My love/hate letter to ANZ Stadium

I love you, ANZ Stadium. I really do. And that’s why we’re breaking up. I really have tried to make this relationship work. But there’s a distance between us.

A big one. You also burn a hole in my wallet.

And to be honest, when we’re together, the experience is sometimes underwhelming, and reliant upon other people making it exciting – in this instance, the Waratahs, the Crusaders, and 61,823 passionate fans.

I won’t pull out the old ‘It’s not you, it’s me line’ line, because it is you.

Not only do I not love you anymore, perhaps I never really did.

On Saturday night, I ventured out to Homebush to watch the Super Rugby final between the Waratahs and the Crusaders. As a long-suffering Tahs fan, there was no way I was going to miss the opportunity to watch my team atone for years of heartbreak.

I don’t regret it one bit. Rarely have I been as emotional as when Bernard Foley’s penalty kick inched its way over the crossbar, securing the Waratahs the 2014 Super Rugby title and helping erase years of pain and suffering for the franchise and its fans.

Nothing could take that moment away from me. Nothing could ruin the night. But my goodness, ANZ Stadium, you tried your hardest – jealous monster that you are.

Scarred from previous encounters at Homebush for State of Origin games, NRL matches, Sydney Swans blockbusters, and Wallabies Tests, I left home at 5.20pm on Saturday afternoon. Sadly, I didn’t get to my seat in the stadium until approximately 7.50pm. Not bad timing if I was commuting from Canberra, however I live one bus stop from Sydney’s CBD.

I missed the first ten minutes of the game, including the opening try to Adam Ashley-Cooper – my rugby man-crush – even though I left home nearly two and half hours before kick-off. Admittedly, it wasn’t all your fault, ANZ Stadium, but when you miss the start of the Super Rugby final, you tend to lose a little of your rational reasoning.

Traffic, of both the car and people variety, hindered my progress at every turn.

The actual trip out to Homebush – normally one of the biggest issues – was made easier this time by the lift I was offered. It still took approximately 40 minutes, but being in the comfort of a car, and having the ability to knock a back a few roadies, made the experience more than satisfactory.

Yet once we arrived, things took a turn for the worse. Apart from the long walk from the car park, there were massive individual queues for the ATM, food, toilets and drinks, all of which were required. Some more than once.

With 20 minutes to go before kick-off, it was my shout for the beers, so I found the bar with the shortest line – roughly the length of the Great Wall of China – and waited patiently to be served.

I was stuck there for over half an hour as staff battled their way through selling people drinks. The service was slower than a fifth-grade halfback. And don’t even get me started on the fact that no full-strength beer was being sold.

The beer gun decided to have a little malfunction as I got closer to the front of the queue, so I made the strategic decision to buy some mixer cans instead. And here comes my next whinge: $10 for a mid-strength mixer? Are you kidding me? $40 for a round of purposely watered-down drinks?

Throw in $10 for food, and I’m getting exactly zero change from a $50 note for four alcohol-flavoured waters, and two pies that were soggier than a wet tissue and had less meat than a salad sandwich.

Plus the game was already ten minutes old, and Coops had already scored his own bit of meat. Not that I would know, because there were no TVs to be seen, despite half the crowd being stuck in queues far away from their seats.

Once I got to my seat, I decided I would prefer to go without any more beers, rather than miss any more of the game. If need be, I was also happy to risk long-term physical damage by holding in any urge to go to the toilet. My best mate wasn’t so strident, and took off at halftime for “a piss and some piss”. Classy. He consequently missed the first ten minutes of the second half.

The guys seated in front of us with the hip flask of whiskey were definitely better prepared. They even had binoculars to combat how far away we were from the action.

You may be ready to throw the phrase ‘first world problems’ at me, which is fair. I freely admit I’m being a princess. But that doesn’t mean we don’t have a problem.

ANZ Stadium, let’s get it all out on the table: you can be hard to get to. The quality of food and beverages inside your ground is poor, not to mention expensive. The long queues are time-consuming and frustrating. You don’t feel very close to the contest in your seat. All in all, being with you can be, in many ways, an underwhelming experience.

While there is no doubt that the atmosphere is electric when you have a large crowd over for a party – as was the case on Saturday night – there is also mounting evidence that you can’t actually cater for large crowds, something I’ve seen done extremely well by the Melbourne Cricket Ground, and Giants Stadium in New York.

You see, a great stadium should add to the experience and complement a sport, rather than be a hindrance, or viewed as a necessary evil.

In your defence, ANZ, you’re massive. Not fat! I mean massive in a good way! And to accommodate something as big as you in a more centralised location may be unrealistic or simply too expensive, given Sydney’s real estate prices.

Meanwhile, the food options just outside the stadium are actually pretty good, and when it comes to the cost of said items, well, that’s just Sydney, rather than a problem exclusive to Homebush. I understand WiFi is being added to your services, and I also don’t think the seating is that a big of a problem.

It’s not all bad, so I shouldn’t whinge.

But be that as it may, any decision about attending a game with you essentially still comes down to a question of whether the atmosphere, or the sheer occasion of the event, makes up for some of your shortcomings.

I just can’t go on thinking like that, so I’m calling our courtship off, ANZ.

It’s over. Don’t call. Don’t text. Don’t send me an email about the Bledisloe Cup.

Like many failed relationships, I’m sure we’ll keep awkwardly bumping into each other, and the odd night of passion will ensure I make the mistake of ‘going back there’ with you a few times a year. Alcohol will no doubt be involved. So too will regret be the next day.

Yet considering my lack of other options, I don’t really have a choice.

Maybe I do love you ANZ Stadium. Please take me back?