I have a friend—insomuch as a 70-year-old man might consider me a “friend.” We’ll call my friend Greg. A few years back, when Greg was a spry, mid-60s shithead—and I say that with the utmost reverence—we’d do battle in Wednesday morning 1-on-1 hoops at the YMCA. That’s no hyperbole or purple prose. Greg would, very simply, beat the snot out of me. Despite my being three…