This is me after playing basketball with Joey for 20 minutes. In my early 40's I could run circles around my plodding, slow-footed youngest son. By the mid 40's he picked up a step, but I could usually scrap and cheat my way to beating him. In my late 40's the worst possible thing has happened. He toys with me. He feels bad about crushing me and let's me catch up. I hate that. I'd rather he beat me down like I was a thief.
Even my trusty chicken t-shirt didn't help me tonight.
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