Where angels fear to tread: Stomil Olszytn vs Olimpia Elblag.

Words: Alex Webber

Images: Alex Webber

As much as I enjoy the spectacle associated with the big games in Poland’s top flight, even I must confess they’ve become somewhat sanitised affairs – certainly not the vanilla milkshake experience of the Rupert Murdoch trophies in England, but nonetheless a far cry from what they once were.

For me, it’s all about the lower leagues, the matches played in rusting dungeons drowned in darkness – to invoke E.M. Forster, places in which even angels fear to tread.

As per tradition, these lesser divisions resumed their footballing obligations later than the top couple of tiers, a necessity given their sub-par facilities and the vengeful force of the Polish winter.

Unfortunately, no-one had informed the winter that it was meant to have closed for business by the time Stomil Olszytn v Olimpia Elblag came to be.

©Alex Webber/ Terrace Edition. Stomil Olszytn.

Played in the kind of conditions more commonly comparable to the crest of Mount Fuji, just entering the ground had been fraught with drama. “Kurwa,” cursed the locals as they thwunked to the ground on strips of sheet ice.

For just about the only time in my life, I found myself bearing an uncanny resemblance to Leo DiCaprio – albeit, admittedly, in his guise as The Revenant. Perversely, however, it’s these games I live for – the ones that test you to the max.

And it wasn’t just the weather that was to pose a challenge. Though separated by over 100- kilometres, this fixture is considered a derby given the paucity of teams found between these two rivals.

This match came stamped with the guarantee of crowd trouble.

Played in a ruinous bygone relic of Poland’s Communist period, this was an old school background for an old school night.

In front of nearly 4,500, the game kicked-off to thunderous backing. Soon, though, this gave way to something more sinister.

Compelled to improve the stadium’s decrepit aesthetics, the visiting fans chose half-time to break through into no-man’s land to chase security and raze the catering hut to the ground.

Come the second-half, the ante was upped again, this time when stewards made an ill-advised attempt to remove a banner from Olimpia’s end.

Responding with a furious flurry of violence, masked away fans set about the fences, pounding and shaking them with the anger of apes.

Amid clouds of gas, missiles and flares whistled overhead, the battle had begun.

For their part, the home side, too, seized the chance to live for the moment – as debris rained down on the police lines in front, they enacted a triumphant torching of captured Olimpia colours. From the away pen, meanwhile, a pall of black smoke swirled over the seats that were burning.

As a photographer, in this frenzied hate you work on automatic, as if miraculously guided by unseen forces. A sixth sense? Fortune? Perhaps a mix of both. In any case, it’s a trance-like state that’s impossible to define.

Yet, driven as we might be by such vicarious thrills, I like to think that us storm-chasing photographers that work Poland’s football scene are motivated by something more – that being a need to document a sub-culture that few understand.

For certain, this was a match that allowed just that.

Alex’s website can be found at www.alexwebber.life

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