Very bad them. They lead for pleasure or for duty, because it’s a dirty job and someone has to do it. Boliviani battlefield, full-backs steel and wire, half-backs used to bludgeon in silence, red-hot studs and tags that flock, like the controversies and medlars from Biscardi in the golden age. Abandon all hope you hard-zapping placating the remote control on the Primera Divisiòn of Bolivia, the bloodiest league in the world, a perennial Grand Guignol, a place where tackles are surgical operations without anesthesia.
