Spring gobbler season is, quite literally, a painful reminder that I’m now the same age as old people.
Yet I still hunt, and my pre-season scouting runs essentially turn May Madness into a two-month or longer effort, rising each morning without benefit or need of an alarm clock, the passion still firmly intact even if the body is not. In the sports jargon of today, I would be described daily as a “game time decision,” dealing with a “lower body injury” that will at some point be addressed, but not until after the season.
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