"...but we still need a name.." The young man struggled to focus on his comrades. The heat and fumes from the road cutting at his senses as much as the cigarettes, beers and gin.

"eez very seemple" spoke a figure, until now sitting unnoticed in the shade of the lime trees. "what country plays the finest?"

"The Argentine of course, although what the fu..." a hand calmed their captain, edgy through lack of sleep and tequila.

"And what teem eez the greatest of the Argentine"

"Los Millionairos, the mighty River Plate" they answered almost as one,  a strange feeling of tranquility descending.

"An the latino fors reever?" smiled the old man.

welcome to

THE AVON PLATE

hombre

...football or death...

 

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