The children of Leoforos: Four farewells to Panathinaikos’ stadium

The team is with you from the cradle. Maybe even from the maternity ward.

They go, “So what are we naming her? Aikaterini, Katerina, Katina? Whatever. And Panathinaikos.”

From that moment on, your DNA develops certain functions and starts reacting irrationally to specific stimuli: the whistle of “Great club…”, the clover badge — any clover except Vasia Trifylli — “1908”, the color green.

You grow up, move to Athens, and know exactly where Leoforos is — you never bother saying “Alexandras,” it feels unnecessary. Every time you walk past it, the stadium pulls you in like a magnet.

“I used to go,” you say. Yeah, but when? Maybe you’re not Panathinaikos enough after all?

Years later, you find yourself in Gate 2 for work. What had you been missing all this time? You stare at Gate 13 to your right and feel the pack — wild and alive. You want it.

And the universe wanted it too. Somehow, beautifully and almost secretly, the next time you’re there, you find yourself high up in Gate 13.

Here, you are not a woman, not a girl, not a boy.

You are a child.

Everything becomes one. Every Panathinaikos fan is there with you, whether they are physically present or not: Vaggelis with the giant clover nailed to his balcony, his cat Djibril, my mother — of course, my mother — with the chants and the evil-eye rituals, your uncle, your brother, half of Tolo.

Your heart feels like it’s going to burst from the adrenaline. You feel like you belong, because you truly do.

On May 17, 2026, Leoforos said its final goodbye with a 2-2 draw against PAOK, behind closed doors, accompanied by the line: “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”

But how are we supposed to smile when we didn’t get enough time to become even more Panathinaikos?

Season 2003–2004, the year of the first double. My first season ticket at Leoforos. Gate 10B, row 10, seat 20. It wasn’t my first time at the stadium, but it was the first time that little green card had my name written on it.

It was also the year of Panathinaikos’ first double since 1996, and one of only three league titles the club has won since 1995, the year I was born.

Back then, our little “crew” consisted of my dad and his friends — Kostas, Voulis and Ilias. I sat next to Voulis and behind the others. Me and Voulis were “the youth,” as he used to say. I remember he always had an issue with Michalis Konstantinou. Not as a footballer — he just couldn’t stand him. We all laughed about it back then, but he was vindicated two years later when Konstantinou signed for Olympiacos.

The stadium had its own routine. Sunflower seeds, a small cushion for the plastic seats, Panathinaikos shirts and scarves, beers for the adults, probably nothing for me, chants, disappointment (mostly) or joy, and after every match, regardless of the result, waiting outside the locker rooms to collect autographs from the players. That routine lasted for years, until Panathinaikos moved to the Olympic Stadium and everything changed. Then back to Leoforos, then OAKA again, then Leoforos once more…

And somehow, as the chant says, “the years went by, history kept flowing, countless slogans were written on the walls,” and yesterday we finally reached the point of saying goodbye to Leoforos for good. Unfortunately, not the way it should have happened — inside a packed stadium — since the final match there was played behind closed doors because of a punishment.

Since then, it’s not only the walls that changed. Everything changed. Panathinaikos changed, I changed, we changed, while still carrying “the clover in our hearts.” The era changed, football changed. The gate number where I sit today changed, the people I go to the stadium with changed. Even season tickets are no longer physical cards, but digital files on a phone.

Leoforos, though, never truly changed. My feelings certainly didn’t — they only grew bigger. It remained my home. The place that reminds me of my childhood. The place where I first met Panathinaikos, the team that has accompanied and defined my entire life. The place that brings memories rushing back every single time I walk past it.

And suddenly I start remembering Eki’s magical goal against Arsenal. I remember my father alive, standing beside me in his green hat. Getting annoyed at random people in the stands insulting Loukas Vyntra. “Come on guys, stop cursing at him.” Complaining together about lost championships and analyzing, once again, what had gone wrong this time.

Or later, in 2023, two years after losing my father, singing loudly with everyone in Gate 13, among flares and emotion: “I will love you and don’t you worry, wherever you play I will follow. Win or lose, PAO, it doesn’t matter — I’ll always be there to sing for you.” Another league title had slipped away the previous week.

This stadium, in the heart of Athens, with the bright green graffiti watched by everyone crossing Alexandras Avenue, Tsocha Street, P. Kyriakou and Panathinaikou Street, where Gate 13 stands. This stadium, unlike any other.

“This is paradise and hell, right here,” as the banner says.

Until we meet again, in the memories that will never fade.

And PAO ole ole ole ole…

I see it. Before anyone else in the entire stadium.

The ball has just left Michalis Konstantinou’s head and its trajectory is heading straight toward my face with geometric precision. Between me and the ball, there’s only the net. A second later, the moment it rattles, chaos erupts. Twenty thousand people start screaming, falling over each other, laughing, trampling one another.

GOOOOOOOOOAL!

My father lifts me up in the air while my uncle showers us — and everyone around us — with freezing cold beer. We tumble two or three rows down on top of each other. A rough-faced man in his sixties grabs me, screaming, “DID YOU SEE WHAT HE JUST DID, KID? DID YOU SEE THAT?” Following the stadium announcer’s voice, I yell back: “GOALSCORER FOR OUR TEAM, MICHALIIIIIS KONSTANTINOUUUUU!”

My father gets up and starts searching for the glasses that flew off his face, though in reality he doesn’t seem to care much. How could he? Leoforos is on fire. Panathinaikos–Olympiacos 1-0.

I turn my head and look beyond the terrace, toward the sky above Gate 13. On a rooftop I spot six or seven people holding up a green flare. The lucky residents of that apartment are classmates of mine from class B3 — though they don’t really hang out with us from B2. At recess we practically beat each other up playing football, and that rooftop is private territory. Not just anyone gets in.

“Damn it, my school is literally behind the stadium — couldn’t it have been one floor taller so we could see inside?” I think to myself every morning while walking past it, still half asleep.

One half later, the match ends. We won.

I’m holding onto a ripped-out stadium seat I found lying around (I still have it). As I walk away singing, my eye catches a graffiti slogan next to the club shop. I stare at it happily and nod in approval.

The wall read:

“I know a place unlike any other.”

Can you really say goodbye to a stadium? Can concrete have a soul?

Maybe it can.

It was Sunday afternoon, November 30, 2003, when a small professional van from Lamia, carrying a father and his son, set off late for Athens. What had come before was days of relentless persuasion from the 14-year-old son toward his “heretic” father, begging him to take him to see Panathinaikos in person for the very first time.

The father, not exactly convinced, finally said yes and started the engine for an almost eight-hour round trip through torrential rain on a road that felt like a death trap. They made the drive without stopping once, with one wheel practically glued to the dividing line the entire way because the kid was unbearable.

“If we’re late, it’ll be your fault.”

They reached Athens half an hour before kickoff. Anxiety at its peak. Would they make it in time? They park relatively close to the stadium. The kid throws open the door and starts running.

“Not that way — we go from the other side.”

They walk uphill together. Two streets away, Leoforos suddenly appears clearly in front of him. A magical sight. Floodlights cutting through the rain while smoke from flares blurs the atmosphere.

Five minutes before kickoff and the kid’s heart feels like it’s about to burst.

“Two tickets.” Gate 5A.

Leoforos from the inside. Noise. Crowds. A dream. PAOK fans to the left, Gate 13 to the right. Despite the excitement for the match, he cannot take his eyes off Gate 13.

Chants, flares, people bouncing up and down in the pouring rain.

“Gate 13 is something you can’t possibly imagine unless you’ve lived it.”

Final whistle. 3-0. The stadium empties, but the kid doesn’t want to leave. He just sits there staring at Gate 13, still burning red. It was the first and last time he ever saw it from afar.

The kid grew up. He moved permanently to Athens. Bought his first season ticket with money meant for “vacation.” Then he followed the team to OAKA. He never really liked it there, but he still showed up. He moved abroad, then returned the year the team was supposed to come back to Leoforos “for one final season.” Thankfully, that didn’t happen back then.

“This is your home, Panathinaikos.”

Then came the elections and the great shock. The fans voted for the team to leave its home. Back to OAKA, then back to Leoforos again.

“Come on, let’s go to the stadium. How much longer do you think we’ll still have it?” he would say, refusing to believe this day would ever actually arrive.

Eventually, it did.

Just like in the first match of his life at Leoforos, the opponent in the last one was PAOK.

But everything was different now.

His heart no longer felt like it would burst. No smoke covered the empty Alexandras Avenue. Gate 13 was not burning. The stadium where he had spent most of his adult life stood empty — the result of a stupid decision and an incapable administration.

“You are not Panathinaikos.”

“With my scarf tied around my neck,” he walked up Alexandras Avenue one more time. As always, he found the boys there to watch the match together.

This time, from outside the stadium.

Nobody really cared about the game itself. Final score: 2-2. One final walk behind Gate 13. Flares, chants, singing.

“The years go by and I still feel the magic, this obsession drove me insane, ever since I was a kid I came to Gate 13 at Leoforos to see you.”

And somewhere around there, the end arrived.

Surely this is not how a goodbye should look. And surely this will not be the real goodbye.

The real farewell will be given, the only way they know how, by the children of Leoforos.