De Warande: Where Time Took a Corner Kick
The old sports park lies silent now, nestled beneath the gaze of a stately Dutch windmill. Grass grows long where studs once carved lines of battle. The ticket box, leaning slightly as if tired from decades of service, still keeps watch over the crumbling entrance.
This place isn’t just a ground—it’s a monument to Sunday afternoons, muddy knees, and the cheers of fifty faithful fans who knew every player’s name. Each fading coat of paint on the stand whispers stories of underdog victories and heartbreaks that never made the papers.
Here, football was more than a game. It was a weekly ritual wrapped in the smell of kantine coffee, damp concrete, and friendships forged through misplaced passes.
De Warande may no longer echo with chants and shouts, but walk its perimeter today, and you'll still hear the ghosts of goals gone by. A place where pigeons now reign, but the spirit of local football refuses to retire.
