Before the 2027 home game, Union Berlin unveiled a massive rebuilding project at the Old Forestry, a moment that felt less like a press conference and more like a family gathering where difficult, emotional news had to be shared honestly. The Stadion An der Alten Försterei had never been just a ground of concrete and steel. It was a place shaped by hands, voices, and stubborn belief, a stadium literally rebuilt by supporters once before, and spiritually rebuilt every other weekend through songs that seemed to rise straight from the pine trees surrounding Köpenick. To modernise it was never going to be simple. To enlarge it without losing its soul seemed, to many, almost impossible. Yet Union’s announcement made clear that the club understood exactly what was at stake.
The Old Forestry has always mirrored Union Berlin itself. Rough-edged, unpolished, proudly resistant to trends, it survived eras when survival itself felt like success. When Union climbed into the Bundesliga, the stadium came with them, not as a relic to be discarded but as a symbol to be defended. Standing terraces, close proximity to the pitch, the sense that players and supporters were part of the same breathing organism, all of it became part of Union’s identity in the top flight. But Bundesliga football, especially with European nights added into the mix, places demands that romance alone cannot meet. Capacity limits, infrastructure constraints, media requirements, and sustainability standards pressed in from all sides. The rebuild was framed not as surrender, but as adaptation.
The club spoke carefully about continuity. This would not be a shiny bowl dropped into Köpenick from the sky, nor a corporate rebrand disguised as progress. Instead, the Old Forestry would be reshaped, not replaced. The core geometry of the ground, its tight angles and intimate sightlines, would remain. The forest itself, the trees that give the stadium its name and mood, would still stand guard. Union made it clear that they were building around a feeling as much as around a structure. Modernisation, they insisted, could coexist with memory.
Central to the project was expansion. Demand for tickets had long outstripped supply, with season tickets passed down like heirlooms and away fans often remarking that securing entry felt like winning a lottery. Enlarging the stadium meant giving more people access to the experience, particularly younger supporters and families who had been priced out by scarcity rather than cost. Yet expansion raised fears. Bigger often means quieter, more anonymous. Union addressed this head-on by committing to preserving standing areas as the emotional heart of the ground. The famous terraces would not be sacrificed for comfort or conformity. Instead, they would be reinforced as the stadium’s backbone.
Modern facilities were another pillar of the plan, though here too the club’s language was deliberate. This was not about luxury boxes or VIP excess, but about functionality and fairness. Improved accessibility for disabled supporters, better amenities for women and children, and safer crowd flows were framed as expressions of Union’s social values rather than commercial upgrades. Sustainability featured prominently as well. Energy-efficient systems, environmentally responsible materials, and integration with public transport were presented as obligations to the community, not marketing points.
Perhaps the most sensitive issue was the temporary displacement that rebuilding would require. The Old Forestry had always been home, and the thought of leaving it, even briefly, felt unsettling. Union acknowledged this discomfort openly. Playing home games elsewhere during construction would be strange, even painful, but it was described as a shared sacrifice for a shared future. The club leaned heavily on its history of collective effort, reminding supporters that this would not be the first time Union had endured hardship together to protect what mattered.
What distinguished the announcement was its tone. There was no triumphalism, no glossy promises of becoming a “global brand.” Instead, there was humility and a recognition that progress carries risk. Union spoke of Bundesliga aspirations not in terms of domination, but sustainability. The goal was not to chase giants, but to remain competitive without losing independence. The rebuilt Old Forestry would be a tool for stability, allowing Union to stand firmly in the top flight while remaining recognisably itself.
Supporter involvement was emphasised from the outset. Feedback forums, consultations, and transparent communication were promised throughout the process. This was not just procedural; it was philosophical. Union’s supporters have always been more than customers. They had paid for floodlights, rebuilt terraces, and sustained the club through bankruptcy scares and lower-league obscurity. Excluding them from such a defining project would have been unthinkable. The rebuild was framed as the next chapter in a shared story, not a managerial decision imposed from above.
The symbolism of timing also mattered. Unveiling the project before a home game was deliberate. The stadium itself became the backdrop to its own transformation, filled with the people whose voices give it life. Players warming up on the pitch did so under the knowledge that the walls around them would soon change, but the expectations would not. Union’s footballing identity, based on intensity, discipline, and collective effort, was linked explicitly to the environment of the Old Forestry. The rebuild was presented as a way to strengthen that bond, giving future teams the same intimidating, supportive setting that had unsettled so many opponents.
There was an undercurrent of defiance in the announcement, a subtle message that Union Berlin intended to chart their own path. In a league increasingly shaped by external investment and global strategies, Union’s project was rooted in place. Köpenick was not a backdrop to be escaped, but a foundation to be deepened. The stadium’s expansion was designed to benefit the district as much as the club, with improved infrastructure and community access woven into the plans. Union positioned themselves not as tenants, but as custodians.
As the details filtered through, supporters debated, worried, imagined. Change always invites nostalgia, and some feared that even the most careful rebuild would soften the Old Forestry’s edges. But many also recognised the necessity. To stand still in modern football is often to fall behind, and Union’s recent successes had raised expectations alongside pride. The challenge was to grow without forgetting why growth had once seemed impossible.
The project’s true ambition lay in its balance. It sought to reconcile the contradictions at the heart of Union Berlin’s rise: a cult club competing on a national and European stage, a working-class identity operating in an elite environment, a stadium that must meet regulations without losing atmosphere. The Old Forestry’s rebuild was not presented as a final destination, but as an ongoing process of negotiation between past and future.
As the 2027 home game approached in imagination if not yet in reality, it was clear that the stadium would look different by then. New sections would rise, facilities would gleam, and capacities would increase. But Union’s hope, and promise, was that it would still feel the same when the first song began, when scarves were raised and the smell of bratwurst drifted through the air. The Old Forestry would remain a place where football felt personal, where success was measured not only in points but in belonging.
In unveiling the rebuild, Union Berlin did more than announce construction plans. They reaffirmed an identity under pressure from success itself. The Old Forestry was being prepared for a future that Union had once only dreamed of, but it was being done on Union’s terms. In a sport often defined by rupture, this was an attempt at continuity, a belief that modernisation does not have to mean erasure. Whether the balance could truly be maintained would only be answered in time, but for now, Union made their stance clear: the stadium may grow, but its heart would not change.
