When
Simon Inglis penned The Football Grounds of Europe, Croatia was still
part of Yugoslavia. As such, the former Socialist Republic constitutes the
book’s final chapter, and Inglis elects to use Split’s Stadion Poljud as a sort
of lament for football stadia as they once were: utilitarian, in service to the local community. He paints the Poljud as an example of
modernity, alludes to its costly upkeep, an atmosphere-inhibiting running
track, as well as nostalgia for Hajduk Split’s former home, a ground the locals
referred to affectionately as Plinada (Gasworks). I take his point, but
there were/are probably more pertinent examples with which to labour it –
just none to be found in countries beginning with the letter Y.
Stadion
Poljud was conceived of with the 1979 Mediterranean Games specifically in mind,
and I suppose this might be more indicative of the theme that Inglis was
warming to. As with Munich’s Olympiastadion, Seville’s Estadio La Cartuja or
London’s London Stadium, Stadion Poljud caters for athletics first and football
second. In modern parlance, one might say such grounds offer integrated
solutions designed to maximise functionality. In any case, the implication
is that the football supporters who inherit them are merely incidental. Or
worse, that sentimentality plays no part in sport, when in fact without it
sport is nothing.
While I’d go along with all of this, I’m not so sure it applies to Stadion Poljud. It may have once, but not now,
and not even in 1990 when Inglis’ hallowed tome was originally published. For
starters, with a capacity of just under 35,000, Poljud isn’t that big.
Moreover, the sight-lines are good and the running track doesn’t seem
particularly intrusive. It’s the done thing these days to bemoan the presence
of running tracks, yet nobody minded the old Wembley, with its
greyhound/speedway circuit and ridiculously shallow rake. Nor will you often
hear anybody berating the atmosphere at Rome’s Stadio Olimpico or Belgrade’s
Stadion Rajko Mitić. Might the problem be, then, not so much the athletics’
facilities themselves but the sort of structures built to accommodate them?
The
elliptical nature of a running track precludes the incorporation of rectilinear
terraces and advances the case for constructing something seamless. The
architect may endeavour to disturb the monotony – for example, the
breaks in the two upper tiers at Turin’s ill-fated Stadio delle Alpi, or the
single gap present in Berlin’s Olympiastadion – but these are mere gestures
that do nothing to detract from the uniformity of the thing. They remain, in
essence, rotationally symmetrical forms. Stadion Poljud, on the other hand, exhibits
a very obvious reflective symmetry (plenty of stadiums do: Porto’s Estádio do
Dragão; the Olympic Stadium of Athens, Marseille’s monstrous Stade Vélodrome). This
has the effect of dividing it into four distinct sections – or rather two pairs
– generating a more open sense of space.
Actually,
the Poljud is very much a unified structure. Circular from without, elliptical
from within, the stadium’s form is that of an undulating concrete bowel, its
outside edge rising gently on both sides culminating in two indistinguishable grandstands.
These stands, which contribute the bulk of the ground’s capacity, are
covered with crescent-shaped roofs arcing upward on a gracile latticework of
steel. They are impressive feats of engineering, even if the translucent Lexan
panelling – a polycarbonate developed specifically with the US space programme
in mind – that forms the actual canopy has become drably discoloured over time.
The
shallower areas behind each goal have been left exposed, offering views towards
the Dinaric Alps to the north and the Marjan Peninsula to the south (or a large
block of apartments, depending on your position). The northern sector provided for standing
room only up until the late 1990s, and it is where Hajduk Split’s hardcore
supporters – Torcida Split – like to vociferously congregate. At the
opposing end an electronic scoreboard, various utilities, and what could reasonably be described as landscape gardening.
And what
of the Poljud’s exterior, its setting, its milieu? To maintain a relatively low
profile, the lower half of the ground – including its offices, gyms and ancillary
facilities – is subterranean. Despite this, the stadium’s exposed, parabolic concrete
shell is an imposing sight when approached head on. The building’s periphery
has been sculpted to create a sort of verdant concourse, as well as access via
a series of tunnels. To its left, docks, harbours, jetties, and the Gulf of
Kaštela beyond. South-west, the aforementioned Marjan peninsula, peaking at 178
metres and strewn with Mediterranean pines. To the north, the twin peaks of Kozjak
and Mosor, with Klis Castle, and the pass it was built to protect, in between.
Split’s old town centre is about 15 minutes’ walk away in a south-easterly
direction. All in all, it is a very attractive setting.
Whether
the Stadion Poljud enhances its environment or brings it down might depend on
how the individual feels about raw, reinforced concrete and Lexan panelling.
The stadium does look tired in places, yet it is well maintained generally,
and the amenities are good. But in terms of atmosphere I get the sense that the
place isn’t short on it, especially at night when the whole thing glows and
the full weight of Hajduk’s support is thrown behind its football team.
