One of my friends has a natural affinity for sports. A fortunate god-given ability to simply get on the field or pick up a racket and be good at it. Nay, better than most people. His greatest passion is football. Not a weekend TV-watching, console-playing type either. No, he likes the blood and thunder of an energetic kickabout. He was a key midfield cog at a prestigious Pune club for years, represented India in 5-a-side tournaments, supports Arsenal madly (bound to pay off in spades now that Arteta is in charge) and once famously opted to find a beach football game in Goa while friends lounged around drinking beer at a shack nearby. Blessed with innate sporting ability he may be but said friend's body has reached that state of middle age where it doth protest a bit too much at his enthusiasm. Christiano Ronaldo reputedly posseses the fitness levels of a 23-year-old at 34 but our man's body is stubbornly behaving like a 36-year-old's. Coincidentally, my friend is also 36