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Yeah. My grampa was 79, and was talking to me about boxing. He took a shuffle my direction, and his hand blurred as he described a punch.
That 'ole man could have still taken out half a room full of punks- unless he got to his .45 or his 12 gauge (in which case, make it a whole roomful)!
He was still out cutting wood in the woods until he was about 83. He died at 86. Hopefully, I'll get lucky and die of a treefall or lightning strike at a hale 81 or so.
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