Old man's mitts: my first 10-round spar in five months

Felt like a freshman in there for the first three rounds, eating jabs I used to slip without thinking. But by the sixth, my legs remembered something my head hadn't—the rhythm came back like a stale joke you still laugh at. Didn't win a single exchange against the kid, but walked out smiling because the body keeps score differently than the judges do. That's what I'm showing today: proof that slow is not the same as gone.