Prologue
Willem kneels on the lush Flanders grassland, his pike resting on the turf and his goedendag at 45 degrees to the ground. It is hot, even for July. These Flemish fields are his; today, the French will not have them. Around him, 9,400 Flanders men in chainmail armour shimmer like a mirror ball in the sunshine.
Directly behind Willem, the second row of pike men stand with their weapons readied by their side. Some have determined, battle-hardened looks on their faces, while others are pale. Thirty yards further back are the crossbowmen, spearmen, and the light infantry. All are silent. All are waiting.
Within minutes the scene is a flood of bloody nightmares. The French volleys of arrows succeed only in forcing the Flemish back but make little impact on their front line. The French knights and men-at-arms charge at a light trot with their lances ready, but the pikemen do not flinch. Amid rousing trumpets, French Commander Robert of Artois joins the battle personally and routs Flemish troops under Guy of Namur. But, the entire Flemish formation does not yield.
Willem lets out a guttural roar as a heavy French cavalier is brought down under his steel spiked goedendag. Poleaxed and defenceless, Commander Robert of Artois pleads for his life. Willem pauses, pike raised and poised to strike like a venomous serpent. “Sorry, I don’t speak French,” he snears as the bloodied spike drops, tearing through the flesh of the Frenchman’s torso.
One day, they will name this The Battle of the Golden Spurs, after the 500 pairs of spurs that have been captured in the battle and offered to the nearby Church of Our Lady. Today, the French have fallen before weavers, fullers, and the common folk of Flanders.
Willem van Saeftinghe rises. The lush Flanders grassland is shaven now and painted with pike-straight white lines. Around him, on all four sides, small grandstands rise up like a miniature Roman colosseum, empty and noiseless. Above him, the leaden sky is dark, and the February air is cold and damp. The malicious wind rips, slaps, and claws at his face. This is not a day to do battle in Courtrais.
I’m up before Darren again and heading down for a coffee and a continental breakfast. It’s Sunday morning, and today, we’re off to Belgium for our third match in three days, in our third country.
For this leg, we’ve taken advantage of media accreditation, and I’m keen to treat Darren to the comfort and hospitality of a top-flight football media suite. We’ve turned down the Bruges Derby and opted instead for a top against second-bottom clash at tiny KV Kortijk, or Courtrais, as it is pronounced in English.
After leaving the motel, we head for a hypermarket to buy wine and gifts to take back to England with us. I top up with red wine and a handful of French bars of chocolate for the girls at home.
Lille and Kortrijk are only 31.4KM apart which makes it an ideal trip for our last match of the weekend. With kick-off not until 3pm, we have loads of time to kill before the match and we spend most of that time looking for a petrol station.
After arriving In Kortrijk, we head to the stadium, and we are directed to park in a sodden field on the opposite side of the road to the ground. We gather our media equipment and head up a short road past the tented bars and food stalls to find the press room.
We are directed to the top floor of a small temporary building just behind Tribune 2 (Stand 2) of the Guldensporen Stadion whereupon we find an empty row of desks and chairs. It’s basic, but homely, and we have a television with the Bruges match on so we settle in.
As the press room fills up slowly we chat to a Jupiler League television commentator who describes himself as the Belgian ‘John Motson.’ I don’t bother to point out that he’s much younger, alive, and not wearing a sheepskin coat! He’s a top lad though and explains as best as he can how the end of season works in Belgium. We write an article about it, which you can find here.
After the press from Kortijk’s opponents, Royale Union St Gilloise (Union SG), arrive, we are served sandwiches and hot drinks. We each have a coffee which is delivered to our desk while we work.
With about 40 minutes to go before kick off, we make our way around to the press seats which are poorly positioned in the far end of the main stand. I get my camera out and go pitch side to get some first-half shots while Darren watches the opening exchanges from his seat.
As the teams walk out on to the pitch the dulcet tones of “You’ll Never Walk Alone” blares out over the stadium PA and all in the home end hold their flags aloft and sing as one. Darren, a life-long Liverpool fan, looks on in disbelief. Get your own bloody song, is written all across his face! I start to singalong quietly just to piss him off. I don’t think he notices.
photo: Paul Blake
Union SG are clearly the better side and have the best of the opening exchanges, registering two shots on target within 3 minutes of the start. After 7 minutes Union SG are ahead. Mathias Rasmussen finds acres of room at the far post to head in a Dennis Eckert cross after a patient build up. If Kortrijk are unable to get a foothold in this game, this could be a rout.
Alessio Castro-Montes doubles Union’s lead after just 17 minutes with a delightfully placed left footed shot from the right side, just inside the box, finding the top left corner.
The rest of the first half is a non-event as Union take their foot off the gas but keep Kortrijk at arms length.
Only Cardiff loanee, Isaak Davies is really making any impression for the home side. I take a shot of him as he attempts to escape the attention of 3 Union defenders. He is making a nuisance of himself; he’s a livewire in attack.
Half-time comes and goes, and it’s more of the same at the start of the second half.
Just to make sure that we are in Dunkirk in plenty of time to catch our ferry, we leave the game with 10 minutes still remaining. Although Davies pulls a goal back for the home side as we are about to leave, there is no chance that Kortrijk will get anything more out of this game.
The drive back to the ferry is uneventful, apart from seeing a car that has unintentionally left the road, flown over a ditch, and landed facing the wrong way on a train line! It looks like everybody has got out okay as the driver and passengers are all standing beside the road, well out of the way. We are past the bizarre scene before we can fully take it in.
We are plenty early enough for the ferry, and both of us are tired. We tuck into a curry when we are on board, which is really tasty. I have mine with chips and a naan bread.
We reflect on our achievements. That’s 3 games, in 3 countries, in 3 days. Easy. Perhaps next time we will try for 4!
Epilogue
Willem van Saeftinghe smiles, sighs, and looks to the heavens. It is May, and the sun is hot on his face as he stands unnoticed in the technical area of the home side.
It is the last game of the season: the play-off match to decide if Kortrijk will play in the JPL next season or be relegated. The game is poised at 1-1 after 90 minutes of the second leg, and the referee has just blown his whistle to send the tie into extra time.
Icelandic manager Freyr Alexandersson brings on fresh legs, and silently Willem approves of the tactic. Thierry Ambrose enters the fray.
Ambrose is a former Man City youth player. After leaving the Under-23s, he has mostly been out on loan in France. In August, he arrived in Kortijk for an undisclosed fee and has hardly played after rupturing his achilles tendon.
Thirty minutes later, the battle is won. Ambrose has scored 3 times. Kortijk have scored 4 in total. When the whistle brings the match to an end, Kortrijk are 4-2 winners (5-2 on aggregate), and the celebrations begin in earnest.
The Lommel SK players fall to the ground, prostrate, and are inconsolable in defeat. Willem smiles to himself as a distant memory is evoked.
