With the Golden Ox closing on Saturday, Patty and I have been wanting to go down there, for old times’ sake, to see the old haunt one last time.
So, last night was the night. We decided to meet at the bar at 6:30 and maybe have dinner there. Visions of a charbroiled steak cooked over curling flames danced in my head.
But already I jump ahead. In the back of my mind, I also looked forward to once again seeing Kemper Arena — a venue that had quietly and unnoticeably receded into my past.
When I was a young reporter — and a single young man — in the early 1970s, Kemper Arena had been a significant part of my life. As an up-and-coming political reporter, I wrote several stories about the negotiations and maneuvering to get Kemper Arena constructed. And once it was up, I began attending events there, including basketball and hockey games, American Royal events and, of course, concerts. The best concert I ever saw — Paul McCartney & Wings — took place there in May 1976.
I loved and hated Kemper Arena. I used to park in Lot A, which is on the west side of the arena, beneath the viaduct that peels off Cesar Chavez avenue and swings down, down, down into the lowest point of the arena grounds. Lot A is a relatively narrow hodgepodge, with pockets of parking here and there, broken up by the big concrete piers that support the curving viaduct above. As I recall, the lot was never properly paved. It was a mishmash of rocky patches, potholes and mud pools. And it was always wet down there.
But the arena, blue on the inside and with gently sloping banks of seats, offered good sight lines and was relatively comfortable. I attended many Kansas City Kings and Kansas City Scouts games there, and even though the teams were mostly bad, it was the NBA and the NHL — right there, right then — in Kansas City. For this native of Louisville, Kentucky, which had no major league franchises, it was big.
So, last night as I coursed down that viaduct and passed Lot A, I thought about the good times I had had at the arena. I did some quick calculations and figured that I had attended well over 100 events at the arena, maybe 200, maybe more than that.
And the structure itself. Oh, my! I had forgotten how impressive and distinctive it is, with those big, white, erector-set trusses that support the arena from above and at both ends. Circling the arena on the way to the Golden Ox, I kept peering at it from different angles. When I got to the Golden Ox parking lot, north of the arena, I got out of the car and stared at the arena for a while and thought, “No, this arena cannot be razed; it is too important a structure, with too much Kansas City history inside.”
**
The first thing I noticed at the gently curving bar of the Golden Ox was a man wearing a large, tan cowboy hat. It was like Groundhog Day for me; I cannot recall a time I have been there that I didn’t see at least one cowboy hat at the bar.
It wasn’t completely like Groundhog Day, however, because there were only about 20 people in the bar area, instead of scores of people. Also, there were no loud conversations or raucous laughter, no clouds of smoke, no guys eyeing and edging in on women seated at the bar.
A bartender — I think her name was Connie — was pouring very stiff drinks. Patty’s eyes widened as the lady held the bottle of Scotch up…and held it…as the last of the golden contents passed from the bottle into the glass that ended up in front of her.
We could see, through the bar area and off to our left, that people were seated at several tables in the dining room. It didn’t look particularly busy, and it appeared to me that we would be able to go over and get a table whenever we wanted.
Pretty soon, Patty suggested that I go arrange for a table. By this time it was a few minutes after 7. When I circled around to the reception station, I found it unmanned. One man — another prospective diner — was in front of me, and it appeared, from the bored and slightly agitated look on his face, that he might have been waiting for a few minutes already. I joined in the wait.
Two or three minutes went by. Nothing. Five minutes went by, nothing. Meanwhile, I was assessing the situation in the dining room, and it looked like people were actually eating at only one table. Always a bad sign. I looked over at the charbroiled grilling area, where, in the past, the flames danced and the steaks sizzled continuously. But now there were no steaks (that I could see), no flames, no sizzle. A lone employee — a cook, I presume, although he bore no identifying characteristics — ambled back and forth in the cooking area, but to no apparent end.
My enthusiasm for that steak that I had envisioned earlier was starting to wane. I was now anticipating poor service, a lengthy wait and, very likely, a disappointing steak.
I walked back to the bar area, told Patty that a host was nowhere to be found and gave her a one-word assessment of the dining room environment: moribund. A veteran of many restaurant “boltings,” I suggested that we consider eating someplace else. She suggested that we wait a few minutes and make another run at getting a table.
After about five minutes, I went back over to the reception area and there he was — the previously m.i.a. host, wearing black pants and a black shirt with the Golden Ox logo.
“Table for two?” I said, hopefully.
He looked at me and said, “Oh, I just seated my last table for the night. Sorry.”
By “seating” his last table, it was clear that what he meant was not that the place was full — hardly — just that he wasn’t going to seat anyone else for dinner.
I looked at my phone. It was 7:16.
“OK,” I said and retreated to the bar.
I repeated the host’s quote to Patty, who, after a few seconds’ thought, said, “OK, then, let’s go eat at Voltaire.”
Minutes later, we put on our coats, walked across the street and entered Voltaire, where the hostess met us with a smile and a gesture to an open table. Along the left-bank row of table, people were chatting and laughing. At the near end of the bar, the bartender was providing background music by playing records — vinyl LP’s, plucked from a multi-level cabinet — on an open-top turntable.
“It smells a lot better in here,” Patty said.
Just like that, we had left the past and hurtled into the present.
JimmyCsays: At the juncture of journalism and daily life in KC 
As a kid, my grandfather often took us there when he was selling cattle. He raised Angus and his brother raised Herefords. Uncle Porter’s champion bull’s hide once covered a frame and was atop the Hereford Building for years. Guess it finally rotted beyond repair. Memory is sketchy but I believe this bull was the largest of the breed at the time.
A friend worked there as a waitress. She said it was necessary to pretend to be surprised when a roach was spotted. There was a room no one wanted to enter because of the infestation.
My one trip to Kemper was to see the Flyers play the Scouts. In town for Christmas with my ex to announce our expecting twins, the Scouts thumped the Flyers. This was the year after the second Cup. At least Freddy Fender was good after the game.
My youngest twins attended the American Royal as FFA members the last time they met here from Oley HS in PA.
I wish I could recall the Scouts beating the Flyers. Must have been the highlight of the Scouts’ two years in Kansas City. They were absolutely horrid in their second year — ’75-’76, when they won only one of their last 44 games. That’s not a misprint: they prevailed in one of their last two score and four hockey games.
Thanks: Nora and I were considering strolling down that exact memory lane tomorrow. After reading your sad obit I believe we will instead head south to Jess and Jim’s.
Good call, Will. The reality could easily crush the nostalgia…And we all want our nostalgia to be pure.
Mike and I went to the Golden Ox to celebrate our engagement…2/15/1986. It was a very special night. I’ve never been back, and hold the memory in a “time capsule” in my mind!
Perfect…
How sad — they have clearly begun the death knell, when they could have gone out with a big, boisterous, juicy, flame-kissed BANG.
I remember an American Royal rodeo where the opening act for the main musical attraction (whom I don’t remember) was a relatively unknown duo named Brooks & Dunn.
Nice turn of phrase there, Gayle…and interesting tidbit on a great C&W group.
Jim:
What a sad commentary on the Golden Ox but loved your memories of Kemper Arena. And you make me want to try Voltaire.
Happy holidays to you, Patty, Brooks and Charlie,
Laura
I wish there was a way to resurrect Kemper, convert it into a pleasant, comfortable space. Basketball would be the best option, but not an NBA team. If another league would materialize — something like the old American Basketball Association (ABA) before it merged with the NBA — it could be a good fit.
Or maybe a WNBA team (women pros). In any event, it would be a big gamble and it would take someone with a lot of disposable income. Also, the city would have to pour millions into it, and I don’t know if there would be any willingness among the City Council to do that.
The now-dead Foutch Bros. plan to convert it into a youth sports facility didn’t strike me as very promising, mainly because all that action is concentrated in southwestern Johnson County. It might have been good for a year or two but probably would have faded, just like the Scouts.
Also, revitalization of the arena would require concurrent redevelopment of the restaurants and bars in the immediate area. Voltaire provides a good foundation, now holding down dining centerpiece status. Getting a good tenant for the Golden Ox space — and doing a complete renovation inside and out — would be Step 1 in the ancillary redevelopment. The old Genessee Inn (now called Grandma’s Bar or something like that) would need renovation and new ownership. And, finally, a few new places — lively and with good food — would have to be added. As we’ve seen with Power & Light and the Crossroads, concentration is everything. And I think the KC market is certainly big enough for a West Bottoms/Kemper Arena entertainment pocket district.
When I met my future wife, we used to eat there quite often in the 90s. The food was good and usually the service was OK and I loved the atmosphere. Then, in 2001 I took some co-workers there for a reward for hard work and got lousy food and a manager who was hostile to my complaints. Never went back and quickly lost my nostalgia for the place. It had a couple more owners after that, but I did not care anymore. Good riddance. The place long ago lost whatever it had.
I’m extremely glad we didn’t eat there last night, Gary. I think my incipient sense of disappointment would have quickly gone full blown. Instead of saying, “Sorry, podner, no more seating,” the ingracious host might as well have said, “Tough shit; we don’t care.”
Jim, I think my best memories of Kemper Arena revolve around the indoor soccer team that called the place home back in the ’80s, the Comets. The atmosphere was simply electric at the time. I can still hear the music playing in my head.
I think I might have gone to one Comets game, but I was never interested in indoor soccer. I was, however, interested in the fabulous Leiweke brothers — Tracey, Terry, Tim and Tod — each of whom has at one time or another made a relatively big splash in pro sports. I never met Terry and don’t think he ever lived here. But I knew the other three, and, oddly enough, Tracey, who seemed to have the biggest, most gregarious personality, disappeared from the arc lights early on and settled on a ranch or farm, I think, in the Pacific Northwest. The three of them — Tracey, Tim and Tod — did a sensational job selling Kansas City on indoor soccer and the Comets. They injected a lot of excitement into KC for a few years.
Fact check: The Wings concert was at the end of May, Fitz. I was there. The google sez so, and so do the concert promoters, who I met last weekend for the first time. But it probably was a hot night.
Failure to verify, Mike. Thanks.
…That was a hell of a tour. You probably saw this, but Wikipedia says more than 600,000 people attended Wings’ 31 shows in the United States and Canada, held between May 3 and June 26. Also, “In order to reduce the stress of moving their young family around the country during the course of the tour, the McCartneys rented houses in New York City, Dallas, Chicago and Los Angeles. Each night, they would fly in a specially chartered BAC One-Eleven to the closest of the four properties.”
You were probably channeling Neil Diamond when you wrote that, Jim.