For the love of the game #9.2: Cercle Brugge
It's still the third day of our ground-hopping trip through Belgium and Germany. This evening we are in Brugge and I can't stop quoting one of my favourite films.
'If I'd grown up on a farm and I was retarded then Bruge might impress me, but I didn't and it doesn't so....' Colin Farrell as Ray in, In Bruge (Martin McDonagh)
Prologue
(Written in role as Ray from the movie: In Bruges.)
This fucking place.
Do you ever get that feeling that people aren't always who they say they are? I think of Ken like that. He's climbing the narrow winding steps to the top of the tower. He does it every day. And I just freeze my arse off down here, waiting for him to throw himself off again; like he does every day.
It's a few degrees below zero and the tourists, like lemmings, are pouring out of the chocolate shops with string-handled paper bags stuffed with boxes of strawberry cremes — or whatever the hell Belgians put in their chocolate. Give me a mars bar or a beer over that muck, every day of the week.
Harry says this place is like some sort of fairytale — but I don't see it myself. Sure, there are cobbled streets and that, but I don't see fucking Hansel and Gretal running around scattering m&m’s all over the place, or little red riding hood skipping along with a tiny picnic basket hanging from her skinny elbow!
Sure, there are a few tourists who look like Shrek or Fiona (after dark). And there’s a large fella who looks like Dumbo — if we're going to include Disney movies. But a fairytale, Harry? I just don't see it.
After Gent, we head West for our final match in the beautiful city of Brugge. Darren's managed the itinery like an over zealous Saga holiday consultant, so unsurprisingly, we're bang on schedule.
Our hotel is modern. Its close to the central transport hub and not for the first time on this trip, our vista is a landscape of rusty meandering railway tracks.
Tonight's opponents for Cercle Brugge, are Westerlo FC. They are using the hotel as a base before they travel to the stadium.
We don't see them, but they've left their kit casually in the reception area.
Reception is a moody teenager's bedroom and we pick our way across the minefield of sports bags and expensive football boots. We push on through the heavy glass doors out onto the icy steps of the hotel.
Outside, the temperature is dropping quickly and there is a cold wind exhaling icily like an angry girlfriend. We're thankful that the bus station is close by.
The ride to the ground is barely five minutes but when we arrive the place looks deserted — as if the stadium has been abandoned or something. It's about half an hour before there are any signs of life when a few fans, shielded from the cold in green and black scarves, drift into sight.
The Jan Breydel Stadion has seen better days. It looks like a concrete monolith. The main stand is divided into two very distinct halves. The dark blue and black of Club Brugges on one side; the green and black of Cercle on the other.
It's clear from the relative sizes and structure of their club shops that Club are the bigger club in the city. Whereas the Blauw-Zwart boast a modern glass fronted window near the entrance, adorned with shirts, scarves and hats; Cercle have to make-do with a rickety temporary wooden hut hidden at the far end of the main stand. The only window in this shop is in the door itself.
Inside, the shop is rammed with merchandise. It’s as if the club shop has just downsized from an 8-bedroom mansion to a caravan.
I emerge with a green scarf and a pin-badge. I don't particularly like the hats, so I make do with my black Standard Liege beanie.
The Noord Stand is above a dark and run-down concourse. They've really let this place go; it's clear to me that it won't be here much longer.
Our beers are served in collectable plastic cups and I pocket four before the match starts. We both have some chips to keep us going and head up to our seats.
It's a small crowd and the vast South stand is almost entirely empty. Around us, in the North stand, everybody is standing; nobody is sitting on the shallow plastic seats which are filthy dirty. It looks like they haven't been cleaned in months.
We've picked out a couple of Cercle players to scout tonight. Wearing 10 for Cercle, the Brazilian, Felipe Augusto, has been signed for 3 million euros from Corinthians.
Augusto is one of the worst centre-forwards we have ever seen. We both agree on that. His runs off the ball take him into congested areas instead of spaces and his control is awful. When he does get a chance, from the penalty spot on the stroke of half-time, his shot is tame and straight at the goalkeeper.
Then, at the start of the second half, Augusto misses from a couple of yards out and right in front of us. It’s a terrible miss but the ball stays in play. We’re still laughing when Lawrence Agyekum turns in the resulting pull-back before VAR rules the goal out.
Alan Minda comes on mid-way through the second half and with his first touch he produces the only touch of class in the whole match. Finding himself in room just inside the box on the left hand side, he cuts inside three players before rifling a low shot inside the near post.
We’re both grateful when the whistle goes because we’ve gotten so cold. The result flatters Westerlo a little and Cercle will rue their missed chances.
Erick Nunes, on loan from Fluminense, is Cercle’s stand out player.*
As we wait for our bus back to the hotel, a couple of English guys who think we’re Belgian ask us if we know when the next bus is coming. “Yeah mate,” Darren replies. “It’s here in a couple of minutes.”
Once on the bus, we share stories of our football travels with the lads from Grimsby. They’re both teachers, like me, and make a point of doing at least one trip each season.
We have our final beer of the trip in the hotel bar and plan a morning seeing the sights.
Our final morning doesn’t really go to plan. Somebody has forgotten to tell Bruges to wake up so the only thing we can do is get a coffee. The chocolatiers are all closed until about 11am, so we decide to head back to the ferry an hour or two early.
It’s a beautiful place though and we plan to go back. Maybe next time, it will be warmer?
Epilogue
I follow these two eejits along the edge of the canal. Did nobody tell them that Bruges is dead on a Sunday morning?
They’re English. That figures.
They head into a coffee shop and then decide against hanging around. Unlike me, they can leave.
‘And I realised, fuck man, maybe that's what hell is: the entire rest of eternity spent in fuckin' Bruges. And I really really hoped I wouldn't die. I really really hoped I wouldn't die.’ Colin Farrell as Ray in, In Bruge (Martin McDonagh)