The humid 80-degree temperature and light drizzle failed to dampen the spirits of the sold-out Pittsburgh Civic Arena crowd that Sunday evening. Nobody cared about the miserable weather. We were all there to see a legend.

Numerous clouds of billowy cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air amid the chattering of the excited throng. A solitary coffee mug adorned the small table alongside a 2 1/2-foot-high black leather stool in the center of the floor's large, square stage.

A microphone rested alone atop the stool, its cord dangling over the edge. I spoke few words to my date, choosing instead to rudely leaf through my program with restless anticipation.

Without warning, the domed building went black, leaving only several serenely burning stage lights. An immediate hush permeated the building. More than 20,000 eyes stared at the raised platform, unsure exactly where to focus.

Thirty seconds later, three large men in dark suits ambled toward the steps leading to the dimmed overhead lighting. Suddenly, out of the shadows, he appeared. Impeccably dressed in a black tuxedo with matching tie, a red silk handkerchief peeking from his breast pocket, the man confidently strode toward the dais.

Everyone stood, clapped and cheered respectfully for several minutes. "We love you," women screamed.

Now, poised center stage under brightened spotlights, the 51-year-old waved to his fans. "I love you, too," he replied, acknowledging their heartfelt affection. While the applause continued, he picked up the microphone and commenced singing: "She gets too hungry, for dinner at eight ..."

The standing ovation persisted shortly. Several moments later, he finished his first signature song, "The Lady is a Tramp," to roaring approval. The 90-minute concert was fantastic. The singer's voice and phrasing were flawless and incomparable.

Thinking back, 43 years later, it is difficult to describe the feeling I experienced when Frank (Ol' Blue Eyes) Sinatra initially walked into view to that thunderous outpouring of sentiment. Suffice it to say, the encounter was akin to a mystical sensation.

Strangely enough, on the three subsequent occasions I witnessed "The Voice" perform at the arena, each of his entrances resulted in an identical emotion.

BILL McKINLEY

Allison Park

For my 16th birthday I was given two tickets to see my idol Elvis Presley at the arena. My boyfriend, a serious Who fan, did not want to go. He thought Elvis was uncool, and he didn't want to be in an arena full of screaming women.

I assured him it wouldn't be that way, that I would at least contain myself -- that I loved Elvis but wouldn't scream if I saw him. Well, the night of the concert Elvis came out to a packed arena of screaming women totally out of control. Women were throwing their unmentionables toward the stage.

The last time I looked back at my boyfriend, in between my frenzied screams of "Elvis!" he was crouched down in his seat with his hands over his head, trying to protect himself from both the women and their underwear. It was a night neither one of us would ever forget. We still talk about it, and he's glad he went!

MARI L. MURPHY

Carnegie

In the spring and summer of 1966, I worked as a 16-year-old messenger boy for the Civic Light Opera. One day, in the early afternoon, I entered the arena through the service entry and out onto the main floor, which was set up to accommodate the stage and seating for a show starring Robert Goulet.

I saw Mr. Goulet standing on the stage, alone, rehearsing with the CLO band. I sat down in a rear row seat to watch and listen. As I remember, Mr. Goulet was in fine voice that afternoon.

The lighting crew also was rehearsing, and when those spots hit Mr. Goulet, I was amazed to see his clear blue eyes sparkling as he sang. Remember, I was in a rear seat, some distance away, so those blue eyes have stayed with me these many years.

And to put an extra cherry on this hot fudge sundae of a day, the roof of the arena opened to a warm but cloudy day as Robert sang to his audience of one: me.

THOMAS DOUGHERTY

Ambridge

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