League Stadium

Iron columns in long riveted rows carry the timber stands, and beneath them runs a brick concourse that smells of cold mortar and cut turf. Turnstiles wait at every gate, painted dark green so many times that their edges have gone soft and round. From the top tier the bowl falls away to a level battle ground of packed earth inside a mown turf surround. Its chalk lines are faint but fresh, and empty benches climb above it in tier after tier of weathered planking. High on the west side a glazed press box hangs beneath the roof girders, its windows holding a late amber light. Behind it an office corridor of closed oak doors runs over worn green tiles. Mothballed kit from a ninth club that folded decades ago fills a shut storeroom somewhere under the stands.