Dad often lectured me that a job that made you sweat was “good for the soul.” That’s why his annual mission was procuring summertime jobs for me, ones that required work boots and a hard hat and, better yet in his mind, asbestos gloves, safety glasses and earplugs.

For several summers I had no say in the matter. Around late May, he’d announce the job he’d arranged for me through a business contact, a friend of a friend, and more often, a golf partner. For instance: stirring and pouring molten aluminum at American Iron and Supply, compacting wrecked cars and shredding metal at Alliance Steel, bending and shaping pipe and sheet metal at KOL Inc.

One year, a rival catcher’s metal cleat tore up my knee. I’m not sure what disappointed Dad more: my inability to play ball that summer or the sus

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