After retiring he moved to an obscure quiet village cut off from the rest of the world. He liked to relax on his porch sipping the local wine and eating smoked pork. Occasionally he joined the kids playing in the dusty ground near his house. The kids are always dazzled and ask him how he does all this magic. He shrugs and tells them that he used to play with some rather decent players long back. He goes home and glances at a box in a corner with a few memories of his previous life. He dusts off the box and the medals and photos transport him back in time to when he played with some great players whom he was fortunate to call friends. A time when he was part of the gang that conquered the world with what everyone called beautiful football. A time when he mesmerised the world with his magic with the ball. A time when he was called Don Andres.