Sound of Silence Tells of Stadium

A walk around the rim of one of the world’s most famous stadiums:

The Rose Bowl is empty, quiet and wet.

Skies are gray. In the top row, a crisp breeze blows, sifting the memories of bygone football afternoons.

On the field, a ground crew probes the soggy turf and prepares to lay down the NFL logo at midfield.

On the 30-yard line seats, press box side, about 200 doves perch quietly. A lone sea gull soars overhead.

In Row 66, Section 18, weeds grow up through the seats. Green, too, is much of the concrete, sporting moss patches from recent rains.

An old eucalyptus tree, planted decades ago, has not only grown higher than the stadium, its trunk has grown over the stadium’s rim and creeps downward, toward the top row.

The Rose Bowl seems huge enough when it’s full of people. But when you are its only visitor, on a cool, quiet day, there is a vastness to the place.

It seems more saucer-shaped, and its very emptiness seems to cry out for people to fill it.

There are only two sounds. The distant hum of traffic blows in, from the nearby 210 freeway. And somewhere, the cool wind slaps a flagpole rope.