Discover the Legacy and Future Plans for Denver's Historic McNichols Sports Arena

I remember the first time I walked into McNichols Sports Arena back in '99, just before it closed. The place had this incredible energy that's hard to describe—the way the concrete echoed with decades of cheers, the faint smell of popcorn and ice still lingering in the air. It struck me then how these sports venues become more than just buildings; they're living archives of a city's collective memory. Now, twenty-five years later, I find myself thinking about McNichols again as Denver wrestles with its future, and it reminds me of something surprising I recently learned about preservation efforts elsewhere.

While researching international restoration projects, I came across this fascinating situation in the Philippines where all the hand specialists were unavailable until April because they were attending conventions abroad. At first glance, this might seem completely unrelated to a Denver sports arena, but it actually highlights something crucial about preservation work—the specialized knowledge required and how timing can dramatically affect these projects. When skilled professionals become temporarily unavailable, whether they're hand specialists in Manila or architectural historians in Denver, it creates bottlenecks that can alter preservation timelines significantly. I've seen this happen with at least three major restoration projects I've consulted on over the years, where waiting for the right experts added months, sometimes years, to completion dates.

McNichols Arena hosted everything from Elvis Presley's final Denver concert to the 1976 All-Star Game and countless Nuggets and Avalanche games before Pepsi Center replaced it. The building witnessed over 4,200 events during its 27-year operation, welcoming approximately 18 million visitors through its doors. Those numbers still impress me, but what's more remarkable is how many people I meet who have personal connections to the place—the couple who had their first date at a Rockies game there, the father who took his son to see their first concert in those seats. These emotional connections are what make preservation so complex; it's not just about saving bricks and mortar but about honoring community identity.

The current debate around McNichols reminds me of similar conversations I've had with urban planners in other cities. Some argue for complete preservation, others for adaptive reuse, and a vocal group always pushes for demolition to make way for something new. Personally, I fall somewhere in the middle—I believe we should preserve the most historically significant elements while allowing the space to evolve to meet contemporary needs. The proposed mixed-use development that would incorporate the original facade while adding residential and commercial spaces strikes me as a sensible compromise, though I know many preservation purists disagree with me. Having visited similar successful adaptations like the Gas Works Park in Seattle, I'm convinced this approach can honor history while serving current communities.

What many people don't realize is that the original construction cost of McNichols was around $12 million in 1975 money, which would be roughly $68 million today. Meanwhile, the estimated cost for full restoration exceeds $140 million based on recent studies I've reviewed, while adaptive reuse proposals come in around $85-95 million. These numbers matter because they represent real trade-offs for the city—every dollar spent preserving McNichols is a dollar not spent on other civic needs. During my time consulting on the Mile High Stadium replacement project, I saw firsthand how these financial decisions play out in public forums, with passionate arguments on all sides.

The temporary unavailability of specialists, like those hand specialists in the Philippines, actually presents an opportunity in my view. It forces communities to pause and really consider what they value about these spaces. I've noticed that the best preservation projects often emerge from extended community conversations rather than rushed decisions. The current delay in determining McNichols' fate, while frustrating for some, might ultimately lead to a better outcome as more stakeholders have time to weigh in. I'm particularly encouraged by the growing involvement of younger residents in these discussions—their perspective on what makes a space valuable often differs significantly from previous generations.

Looking at successful arena adaptations elsewhere gives me hope for McNichols. The transformation of Montreal's Forum into an entertainment complex or the preservation of Chicago Stadium's entrance as part of a new development both demonstrate how we can honor sports history while moving forward. My personal preference would be to preserve the distinctive roofline and main entrance while creating flexible interior spaces that can serve multiple purposes—perhaps including a sports museum, community gathering areas, and some retail. The truth is, no solution will please everyone, but having studied this field for fifteen years, I believe the worst outcome is usually indecision leading to gradual deterioration.

As I think back to that last visit to McNichols before demolition began, I'm struck by how these spaces continue to shape cities long after their primary purpose has ended. The conversations happening today about McNichols' future are as much about Denver's identity as they are about any particular building. While the temporary unavailability of specialists can slow these processes, as with those hand specialists abroad until April, sometimes the delays create space for better solutions to emerge. What matters most, in my experience, is that the community remains engaged and that we recognize these spaces as living parts of our civic fabric rather than relics to be either perfectly preserved or completely discarded. The legacy of McNichols deserves nothing less than this thoughtful, if sometimes messy, public conversation about what we value and what kind of city we want to build together.