Date: 2 December 2023 / League: Polish second tier
Final Score: 1-1 / Attendance: 2,360
Experience
Once every few years, along comes the kind of game that goes down in legend – and on Saturday, I was treated to just that. Played in the kind of conditions that make the North Pole seem like a viable summer holiday option, I don’t think I’ll ever forget this trip to Katowice.
I’ve described this ground at length before (for instance, HERE!), so I shan’t repeat myself other than to say it’s a retro diamond that’s all rust, concrete and green gaudy colours. Yet with the club scheduled to leave for a swanky new build at the end of the season, chances to visit are decreasing by the minute.
For that reason I’m cramming as many trips as possible to one of the last surviving old school treasures to be found in the upper echelons of Polish football. And this game, if I’m honest, didn’t need much selling – rumours were swirling that the home fans would be celebrating the 20th birthday of their Ultra group, whilst Arka were known to be bringing their own lively following.
Adding fuel to the potential inferno was Arka’s pact of friendship with the fans of nearby Polonia Bytom – a nutty little side with an ongoing feud with the hosts GKS. Actually, just a couple of weeks previous I had seen this first hand when a convoy of Bytom’s followers engaged in a bit of a run-around with GKS in the centre of Katowice.
This game, though, was anything but red hot. In fact, it was the exact bloody opposite: a diabolical affair played in weather straight from a Napoleonic campaign – leaving, I wouldn’t have been surprised to frozen corpses heaped into ditches.
However, this is Poland, a hardy country that’s survived three partitions, a Nazi occupation and then nearly half a century of Soviet hegemony – it’s a tough country, a tough old bird is this nation, so you can bet that inclement weather won’t change a thing.
This ‘on with the show’ attitude was in force from the off. Leaving Warsaw at some ungodly hour on Saturday morning, I was full aware that Southern Poland had been hit by heavy snow, but it was only an hour into the journey that it became apparent just how bad the whiteout was – unable to see the sky from the land, everything ahead was a vision of ever-stretching whiteness. Fucking hell, I thought to myself, even Bear Grills would struggle.
I’m surprised my mate down in Katowice didn’t block me – for the following two-hours I must have messaged him around 700 times: “any news on the game?”, “what’s the weather doing now”, “how does it look”, “what do you reckon now”, and other variations of the same fucking question. I’m annoying at the best of times, on Saturday I reached a new level.
On social media, the club were also doing their bit to sow confusion by blithely ignoring the blizzard occurring. Rather than answering the mounting pleas for information on Facebook, they chose to instead make a series of posts about catering and merchandise. If ever you wanted an example of a club ignoring reality, this was it.
Reaching Katowice, it was clear from the off that the game couldn’t proceed. Walking to my hotel, I couldn’t see barely see beyond the end of my nose. But yeah, it takes more than a spot of snow to stop the Poles, and as kick-off loomed closer it became increasingly clear that nothing was going to stop the team taking the field.
My pictures don’t do the day justice. If it looks cold and slippy, then you need to ratchet that up by the power of a jillion. Actually, for the first half the pitch was so undistinguishable that I found myself straying onto it while the game played on.
In the event, the Ultras birthday party never took place; and for their part, Arka showed up with about seven scarfers rather than the seething mob of animals I had expected. Neither of these things mattered: it was simply an astonishing day to be part of.
By the fifth minute I looked like a snowman. By the ninth, like the bloody Yeti. And what a time to realize that in all my haste to catch the train, I’d done a grand job of outfitting myself in all my Canada Goose winter warfare kit, only to finish my look with a pair of summer trainers with an effing hole in the sole. How I did not end up in a Red Cross tent I have no idea.
For disclosure, at half-time, with my teeth chattering louder than a Black & Decker, the thought did cross my mind to cab it back to town and see out the day in the warming embrace of my favourite pub – but insanity won through. I’ve got the rest of my days to get pissed in a bar, I figured, but never again will I see this classic ground in the grip of such weather.
And I’m so glad. As the weather continued to deteriorate, I found myself laughing like a maniac during a particularly intense breakdown. I loved it. I really fucking loved it. Already housed inside my vault of classic experiences, this was a game to remember – not so much one-in-a-million, but a complete one-off that I will always treasure.
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