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2 men shot during party in Fairlawn
Cancellation of Christmas not an option
Akron man killed in crash on his street
Several people hurt in Akron crash
Victim of beating in Kent last week is declared dead at Akron hospital
Akron Children's Hospital CEO, wife announce $1 million gift to support research
Police: Pennsylvania man killed misbehaving puppy before Steelers game
Akron Circle K store robbed for second time this month
KSU suspends basketball player
Police accuse bank robbery suspect of gobbling up note (with dashcam video)
Blogs:
Pets:
A Dog Named Christmas – Pet for the Holidays
The Heldenfiles:
Viewing Notes
Patrick McManamon:
Of pass interference and alleged "fake" injuries
Akron Zips:
No. 1 Akron to play Stanford next
Tribe Matters:
Seven players added to Tribe’s 40-man roster
Cleveland Browns:
Audio: Mangini disputes Poteat call, accuses Lions of faking injuries
Kent State Sports:
Flashes travel to Florida Atlantic
Cleveland Cavaliers:
Gameblog: Cavs vs. Philadelphia 76ers
Buckeye Blogging:
Buckeye Football – Present and Future
Varsity Letters:
Gulley to visit Central Michigan in December
All Da King's Men:
The Onion, By Any Other Name…
Blog of Mass Destruction:
Glaring Contradictions
Akron Law Café:
Don't Try to Have Fun if you are Depressed
See Jane Style:
Vintage Chic
Car Chase:
What Automotive Thing Are You Thankful For?
Let's Talk Real Estate:
Faye Dunaway to be Evicted?
Ohio Travels with Betty:
Monique asks how to get tickets for the Polar Express.
Sound Check:
Steely Dan Plays "The Royal Scam" at E.J. Thomas Hall
HRLite House:
Personal Rant – Why I am Glad I live in NEO
Akron Gamer:
Nintendo's Mario endures even as games come and go
Residents recall happy times when Akron stadium was new
By Kim Hone-McMahan
Beacon Journal staff writer
POSTED: 08:20 p.m. EDT, Oct 08, 2008
In 1939, when June Ewing was barely old enough to go to school, she and the gang from Hilbish Avenue would sneak to a nearby construction site, where noisy trucks and men with bulging muscles were working. The neighborhood friends were clueless about what the workers were building. Instead, getting as dirty as possible was the goal of the day.
Nearly halfway down the hill was construction headquarters. A man who worked in a trailer gave them pencils and paper to draw what they were witnessing. The man probably figured it was a good way to keep the curious youngsters busy and out of harm's way.
Their parents knew that the land was the site of the future Rubber Bowl. Bob Riddell's mom and pop even forbade him from playing there. But having a stadium in your backyard was far too irresistible.
When the construction workers were done each day, the youngsters, including Riddell, Ewing, her sister Ruth, and pal Bill Beal would slip back to play in the dirt.
''The ground was like sand and we would dig caves,'' said Riddell, who lives in the Portage Lakes area. ''If it would have caved in, we would have been killed.''
In the bottom of the stadium bowl was a hole that filled with water. Rather than running back home when they were thirsty, the kids drank from the murky pool.
A few weeks ago, the Akron Beacon Journal asked readers to send in their memories of the Rubber Bowl. Ewing's letter, one of our favorites, was among the 150 that we received. (Read more tales on Page A7.)
Even after the stadium was complete, it continued to be the playground for the children who lived nearby.
To keep their whereabouts secret from their parents, they used a code: ''Let's go look for things.'' That meant the gang was meeting at the Rubber Bowl to play football and roam the tunnels and stands, searching for treasures.
''We would sneak into the stadium after events to look for small change that had been dropped. This was during the Depression and it was a big deal for any one of us to find a nickel or dime,'' Ewing wrote in her letter.
Ruth, whose married name is Vera and who lives with her sister in the family's old homestead on Hilbish Avenue, was fascinated by lipstick, and plenty of it was lost at the stadium. Though she cringes at the thought now, she would clean off the ends of the sticks and smear some on her lips.
''We never broke anything or vandalized the property because we felt like it was ours,'' Ewing explained.
Recently Ewing, Vera, Riddell and Beal, who now lives in Lakemore, gathered inside the gates of the Rubber Bowl and reminisced about their childhoods.
They pointed at Gate 21. On an evening a long time ago, Beal used a stick to pry open the bars just wide enough to squeeze their little bodies through. But that wasn't the only place they could sneak in free.
In the woods, at the closed end of the bowl, was an area where the rain had eroded a trench beneath the fence. If they crouched down far enough, they could scoot right in. Sometimes police officers would catch them and send them home. But more often, the officers would turn their heads.
On occasion, Beal would get caught sneaking inside and an officer would instruct him to sit in the top row of the stadium. When the event was over, he had to help clean the grounds as punishment.
The foursome fondly remembered the fireworks at the Rubber Bowl. Because their homes were the closest to the stadium, the explosives that never ignited would sometimes fall to the ground in their backyards.
On one such occasion, Riddell scurried about picking them up. He wrapped them in newspaper and strung them on his mother's clothesline.
Of course, other than football games, there were lots of other events that took place inside the Rubber Bowl. The old friends remembered the smell of exhaust from the midget car races.
Beal loved the cars and used to get so close to the action on the dirt track that clay and rubber would cling to his forehead. Of course, he caught the dickens from his mother for coming home so filthy.
They chatted about the temporary, uneven ice-skating rink and the blare of the music from rock concerts.
Beal's home was close enough to the stadium that his family charged patrons to park in their yard. During one concert, he recalled, a ruckus broke out and police used tear gas to get the situation under control.
Beal remembered people running for their cars to seek relief from the fumes.
And then there was the time the rodeo came to town.
Some steers broke loose and ran through the community. One of the neighbors had just poured a new driveway. So enamored was the resident by the hoof prints that he decided to leave them as a daily reminder of the day the steers escaped from the Rubber Bowl.
Kim Hone-McMahan can be reached at 330-996-3742 or kmcmahan@thebeaconjournal.com.
In 1939, when June Ewing was barely old enough to go to school, she and the gang from Hilbish Avenue would sneak to a nearby construction site, where noisy trucks and men with bulging muscles were working. The neighborhood friends were clueless about what the workers were building. Instead, getting as dirty as possible was the goal of the day.
Nearly halfway down the hill was construction headquarters. A man who worked in a trailer gave them pencils and paper to draw what they were witnessing. The man probably figured it was a good way to keep the curious youngsters busy and out of harm's way.
Their parents knew that the land was the site of the future Rubber Bowl. Bob Riddell's mom and pop even forbade him from playing there. But having a stadium in your backyard was far too irresistible.
When the construction workers were done each day, the youngsters, including Riddell, Ewing, her sister Ruth, and pal Bill Beal would slip back to play in the dirt.
''The ground was like sand and we would dig caves,'' said Riddell, who lives in the Portage Lakes area. ''If it would have caved in, we would have been killed.''
In the bottom of the stadium bowl was a hole that filled with water. Rather than running back home when they were thirsty, the kids drank from the murky pool.
A few weeks ago, the Akron Beacon Journal asked readers to send in their memories of the Rubber Bowl. Ewing's letter, one of our favorites, was among the 150 that we received. (Read more tales on Page A7.)
Even after the stadium was complete, it continued to be the playground for the children who lived nearby.
To keep their whereabouts secret from their parents, they used a code: ''Let's go look for things.'' That meant the gang was meeting at the Rubber Bowl to play football and roam the tunnels and stands, searching for treasures.
''We would sneak into the stadium after events to look for small change that had been dropped. This was during the Depression and it was a big deal for any one of us to find a nickel or dime,'' Ewing wrote in her letter.
Ruth, whose married name is Vera and who lives with her sister in the family's old homestead on Hilbish Avenue, was fascinated by lipstick, and plenty of it was lost at the stadium. Though she cringes at the thought now, she would clean off the ends of the sticks and smear some on her lips.
''We never broke anything or vandalized the property because we felt like it was ours,'' Ewing explained.
Recently Ewing, Vera, Riddell and Beal, who now lives in Lakemore, gathered inside the gates of the Rubber Bowl and reminisced about their childhoods.
They pointed at Gate 21. On an evening a long time ago, Beal used a stick to pry open the bars just wide enough to squeeze their little bodies through. But that wasn't the only place they could sneak in free.
In the woods, at the closed end of the bowl, was an area where the rain had eroded a trench beneath the fence. If they crouched down far enough, they could scoot right in. Sometimes police officers would catch them and send them home. But more often, the officers would turn their heads.
On occasion, Beal would get caught sneaking inside and an officer would instruct him to sit in the top row of the stadium. When the event was over, he had to help clean the grounds as punishment.
The foursome fondly remembered the fireworks at the Rubber Bowl. Because their homes were the closest to the stadium, the explosives that never ignited would sometimes fall to the ground in their backyards.
On one such occasion, Riddell scurried about picking them up. He wrapped them in newspaper and strung them on his mother's clothesline.
Of course, other than football games, there were lots of other events that took place inside the Rubber Bowl. The old friends remembered the smell of exhaust from the midget car races.
Beal loved the cars and used to get so close to the action on the dirt track that clay and rubber would cling to his forehead. Of course, he caught the dickens from his mother for coming home so filthy.
They chatted about the temporary, uneven ice-skating rink and the blare of the music from rock concerts.
Beal's home was close enough to the stadium that his family charged patrons to park in their yard. During one concert, he recalled, a ruckus broke out and police used tear gas to get the situation under control.
Beal remembered people running for their cars to seek relief from the fumes.
And then there was the time the rodeo came to town.
Some steers broke loose and ran through the community. One of the neighbors had just poured a new driveway. So enamored was the resident by the hoof prints that he decided to leave them as a daily reminder of the day the steers escaped from the Rubber Bowl.
Kim Hone-McMahan can be reached at 330-996-3742 or kmcmahan@thebeaconjournal.com.
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