The man who once told us he last got into a fistfight when he was 52-years-old and “abso-fucking-lutely” thinks most sports writers are “pussies” comes to grips with his own mortality. And, boy, it is grim and sad and will most likely put you in a reflective mood for the rest of the day when it turns out that, yes, growing old is just as humbling and depressing as we all fear.

Here’s a passage:

You were handsome once, like a Greek god, with curly black locks and luxuriant chest hair. You still are, in your mind’s eye, even if your hair is so white you look like a ghost in photographs. You look at that photograph of an old man, and say out loud, “Jeez, I look like an old man!” Your friends call back, “You are an old man.” A young friend of your wife’s, maybe 35, picks up a photograph of you when you were 38 off the fireplace mantel. “Wow,” she says. “You were hot once.” You resist the urge to tell her, “I still am.”

Read it. Then go find some friends, a giant pitcher of margaritas and a clean ashtray and make it a memorable Sunday in August.

You Get Old Men’s Journal