“Luci a San Siro” is a classic of Italian pop music from 1971. Sung by singer-songwriter Roberto Vecchioni, it tells the story of a love gone awry, which broadens into an ode to youth, to Milan, and to the San Siro neighbourhood – home to the legendary stadium of AC Milan and Inter Milan. In recent years, the song has been cited increasingly often, becoming the resigned lament and melancholic soundtrack to the mounting rumours surrounding the demolition of one of Italy’s (and world’s) most beloved football grounds. After months of uncertainty, and following the Milan City Council’s recent approval of the sale of the ground to private ownership after ninety years (that is, to FC Internazionale Milano and AC Milan), the two clubs have now signed the deed of sale, a prelude to the much-discussed demolition. From the 253-page dossier submitted by the two clubs, the current plan appears to suggest an almost complete demolition of the stadium, with the remaining portion to be converted into a museum. Milan thus seems, footballistically speaking, to be edging closer to another spectacular own goal – not unlike the quiet summer demolition of Ignazio Gardella’s 1958 Agriculture Pavilion, which was torn down amid the city’s deserted streets at the end of July.
The most famous stadiums that no longer exist
The stadiums that have shaped the history of football — both in sporting and architectural terms — are now abandoned or demolished. The recent controversy surrounding Milan’s San Siro has reignited a debate on Italian stadiums that extends to those across the globe.
Several of his creations, however, have been lost, including West Ham Stadium in London, demolished in 1972. With its unusual elliptical plan and running track – rare in British football – it also hosted greyhound races and speedway events. Among Leitch’s most distinctive works was the Arsenal Stadium, better known as Highbury. Built in 1913, it underwent several renovations, including the 1930s intervention that gave the East and West Stands their unmistakable Art Deco façade. When Arsenal moved to the new Emirates Stadium in 2006, Highbury was converted into Highbury Square, a residential complex with the former pitch turned into a central garden.
Protected as a listed building, the two main stands were preserved, while the beloved North Bank and Clock End are now entirely gone.
Photo CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons
Photo by Who’s Denilo ? on Unsplash
Sport was another vital field of experimentation for Nervi. Among his many works are the Stadio Artemio Franchi in Florence and, with his son Antonio, the Stadio Flaminio in Rome. Inaugurated in 1959, the Flaminio could seat around 50,000 spectators and also contained four gyms, a swimming pool, bars, changing rooms, a first-aid centre, and state-of-the-art facilities. The stadium was at the heart of the cluster of buildings designed for the 1960 Rome Olympics, embodying the elegance and dynamism of the Italian modernist spirit – most strikingly in the sinuously-shaped concrete cover of its main stand. On top of hosting matches for both AS Roma and SS Lazio, it was the home of the Italian rugby national team until 2011, after which it fell into neglect and decay. In 2017, the stadium was officially listed for protection: a small but hopeful step towards the restoration it urgently needs before it becomes beyond repair.
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Photo from the book Nella fossa dei leoni (In the lions' den). The Appiani stadium in Padua in the memories and recollections of many former Biancoscudati players, p. 243, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
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- Lorenzo Ottone
- 04 November 2025
Losing our football grounds would mean losing a part of Italy’s identity. By conforming to international trends we would also be relinquishing that provincial spontaneity.
In San Siro’s case, the real risk was failing to heed the warning signs. Football-wise, we may be staring down another own goal for Milan – not unlike the quiet summer demolition of Ignazio Gardella’s 1958 Agriculture Pavilion, which was torn down amid the city’s deserted streets at the end of July. San Siro’s predicament mirrors that of other historic grounds: Manchester’s Old Trafford, Chelsea’s Stamford Bridge, Newcastle’s St James’ Park, Valencia’s Mestalla, whose clubs are all weighing up new architectural projects. While Europe’s footballing old guard struggles under the social and structural weight of its ageing stadiums, the brave new world takes a radically different view. Take Qatar’s Stadium 974, built for the 2024 FIFA World Cup from shipping containers and designed to be dismantled.
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Photo Roberto Conte
Credits L. Macchiavelli for Ragazzi and Partners
Credits Ragazzi and Partners
Credits L. Macchiavelli for Ragazzi and Partners
Credits Ragazzi and Partners
Credits Ragazzi and Partners
Credits Ragazzi and Partners
Credits Ragazzi and Partners
Credits Studio Buzzi
Credits Ragazzi and Partners
Credits Ragazzi and Partners
Credits Ragazzi and Partners
Credits Ragazzi and Partners
The San Siro case opens a crucial debate: that of safeguarding historic sporting architecture. It’s no secret that many Italian stadiums are swiftly approaching the end of their life cycle. Often built between the 1920s and 1930s as part of Fascist propaganda efforts, they were, at best, renovated (not always tastefully) for the Italia ’90 World Cup – the last flourish of Italy’s Craxian grandeur. As a matter of fact, in recent months there had been discussions about removing the third tier of San Siro – originally designed for the World Cup by Giancarlo Ragazzi (former Prime Minister and AC Milan chairman Silvio Berlusconi’s trusted architect, and the mind behind the Milano 2 and Milano 3 settlements) – and replacing it with a commercial and dining gallery. Similarly, at Florence’s Artemio Franchi, the ongoing restoration aims to remove the Italia ’90 additions in order to preserve the listed Pier Luigi Nervi original 1931 structure.
Football is changing, and so are its economics. Clubs now demand venues that are flexible and profitable, not just on matchdays but through non-sporting uses as well – to be transformed into event spaces, shopping hubs, hotels, or club museums, as with Juventus’ Allianz Stadium, the only Serie A ground owned outright by its club. It would be naïve to expect today’s football corporations to act out of love for their city or its history when there’s no financial incentive to do so. Loyalty, in football, remains the province of the fans. And it would be equally naïve to hope for a romantic gesture from Milan and Inter, two clubs whose connection to their city is now mostly limited to their headquarters.
The challenge is immense. To decommission a stadium does not simply mean preserving its documents, memorabilia, seats, scoreboards and gates. It means acknowledging the emotional and local significance the structure embodies: something that extends well beyond its walls. In cities where buildable land is scarce, the trend of moving stadiums to the extreme edge of the metropolitan (or even beyond it) risks eroding the very heart of the sporting community. A new stadium takes years before it feels like home to its supporters.
Decommissioning a stadium is not just preserving documents, memorabilia, seats, scoreboards, and gates; it also means recognizing the emotional and local significance that extends beyond its walls.
Elsewhere in Europe, adaptive reuse and architectural recycling are central themes of debate. In Italy, however, the role a stadium can – and should – play within the urban fabric remains an open question. The San Siro controversy leaves these questions unresolved, not least because opposition to its demolition has been remarkably subdued. It was, in fact, The Guardian that reignited the debate from abroad, arguing for the protection of a building that is “an instantly recognisable setting, in an era when too many other venues tend towards the familiar.”
Where reuse is hard to achieve – as it often is in Italy, where the idea of architectural afterlife is still marginal – it becomes all the more important to encourage critical, culturally rooted projects rather than those driven purely by marketing and the homogenising logic of global sports branding. A case study from the Italia ‘90 era that remains relevant is that of Vittorio Gregotti for Genoa’s Marassi stadium.
Losing our football grounds would mean losing a part of Italy’s identity. By conforming to international trends – where the demolition of football cathedrals such as Upton Park (West Ham) and White Hart Lane (Tottenham Hotspur) has been passively accepted as the cost of modernity – we would also be relinquishing that provincial spontaneity which, even in a city as exacting as Milan, has always been a spark of vitality, passion, and belonging.
We have selected a collection of stadiums that have vanished, fallen into disuse, or lost their original identity through redevelopment.
It is said that the English invented football – and, inevitably, they were among the first to define the standards of the modern ground. One name stands out in this early history: the Scottish architect Archibald Leitch, whose work between the late 19th and mid-20th centuries shaped the evolution of British sporting architecture. His designs formed the foundations of legendary venues such as Craven Cottage (Fulham), Anfield (Liverpool), Goodison Park (Everton), Molineux (Wolverhampton Wanderers), Villa Park (Aston Villa), White Hart Lane (Tottenham Hotspur), and Stamford Bridge (Chelsea), among many others.
Several of his creations, however, have been lost, including West Ham Stadium in London, demolished in 1972. With its unusual elliptical plan and running track – rare in British football – it also hosted greyhound races and speedway events.
Among Leitch’s most distinctive works was the Arsenal Stadium, better known as Highbury. Built in 1913, it underwent several renovations, including the 1930s intervention that gave the East and West Stands their unmistakable Art Deco façade. When Arsenal moved to the new Emirates Stadium in 2006, Highbury was converted into Highbury Square, a residential complex with the former pitch turned into a central garden.
Protected as a listed building, the two main stands were preserved, while the beloved North Bank and Clock End are now entirely gone.
Pier Luigi Nervi was one of the foremost figures of Italy’s post-war structural modernism. His monumental works – from the Torino Esposizioni complex to the Hall of the Papal Audiences in the Vatican, and the Pirelli Tower in Milan with Gio Ponti – stand as milestones of Italian engineering and design.
Sport was another vital field of experimentation for Nervi. Among his many works are the Stadio Artemio Franchi in Florence and, with his son Antonio, the Stadio Flaminio in Rome. Inaugurated in 1959, the Flaminio could seat around 50,000 spectators and also contained four gyms, a swimming pool, bars, changing rooms, a first-aid centre, and state-of-the-art facilities.
The stadium was at the heart of the cluster of buildings designed for the 1960 Rome Olympics, embodying the elegance and dynamism of the Italian modernist spirit – most strikingly in the sinuously-shaped concrete cover of its main stand.
On top of hosting matches for both AS Roma and SS Lazio, it was the home of the Italian rugby national team until 2011, after which it fell into neglect and decay. In 2017, the stadium was officially listed for protection: a small but hopeful step towards the restoration it urgently needs before it becomes beyond repair.
Rembrandt, fries, coffee shops, and Johan Cruijff: that’s Amsterdam in a nutshell for the uninitiated. Since 2018, the late Dutch striker has lent his name to the city’s modern stadium, the Johan Cruijff Arena. Before its construction, Ajax played at De Meer Stadion, itself the successor to the older Het Houten Stadion, demolished in 1935. De Meer was the stage for Ajax’s golden years: the era of Cruijff, Rinus Michels, and ‘total football’, the revolutionary style of play that in the early 1970s earned the Netherlands the nickname Clockwork Orange. Closed in 1996 because its 19,600 seats no longer met the club’s ambitions, De Meer was soon demolished, becoming one of football’s most celebrated lost theatres.
The Stadio Appiani, home to Calcio Padova from 1924 to 1994, remains one of the most atmospheric venues in Italian football history. Nicknamed the lions’ den for the intensity created by its stands pressed so close to the pitch, the stadium’s character was defined by the backdrop of the Church of Misericordia’s bell tower and the adjoining monastery – a quintessentially Italian touch. In contrast stood its English-style gable roof on the main stand, later removed and now lost. The story of the Appiani – not demolished but left tragically idle – is a deeper one about the social meaning a stadium can hold for its community. The Stadio Euganeo, where Padova has played since 1994, is widely disliked by supporters, who find it soulless and detached from the club’s identity. Adding to the discontent are the continuous structural and bureaucratic mishaps – almost comically Italian in their persistence. In recent seasons, the Curva Sud has even been closed to the public following a judicial seizure linked to renovation works.
There are stadiums with greater sporting pedigree than Griffin Park, the former home of Brentford FC in west London. Yet few carried its unique charm. Known as Fortress Griffin Park for hosting the longest home winning streak in English football (21 games in the 1929–30 season), it left a mark far beyond architecture. Griffin Park also held a world record: it was the only stadium in the world with a pub on each corner – a legacy of its proximity to the Fuller’s Brewery, whose griffin symbol lent the ground its name. The stadium was demolished in 2021, only a few years after the historic brewery itself was acquired by Japan’s Asahi Group. The story of Griffin Park is, in the end, a broader reflection on how football mirrors the social and urban transformations of a city. It echoes, in some ways, the fate of another brewery-linked ground: Stadio Moretti in Udine, demolished in 1998 and named after the local beer producer. One of its final appearances lives on in Italian pop culture as a filming location for L’allenatore nel pallone (1984), a cult football comedy starring Lino Banfi.
Not all stadiums that fall into ruin are historic. Another central theme in the discourse on sports architecture is that of the so-called white elephants: buildings that are enormously expensive to build and maintain, yet remain largely unused. Some of the stadiums erected for the 2014 FIFA World Cup in Brazil are textbook examples. Among them, the Arena da Amazônia in Manaus stands out. Costing over $200 million, it now lies, little more than a decade later, in a state of abandonment and decay. One of the main reasons for its underuse is the absence of local football clubs with a fan base large enough to sustain attendance and upkeep. To offset maintenance costs, the stadium has been partially repurposed hosting wedding receptions. In its own peculiar way, a form of adaptive reuse.
Speaking of World Cups: the first goal in FIFA World Cup history was scored here, in 1930, by France’s Lucien Laurent against Mexico. The Estadio Pocitos in Montevideo, Uruguay – once home of Club Atlético Peñarol – is considered one of the most influential venues in the history of sports architecture, thanks to its elliptical stands inspired by ancient Greek theatres. Decommissioned in 1933 and demolished as early as 1940, the stadium’s fate was sealed by the high urban density of Montevideo, which made expansion impossible. This makes it an illuminating early case study of an issue that remains pressing to this day – as exemplified by the ongoing debate surrounding San Siro.