It was a perfect Sunday to stay in. It was freezing cold and the wind was only making it worse. Much worse. It seemed like everyone was at home; the streets were empty. Almost. There was one crazy man driving from one end of the capital to the other just to get to a game at the lowest possible level of the football pyramid.

Glyfada is located on the south-eastern edge of Athens and, unlike London’s geographic equivalent for example, is quite posh. It’s a large area with plenty of sports facilities, from a big golf course to numerous tennis courts and a large indoor arena hosting first division basketball. Strangely enough though, a proper football stadium is absent. That was the first thing that struck me when I arrived at my destination on that cold morning.

I had never been there before, so I thought it was high time I ticked it off my list. I expected to find something more than just a pitch inside a municipal sports complex, with a tiny stand behind one of the goals, but I was wrong. It was probably the worst football ground in the city I had been to, arguably overshadowed by the golf course right next to it. Who even builds a stand behind the goal instead of along the side of the pitch? I wasn’t even mad, just surprised that one of the biggest and wealthiest areas of the city, with two (or more?) football clubs, doesn’t have a proper stadium.

I was also surprised that there weren’t fewer people there. Even fans of the visiting side had made the trip all the way from Petroupoli just to watch their team lose three-nil. The view from behind the goal was pretty bad but the game itself was surprisingly good. Both sides started well, creating plenty of chances. Petroupoli hit the post twice early on and Glyfada once, making me think I was about to witness a rather balanced match, but soon enough it all went downhill for the visitors. Maybe the final score wasn’t entirely fair, but the home side was simply more clinical in attack.

The final whistle was accompanied by a completely unnecessary small-scale brawl on the pitch that eventually spilled over into the stands and then towards the dressing rooms, with some angry players’ parents apparently feeling the need to settle the score.

I was keen to soak up the drama but the ruthless wind was telling me that it wasn’t worth wasting any more time before seeking refuge in the warmth of my car. After all, I still had another game to catch…