There was at the end of the Soviet times in the 6th sports school of Kharkov an outstanding grandfather, a well-deserved fighting coach, whom they called simply and unobtrusively - Palych. He looked ridiculously like Louis de Funes, only rarely smiled and infinitely mated. In his 'far beyond 60' he was unusually bold and aggressive. Young students respected and loved him.
The story ended in a snowy winter. At night, Palic returned from training between the dark fifth floors to the stop. At the stop, two men were waiting for the victim. It seemed that the victim itself went into the hands of the hunters - a tiny little old man in a gorgeous nork hat - a promised easy harvest of the 90s yard spana! The attack was rapid. One rattled with a question of the kind "give grandfather to smoke," and the other with pleasant rancor stretched his hand to his hat. After a moment, the stretched arm was intentionally captured by a chain of wrestling palms with a 40-year-old experience, after which the hopper, flying through Palycha in the reception of the "mill" with a thunderstorm landed on his back in the snow, losing breathing reflexes for half a minute.
The second "bandit" experienced a technique that was later difficult to remember, because only what was crazyly painful was remembered.
The fist entered the rage. It is not often possible to see the angry Louis de Funes.
He melted these hoops sophisticatedly. In a few minutes the matter was done.
Both were lying in the snow and begging for mercy. My grandfather decided to stop. At about 20 o’clock, I heard the screams: “The sticks are beating!” here here!” A crowd of healthy young fighters went out of training.
I do not know the further fate of these two unfortunate, but for Palic the whole school was proud of 10 years.