Every morning Smitty's feet would hit the ground. He'd walk out to the garage. Lights would flip on; radio too. He'd swing in under the weights on the bench press. Do a few reps. Throw a few punches into the duct taped heavy bag. Quickly jog back inside to grab a big mug of black coffee, maybe with a shot of rye if he wasn't driving truck that day. Then he'd hit the bag a bit more, and knock out a few push-ups and some dumbbell sets.
I asked Smitty how often he worked out. He replied "every effing day bud, every effing day".
When it is really cold he pops on a little space heater, and works out in an old Newfoundland sweater. He's 97 this year, and I heard his music coming out of the garage, and even a few thuds from the heavy bag on my way to work this morning.
