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The new facade on Sheffield’s Crucible Theatre fails to convey the magic it holds in the inner sanctum. Photograph: steven gillis hd9 imaging / Alam/Alamy
The new facade on Sheffield’s Crucible Theatre fails to convey the magic it holds in the inner sanctum. Photograph: steven gillis hd9 imaging / Alam/Alamy

Austere breeze-block veneer conceals the magic of the Crucible Theatre

This article is more than 9 years old

The unremarkable looking venue in Sheffield that has become as much a part of snooker as the players themselves

It would be tempting to believe there is a touch of the emperor's clothes about the Crucible Theatre. Commentators rarely hesitate to tell us what a wonderful venue it is, yet when you get there yourself it is greatly underwhelming. It may have hosted the Snooker World Championship since 1977 but physically the Crucible is an uninspiring, ugly place – both inside and out.

Bare breeze-blocks and concrete dominate the interior, with angular ceilings and plain walls. Those TV shots you see of players making their way back to the changing rooms through barren corridors pretty much sum up the architectural feel of the place. There is nothing ornate, stylish or even remotely interesting in its fabric or layout. All is relentlessly modern and soul-less – airport lounge carpets, functional metal railings, plain doors, plain everything. Even the Crucible bar is hotel-foyer characterless, with square leather sofas and glass tables. Its large windows offer a vista of Sheffield's brutalist Park Hill housing estate.

During round two of this year's championship Ken Doherty, commentating, described the Crucible as "beautiful". It is not. This could be any unprepossessing provincial venue, decorated sparsely with posters for upcoming light entertainment events. The more ornate Lyceum Theatre next door is the real deal in terms of style and presence; at the Crucible everything is functional and sterile. During the intervals there is nothing really to look at, nowhere much to sit. Only the temporary betting stand alleviates the tedium.

Step inside the actual arena, however, and the atmosphere changes. The auditorium's internal architecture is just as relentlessly drab, breeze-blocks are still abundant and the layout is very much in the style of a lecture theatre. But there is an undeniable frisson about the place, some undefinable quality within its walls. With 1,000 seats crowding in on the two tables from three sides, it is very close to being a theatre in the round and, although the back seats are not especially close to the action, they are still on top of it. Before a match there is a pleasing hubbub and sense of anticipation.

It is possibly the two tables and the screen between them that make the Crucible. They are not there for the semi-finals or final, when the vibe is, by all accounts, just as good. But the small wall across the auditorium certainly adds a sense of drama. Soft applause and low groans drift over from one table to the other; hearing but not seeing the mystery action only heightens the sense of drama.

Tension is also raised by the inevitable poor sequencing between the two tables, as frames or sessions finish one before the other, with attendant shushing and shouts of 'quiet please'. Logic dictates that holding two matches in one arena should not work but somehow it does. So the Crucible's great divide has become one of sport's loveable oddities, like the slope at Lord's or the Green Monster at Fenway Park. It makes little sense in pure sporting terms but to remove it would do away with a feature that has become the essence of the place.

The Great Divide, though, is not the only thing the Crucible has going for it. Against all the modernist odds this relentlessly forward-looking theatre appears to have become infused with memories of the past every bit as easily as if it were a creaking old music hall dating back to the 19th century.

On this evidence, if you hold an event in one place for long enough, the memories embed themselves in the fabric of the building, even if that fabric is defiantly unreceptive. Alex Higgins beckoning for his baby, Dennis Taylor pointing his finger, Ronnie O'Sullivan racking up a 147 in five minutes – they all happened here, and they linger on.

Thanks to its quirky nature then, and to the passage of time, the Crucible has indeed become a 'wonderful' venue. Its reputation is deserved; the emperor does wear clothes.

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