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I haven’t had it easy in civilian life. I’ve had anger issues. I don’t work well with others, especially assholes who don’t respect me. My rages usually got me fired—and so did my drug use.

I toiled in the minors for a few years, uprooting my family and picking up a nasty drug habit, though I didn’t see it that way. After baseball released me, I needed to make money, so I went into real estate. I soon discovered that sitting behind a desk felt more like a prison sentence than earning a living. I quit my lucrative sales job and took a job working for a pittance as a pitching coach for the Boston Red Sox in their minor league farm system. I loved my job. But I had two daughters to raise, and my long-suffering wife, Marilyn, wasn’t happy with my low wages. Because of her harping, I went to management and demanded that I be made a manager so I could earn more money. I was let go. I was crushed.

Then I got a well-paying job as a radio talk show host, another job I loved, but as luck would have it, the station went bust nine months later. I was broke. My wife, two daughters, and I had to move in with her mother, who hated my guts, partly because I was seemingly incapable of holding down a steady job.

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