Storm Chasing: Pogon Lebork vs Gryf Slupsk

Words: Alex Webber

Images: Alex Webber

In his essay The Moon Under Water, George Orwell mused in detail about his vision for the ideal pub.

Clearly, I’m no Orwell, but I do share one similarity. Like him, I too have a vision, only one that frames itself not around a fantasy pub (anywhere with lager is fine with me), but the perfect game of football.

In many respects, it’s this hunt for that elusive experience that drives me to explore Poland’s deepest corners – you see, whilst I’ve described myself before as ‘a storm chaser’, it takes more than just a high risk categorisation to flicker my passing interest.

Yes, I want a white-knuckled atmosphere, but this is but one of my demands. A rusting gorilla cage for away fans is, of course, mandatory. So too is a scenic setting. Sausages. Maybe a creaky, wooden stand. A pyro show. An escaped dog running on the pitch. Etcetera.

Tick those boxes, and you’ve definitely got my attention.

©Alex Webber. Pogon Lebork vs Gryf Slupsk.

For me, it’s the places that offer these that represent the heart of Polish football, and above all else, it’s locating such stadiums and fixtures that has become my overriding obsession.

Yes, the top flight of Polish football can be utterly exhilarating, but for me, at least, its appeal has ebbed away – as intoxicating as the big games often are, I find there’s an anonymity to them: to all intents and purposes, you’re just another number in the crowd.

The lower you go though, the smaller the crowd – if things go wrong, there’s nowhere to hide.

When things go right, you learn the meaning of Polish hospitality.

In these under-the-radar leagues, you become an active part of the story.

I speak from several years of practice. It’s in places called Andrychow, Debica, Radzionkow, Krosno, Olawa and so forth that I’ve enjoyed my most memorable times.

Now, I’m adding Lebork to that list.

True, to some degree I knew what lay ahead. Having done the reverse version of this derby a couple of times before, I fully expected that Pogon Lebork’s game against Gryf Slupsk would be a lively affair – and in this, I would not be disappointed. Even so, with the pre-match lead-up marked by scuffles and skirmishes, I felt certain that the police would just turn the away escort around in the direction of the station.

With that in mind, it was with some surprise that Gryf were allowed to finally filter in just before half-time.

By this stage, however, I was already in love with Lebork. Picturesquely nestled amid woodland and pointy-roofed holiday chalets, the ground exceeded all expectations with its storybook setting.

Better still, it fulfilled pretty much all of my core criteria, featuring as it did a decrepit away pen and a corrugated main stand set on a gentle, grassy slope.

Beautiful.

Played on a public holiday, the game attracted a bumper crowd of 600 or so, with the attendance seemingly split between families basking in the sunshine, and more boisterous elements itching for some action.

This, it turned out, was not in short supply. With both sets of supporters launching into pyro shows in the second half, what was already a powder keg atmosphere amped up more when Gryf nosed ahead.

Rather than leading to celebrations, it was the cue for their followers to rearrange their sector– on came the masks, down came the fences.

Across the pitch, Pogon’s own hardcore faction could be heard goading their counterparts and burning God-knows-what.

As a ‘fan scene’ photographer, the trick is to get as close to the flame as possible without getting burned, but still unable to run following a knee reconstruction, I found myself watching with mounting alarm as the atmosphere darkened further.

With smoke drifting across the field, a pitch invasion seemed certain, with me representing the closest moving target of interest. FFS.

Devising an escape plan, I found myself pondering the wisdom of vaulting a gate and jumping into a bush.

Fortunately somewhat, that proved unnecessary with the situation just about contained.

For all that, while this had been a game defined by its deliciously old school undercurrents, it would be disingenuous for me to solely dwell on that angle.

Factoring in pretty much everything I cherish in football, this had been a roller-coaster day that delivered on every level: a charming, charismatic ground; fantastic people; and a rip-roaring atmosphere to square it all out.

Had this been the football equivalent of finding The Moon Under Water?

I’m tempted to say yes.

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