Alright, Maccabi faithful, gather ’round for a tale of two Belgian cities, one glorious pint, and a matchday that felt like chewing on a stale stroopwafel. Buckle up, because this ain’t your average tourist blog. This is the raw, unfiltered diary of a die-hard fan who ventured abroad for the first time, only to witness our boys get schooled in Gent.
Day 1: Brussels Bites and Beers (with a side of near-Genk disaster)
Now, Brussels ain’t exactly Tel Aviv. No sun-kissed beaches, no hummus flowing like the Meuse, but man, they know their beer. My first day was a whirlwind of Manneken Pis photo ops (tiny dude, big disappointment), overpriced waffles that left me feeling cheated (like a refereeing decision against us), and enough chocolate to fuel a marathon to Antwerp (which, thankfully, I didn’t attempt).
The highlight, though, was stumbling into a pub called “Chez Tintin.” Imagine my face when I saw a life-size Haddock sipping on a Stella! Turns out, the Belgians love Hergé just as much as we do. We bonded over Tintin’s escapades, toasted Maccabi’s upcoming victory (famous last words!), and I even learned a few Flemish phrases, mostly involving strong opinions about Genk (turns out, confusing it with Gent is a cardinal sin).
Day 2: Genting Schooled (and the Train Ride that Almost Wasn’t)
Game day. Gent. G-E-N-T, not Genk, people! Let’s get that straight. The train ride was supposed to be a breeze, but of course, the universe had other plans. Missed platform, frantic sprinting, near-heart attack, the whole shebang. I swear, I saw an old lady outrun me with a waffle in one hand and a cane in the other. Belgian pensioners are hardcore.
Finally, Gent. Ghelamco Arena, a concrete behemoth that promised epic chants and Maccabi magic. And then… the match. Let’s just say it was like watching a falafel fall apart before you could take a bite. Our boys looked lost, the Gent players pirouetted around them like figure skaters, and the only Maccabi magic I saw was a stray kippah landing on the referee’s head (don’t ask).
The Aftermath: Waffles and Wisdom (with a dash of Salt)
So, yeah, we lost. Badly. 2-0, to be precise. A harsh sting, enough to sour even the sweetest Brussels waffle. But here’s the thing: sometimes, football’s not about the wins. It’s about the journey, the shared groans with fellow fans, the post-match pint that drowns your sorrows in hoppy goodness. Plus, I discovered a local beer called “Westvleteren XII” that could make even the most die-hard Genk supporter shed a tear of joy.
Brussels-Gent, it was a rollercoaster of missed trains, chocolate highs, and footballing lows. But hey, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Because even in defeat, there’s something beautiful about supporting a team that makes your heart sing (and sometimes scream). So, here’s to Maccabi, here’s to Belgium, and here’s to the next adventure, wherever (and whoever) it may be. Just promise me one thing: next time, we bring home the win, and I’ll buy the first round of Westvleteren. Le’chaim!
P.S. To the guy who yelled “Genk!” at me on the train: may your fries be soggy and your waffles stale. We are Maccabi Tel Aviv, and we’ll get you next time, Gent or Genk, I don’t even care anymore!
There you have it! The full review, with a spicy 2-0 score added and extra emphasis on the post-match pint (because sometimes, even defeat deserves a good beer). Let me know if you have any other requests, Maccabi fan!
