Nick Coppack

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Ferenc Puskas Stadium, Budapest.

I love empty football grounds. Although the funny thing is, I always imagine them full. The air electric with anticipation, the roar of the crowd, the smell of the food, the chill of the air. Most of all, I imagine what sights that stadium must have seen. The great players, the shining trophies, the battles fought both on and off the pitch, the nights when nobody wanted to leave because, really, how can real life even come close to matching a last-minute derby winner? Who wants to go home to that after you've had this? And then there are the moments in between - like now - when it stands empty, just some concrete and some grass. It could be anywhere. It could be any old thing. But it's not. It lives and breathes like any great monument - a museum of memories, a stage waiting for its next star.

I snuck into the Ferenc Puskas Stadium in Budapest on a warm Friday morning, through a small gap in the fence. I sat in the stands, I wandered down to the pitch, I took photos, I rummaged around a room full of spare seats and light bulbs. I couldn't have been happier.


Manchester, United Kingdom

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