran rampant through my head. There were so many jokes I could tell. It was too easy.
The triumphant postgame show went off without a hitch, the same as if the 'Canes had come out and lived up to the reputation of what they once were. Fireworks, a laser show and highlights of the stadium's best-ever plays. A small "let's go Canes" cheer developed in the stands, then quickly fizzled. The remaining fans, some standing, some sitting, dolefully looked upon their once-acclaimed stadium, their once feared team. I imagine they gazed to the future.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Better luck in Dolphin Stadium.
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