One day it's an overlooked popcorn warmer, the next a pretzel machine. In a ceiling storage space over the generator room, two volunteers found a set of giant black trumpet-shaped scoreboard speakers from the '50s and '60s. They'll be up for auction in October. Instead, it seems, he's collecting the building's last secrets. Ziemann tugs at a padlocked electrical box, opening the door a crack.
Green lights glimmer inside.
This, he says, is the master control for the light towers, which are still live and ready to shine. Down in the lobby, behind the facade, a different light is shining. It's a small 60-watt bulb, mounted in the top of a little, empty niche in the wall. There, behind and below the giant inscription on the stadium's face, stood a small urn filled with a bit of dirt from every American war cemetery in the world. For the time being, Memorial Stadium is still here, Ziemann says, but the memorial is already gone.