Magyarország-Írország, at Puskás Ferenc Stadion

The view from Section 'E Jobb'

I was hoping that on what will probably be my only trip to Puskás Ferenc Stadion I'd be able to make some notes about the scene ― the crowd, the pregame atmosphere, the stadium itself, which was the scene of some of the greatest moments in Hungarian football. But alas, the weather ensured that most of what I remember are scurrying through puddles and wondering what would happen if lightning hit one of the enormous light towers. But it even wasn't enough to make me not notice what turned out, for a warm-up friendly, to be a pretty exciting game.

Monday was warm, a bit hazy, and the air was heavy and damp. It was the kind of day that you knew would end in rain, but so many around here this year have been like that and nothing happened. So even as I checked out the Hungarian meteorological service's website, and watched on the radar feed the line of rain and lightning punching up along Balaton toward the capital, I remained hopeful.

Bus 75 goes from near my apartment over through Angyalföld, past Varosliget and ends all the way at the stadium. I waited to meet the friends I was going with outside the Stadium metro station. This was not only my first international football match, it was easily the highest level match I've ever seen. Heck, the first professional match I'd ever attended was only about a month ago. I was surprised at how diverse the crowd was ― always surprised to see girls at sports events. There were a good number of Ireland fans around, and everyone seemed in a good mood.

As we made our way around the Papp Sportsarena toward our entrance, which was clear across the other side from the station, the rain began. And it was a real summertime downpour. The kind of rain when you're soaked and can't see and have to wait under a tree for a few minutes. It was under that wall of water that we found our gate, had our bags searched, presented our soaked and crumbling tickets. This is the part in which I which I could have been paying attention, because we had to run across the field to the stadium to get under the eaves as fast as possible.

It is hard to imagine a more plain stadium design. It is a giant oval, laid north to south. The east end has a covered stand and boxes, and is where the benches and field entrances are. The west end is all business, row upon row, in two levels, of seats on a very slight slope. For our game ― and I imagine for most games for the past few decades ― only the lower level was open. The grace of the place's design is its simplicity — this is a space for packing in a mass of people to watch something at one time. It's charm, as it were, comes from its history, but that only goes so far.

Taking cover while waiting for the lightning to pass

Our seats were on the north-west end, above the corner flag. We could see the entire field pretty well, but the main complaint was the sheer distance. With a track oval in the field as well, it felt like we were miles away. We weren't able to go down to our seats right away because of the flood, and almost everyone was crammed beneath the upper section, watching an astonishing amount of water come pouring from the upper level gutter into a storm drain. The game itself was delayed because there was still lightning in the area.

For the poetry of it, I'd defer to Keith Duggan's match report in Tuesday's Irish Times:

Noon-day sunshine had given way to storm clouds by late afternoon and as the visiting fans began to appear on the metro lines, the sky over Budapest began to look almost Celtic: Moody and darkening.

As the teams warmed, the Hungarians chanted the odes which have been echoing around the stadium since Puskas was the dashing young matinee idol of the city and the Magyars were the jewel of continental football. The Irish responded with more familiar refrains.

Then, just as the players were leaving the field after their preliminary warm-up, the sky growled and lightning flashed, eclipsing the floodlights, and a spectacular rainstorm swept through through the stadium, tap-dancing across the running track, ruining summer shirts and dresses and leaving the players huddled in their dressing rooms.

When it got underway, the rain went away and it was a good time. The fans were loud and engaged, and the game itself was pretty good. Even though it ended in a 0-0 draw, it was a pretty exciting, back-and-forth match, especially in the first half. The wave of substitutions in the second half gave the match a little bit of a disjointed feeling, but it certainly kept your interest.

I'd have liked to spend a little more time at the scene, but it was late when it wrapped up and we didn't want to get stuck in the crowd. You really feel how ancient and crumbling the place is when you leave at night after the event. You go from from the bright lights through the tunnel, and down the steps. You are aware of the hulking upper section over your head, but there are practically no lights. You see only shadows and concrete as you file down the steps, which end when you splash into a four-inch deep mud puddle at the bottom, and slosh your way through the swamped grass to the street.

The old Népstadion certainly has its history. But when a new stadium appears ― no doubt around when that other mythic public works project does ― I don't think it will be much missed.

The dark, eerie west stand at night