MY SON IS A FRESHMAN in high school, and I’m beginning to be more purposeful about his baseball aspirations. But after dropping $85 on a one-hour pitching lesson, I was wondering, was my money well spent? My search for an answer began with the Netflix series Receiver. I tuned in to see football player George Kittle, a former University of Iowa Hawkeye and bigtime professional wrestling fan. Kittle was kind enough to send autographed memorabilia for a softball fundraiser we had a few years ago. He’s now a star for the San Francisco 49ers. I learned about Kittle through a mutual friend, Steve Manders, who was a walk-on for the Hawkeyes for three years before he began professional wrestling. During my wrestling career, I tagged with Steve for a period of time, and learned a lot about hard work, grit and perseverance from being around him. While I watched Receiver to learn more about Kittle, the Netflix series was also my introduction to Detroit Lions wide receiver Amon-Ra St. Brown. What caught my eye was his dad, John Brown, a former Mr. Universe. I subsequently listened to the father’s podcast and interviews. It became clear he had strong opinions about parenting, including how parents need to take charge of the direction of their children's lives. It was eye-opening. I always like to have my beliefs questioned. And when someone has results, I’ll listen with an open mind. And oh my, does the older Brown have opinions: “If your kid’s not doing something, it’s the parents’ fault, it’s not the kid’s fault.” “I raised my boys to dominate. We’re not having fun. We’re not competing. We're here to dominate.” “No coach can prepare you to be the top in the world. They don't have the time. They have 30 kids, 40 kids on the team. You need personal trainers. That costs a lot of money. Well, that’s where you come in. That’s mom and dad.” I remember hearing World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE) Hall of Fame broadcaster Jim Ross speak. He said that, if all you do is the standard amount of practice or work, you're going to get the standard amount of success. When I heard that, I immediately thought of my formative years in wrestling, when I was attending wrestling school in Dallas. Alex Pourteau was the guy who got into the ring and trained with us. He showed us physically how to do the moves and execute them. One day, a male stripper came in and trained with us. He wasn’t part of our class. But he worked out with us and, when he walked out the door, he handed Alex some money and said, “Thank you, brother.” I thought nothing of that moment until I heard Jim Ross’s speech. We only went to wrestling school on Wednesday for an hour or two. I did the minimum. I was struggling to gain traction, to get my first match. I was stuck and couldn't think of a way to get better. After hearing Ross speak, it was crystal clear how I could have improved, how I could have gotten in more practice. I could have taken an extra $50 or $75, and asked Pourteau if we could train on Monday and Thursday evening as well. Just me and him. Money was tight, but I could have got a second job and come up with the extra cash. Pourteau was signed by the WWE a few years later and was an excellent young wrestler. I would have improved immensely by working out with him one-on-one. But my mind wasn't there at that time, it didn't get creative when it ran into obstacles. I was struggling. It was the first time in my life I was pursuing something that I really cared about but where I wasn't succeeding. I didn’t know how to handle that. As I’ve spoken to other parents about the price of travel baseball, clinics and lessons, all I get is a shrug of the shoulders—an attitude that it’s the price to be paid if you want to support your kids. When folks ask me how I handle the bad tenants who inevitably come along and trash a unit or don’t pay their rent, I give them the same look I get from these parents. It’s the cost of doing business. It can’t be escaped and it’ll happen at some point, no matter what precautions you take. Many parents say that, if you travel any distance for a game, you're easily looking at several hundred dollars for a weekend once you factor in gas, meals, hotels and tournament fees. It’s understandable why they have little sympathy for me and the $85 I spent on a quality one-on-one session with a Triple-A baseball pitcher, one who played for four years at a Division 1 college. It’s the price you pay for excellent coaching. And besides the technical skills my son learned, how much access does a typical high school freshman get to a world-class athlete? What are the intangibles that kids get from spending time with those who have worked hard at their craft, excelled in a difficult endeavor and graduated with a degree from a first-class university? My son’s trainer is a great young man: positive, encouraging, a tremendous work ethic and well mannered. My son has played with a few players who were the opposite: arrogant, not helpful to the young guys, lazy and entitled. I’ve been around some of the greats in pro wrestling, along with many other wrestling pros. I’ve come to learn that these interactions provide valuable lessons. So, I’ll continue to spend money on my son’s baseball lessons. I’m going to keep listening to John Brown and his message of tough love: “There’s no such thing as lazy kids, only lazy parents.” There are moments when I’m listening to him that it feels like he’s talking directly to me and the lazy parenting I’ve been guilty of in the past. I often simply dropped off my son at practice, and expected the coach to transform my son and his teammates into solid ball players. But that’s a lot to ask from one or two coaches. Now, I’m doing what I can, such as hitting the weights with him, cooking better meals, and getting in extra reps on the weekends at the batting cages and ball diamonds. And opening up the wallet as well. Juan Fourneau’s goal is to retire at age 55. When he isn't at his manufacturing job, he enjoys reading and writing about personal finance, investing and other interests. Juan, who is married with two children, retired from the ring after wrestling on the independent circuit for more than 25 years. He wrestled as a Mexican Luchador under the name Latin Thunder. Follow Juan on Twitter @LatinThunder1, visit his website and check out his previous articles. [xyz-ihs snippet="Donate"]

I GREW UP IN a blue-collar family. When money was tight, one strategy my dad used to improve the situation was simple but effective. Overtime, time-and-a-half and double-time were all terms I heard frequently throughout my childhood. In this Iowa factory town, those words can still be regularly heard at the taverns, bowling alley and family get-togethers. Overtime is the gift that can make a low-paying factory job worthwhile. Time-and-a-half turns that $12 job into a far more palatable $18 an hour, and can make the difference between renting and owning a home. If you can land that great job in your local area that pays $25 to $40 an hour, those overtime hours become truly lucrative. Once I began my job at the chemical plant in 1999, the idea of getting a second job went out the window. Making time-and-a-half became your second job. Spouses accommodated your overtime because neither of you could replicate that income elsewhere. I never developed the taste for overtime—or had the stamina to put in the hours—that some of my coworkers did. One year, I logged 500 hours of overtime. But I was single then, with no kids, and had just bought a house. The money came in handy furnishing my home, and my routine was pretty simple. Go to work for 12 hours. Hit the gym, sleep and eat. Repeat. This year, by contrast, I’ll log around 225 hours of overtime. Most of it is organic. I don’t seek it out. It's what I get when covering production demands and for vacations taken by others. We get paid biweekly. Today, my take-home pay is around $2,000 every two weeks. It doesn’t take much overtime to bump that up. If your life is set up to live off your 40-hour pay, the OT is all gravy. I once worked several 12-hour days, along with a Saturday, and brought home $3,000 after Uncle Sam took his hefty cut. It’s a good feeling, for sure, but you don’t see your family much during those two weeks. A year after I started in the plant, around 2000, one coworker told me he once broke the $100,000 mark. For those of us with high school diplomas, who live in a low-cost part of the country, that’s a lot of cash— an annual wage our parents never saw and money many of us never thought we’d make. But my coworker shared with me that it wasn’t worth it. He wanted to do it once, but it took 800-plus hours of overtime to do it. All you do is work, he said, and then recover from work. Some in the plant eat overtime like candy. They have the energy to work the hours and their batteries just run hotter. Some have spouses who stay at home with the kids. They work a ton of overtime and their partners don’t expect as much from them when they get home. [xyz-ihs snippet="Mobile-Subscribe"] An old boss spent the first half of his career doing shift work. After weeks of marathon shifts, he came home to an annoyed wife. As they sat down to dinner, he noticed she’d put name tags on their kids. He got the message. In fact, he worked so much overtime that he took a pay cut during his first years in a management role. He told me he knew he had a problem when he got agitated looking at a paycheck that didn’t have a single hour of overtime on it. Honestly, I admired how he put his three daughters through college and maintained his marriage. They always took vacations, and went camping as a family. He seemed like my dad. If he wasn’t at work, he was home. If he wasn’t at home, he was at work. Over the years, I’ve recognized a sadder element to a few of these overtime machines. They don’t want to be at home, and their family doesn’t seem to mind them being gone. The house is quiet, with the dad usually at work, and the fat checks keep rolling in. Not my cup of tea, but who am I to judge? One coworker shared a story from his old employer in Davenport, Iowa. The warehouse he worked in was notorious for its overtime. He knew he didn’t want that life when another employee, who was gravely ill, wasn’t responding when his family members spoke to him. But when they asked some of his coworkers to talk to him, he was acknowledging their voices. My friend said that did it for him. He began looking for another job. For the past five years or so, I’ve usually made around $50 an hour when I work time-and-a-half. The math is simple. Work 100 hours of overtime and you got an extra $5,000. Those workhorses doing 700 or more hours of overtime per year? That’s big money. These folks, who love their overtime, can recite their employer’s compensation policy as if it’s burned into their brains. One year, on July 4th, we were forced to work the holiday. Some coworkers, who were older and had families, wanted the day off. They were already going to get eight hours of straight time—which was their holiday pay—and they wanted to watch the parade and fireworks. I was on graveyards that week, so I started late, around midnight. I worked my night shift, and got time-and-a-half for those hours, plus my eight hours of holiday pay. I went home, got some sleep, and came back to cover someone’s 3 p.m. to 11 p.m. shift. I was pleasantly surprised when I got my check to see I received double time for those eight hours on the second shift. A few other local area employers pay just as well or even better. One of my friends from the gym, who works at the local power plant, has made some serious money maximizing his OT. He works hard and plays hard. He has a great relationship with his grown children and has been married for decades. He just isn’t the type to sit at home and watch Netflix all day. He grew up always having to work if he wanted name-brand jeans or a car. I was at a local barbecue and someone said that, in terms of pay, he was only below the general manager and the most upper management at his plant. I’ll be sticking with my overtime policy of only working when my team needs me to. If coworkers want the overtime hours and the cash that comes with it, they can have it. But it’s good to know that, if I do have to work some extra hours, I’ll get paid well for my time. Seems like a fair deal to me. Juan Fourneau’s goal is to retire at age 55. When he isn't at his manufacturing job, he enjoys reading and writing about personal finance, investing and his other interests. Juan, who is married with two children, retired from the ring after wrestling on the independent circuit for more than 25 years. He wrestled as a Mexican Luchador under the name Latin Thunder. Follow Juan on Twitter @LatinThunder1, visit his website and check out his previous articles. [xyz-ihs snippet="Donate"]

WHEN I WAS BORN IN Iowa in 1973, my parents were renters—and they didn’t become homeowners until eight years later. Looking back, I can see that it would have been hard for them to buy a house. When my dad started at the factory where he worked for more than 30 years, it didn't pay the best. But as Bandag, the retread company he worked for, began to prosper under its founder Roy James Carver, the workers formed a union. By the mid-1970s, they started receiving more generous wages, with decent pay increases each year, and soon it became one of the best jobs in town. Like others who write for this website, I was a financial nerd as a kid. I paid attention to the news, and I remember the high inflation and terrible recession of the early 1980s. As I grew older, I learned who Federal Reserve Chair Paul Volcker was, and that he raised interest rates to painful heights to crush inflation. I was also aware that my parents had bought their house on contract, meaning the seller financed their purchase. It wasn't uncommon at the time. With interest rates so high, there was an incentive for sellers to provide financing. Meanwhile, buyers could sometimes get an interest rate that was a few percentage points lower than that offered by the bank, or the seller might require a smaller down payment. When I bought my first house in 2001, I got a Department of Housing and Urban Development—or HUD—loan. As I recall, my HUD loan required just a 3% down payment because I was a first-time homebuyer. But when my parents bought their home in 1981, they were probably required to make a 20% down payment.  How did my parents come up with the money? Even with towering interest rates, raising the cash for the down payment must have been Dad’s biggest obstacle to the American dream. When I asked him how he did it, his answer surprised me: He’d inherited a piece of property. His widowed aunt Elena, who lived in the border town of Piedras Negras, Mexico, had owned a jewelry store with her late husband. The couple didn’t have children. They also owned a few commercial properties near the bustling town square where the jewelry business was located. When my dad’s aunt died, Dad inherited one of her commercial properties. He sold the property, pocketing enough for the down payment. Without his aunt’s bequest, I wonder if my parents would have ever owned a home. Why did Elena leave my father the property? The story goes back to my grandparents. My grandfather died young, leaving my grandmother Dora to raise two children as a single mother in 1950s Mexico—a hard life for sure. My father was just two years old at the time. Working and taking care of two children proved too much for my grandmother. My father’s sister—my aunt—tells the story of being taken by my grandmother to live with a relative when she was a toddler. After several months, when my grandmother could afford to bring her back home, Dora made the two or so hour bus ride to pick up her daughter. When my aunt answered the door, she didn't recognize her mother. It broke my grandmother's heart and brought her to tears. Dora took my aunt home and reunited her with my dad. My grandmother never had to separate them again. My grandmother had a strong support system that helped her over the years. My dad’s aunt and uncle, whom I have no memory of, were among those who pitched in. It was this aunt, Elena, who left the commercial property to my father. The home that my parents bought was no mansion. But it was in a middle-class neighborhood, surrounded by homeowners, not renters. We left behind the Mexican immigrant barrio in Iowa I’d known my entire childhood. I remember my mom’s friends coming to visit and telling her, in Spanish, how they dreamed of having a home like ours someday. All this was possible because of my aunt’s bequest. When I hear the term “generational wealth” or hear Dave Ramsey speak of changing your family tree, I think of this story. Investments and legacies compound. My dad’s uncle and aunt planted a seed, and my family sat under the tree that bloomed in faraway Iowa. For me, the story is humbling: My family got something many others didn't. The majority of people I knew growing up never inherited a dime. Yes, Dad got dealt a tough hand when his father died so young. But he also got some good cards: a strong healthy body, a love for reading that facilitated his ability to learn English, and coming of age in an era when he could leave home to make a better life for himself in the U.S. Another piece of good fortune: Dad’s mom was an American citizen, having been born on the Texas side of the Mexican border, and that allowed my dad to get his green card. Dad maximized these ace cards, including his inheritance. He made good bets and thought long-term. His grandchildren are in a better spot for the decisions he made long before they were born. Still, credit also goes to the generosity of a widow in Mexico I never knew. Thank you, Tia Elena. Juan Fourneau’s goal is to retire at age 55. When he isn't at his manufacturing job, he enjoys reading and writing about personal finance, investing and other interests. Juan, who is married with two children, retired from the ring after wrestling on the independent circuit for more than 25 years. He wrestled as a Mexican Luchador under the name Latin Thunder. Follow Juan on Twitter @LatinThunder1, visit his website and check out his previous articles. [xyz-ihs snippet="Donate"]

I ONCE DABBLED IN the world of sales. I wasn't very good at it. In 1997, I got a job at Schwan’s, driving one of those yellow trucks you see in neighborhoods all over the U.S. selling frozen treats, ice cream and a variety of food. I thought it would be a delivery and service job. But I found out during the orientation and training that there was an element of sales. I read the books of motivational speaker Zig Ziglar in my free time and got some basic training in sales from the company. But as I began my route in the railroad town of Fort Madison, Iowa, I could see I needed help. A natural sales guy I was not. At a party one weekend, I ran into my dad’s old friend, Pablo. My dad was godfather, or padrino, to Pablo’s youngest son. I was interested in talking to him because he was a successful car salesman. As we talked about my struggles in sales, Pablo gave me a few tips. He also shared with me how he began his career. Pablo was from San Antonio. He spoke good English, but like many Hispanic men in my hometown of that era, he had a limited education. He dropped out of school in sixth grade to work because his family didn’t have a lot of money. He met his wife when they were both working as migrant laborers, following the crops. My Midwestern town is home to a Heinz manufacturing plant where, in the old days, migrant workers picked tomatoes from the fields and transported them to the plant. After one season in the mid-1960s, Pablo and his wife never went back to Texas. Instead, they decided to make a home here in Iowa. He met my dad at the retread factory, but he lost his job when he broke his leg. When he’d recovered, he landed a job as a janitor at the high school. Needing more money, he also worked as a janitor in the evening at the local Montgomery Ward store, where he was known as Paul. One day, the store decided to have a sales contest to see who could sell the most bedsheets. They divided the store employees into three groups, with the sales staff getting to pick their team from all the store employees. Though most of the traffic would be driven by the sales team, they wanted to include everyone in the contest. One manager suggested, as an afterthought, they include the janitors so they didn’t feel left out. Like the slow nerdy kid at dodgeball, Pablo was picked last. He was eager to win the prize and began to tell the customers he saw walking in about these fabulous bedsheets they just had to have. He found out he had a natural talent and began closing many sales. He was spending just as much time spotting leads as he was cleaning the store. It turned out that Pablo’s team won the contest. It wasn’t even close. Matter of fact, Pablo sold more bedsheets by himself than the rest of the store combined. The next day, after the contest was over, Pablo was pushing his broom, sweeping the floor as he always did. The store manager came up to him and suggested he put his broom down. He gave him a necktie and a job offer. “Paul, we think your skills would be better served selling.” [xyz-ihs snippet="Mobile-Subscribe"] That humble beginning was the start of his sales career. Pablo eventually got a job as a car salesman in my hometown and consistently grossed six figures for more than 30 years. He put his sons through college, and one even became a school principal. When my dad bought a car, he always went to his “compadre Pablo.” I went with my dad once as he bought a small, ugly used Dodge Omni for my older brother. I had the privilege of driving the same car when I turned 16. You couldn’t see the wall in Pablo’s office for all the sales awards he’d won. I’m sure it helped that he was one of the few salesmen at that time who spoke Spanish. Ultimately, however, Pablo was just a fantastic salesman. He won sales contests that provided family vacations, the latest televisions and appliances, and he drove the dealership’s best demo car for free. At different times, he owned a theatre that played Spanish movies in the Quad Cities and a Mexican restaurant. He was also a landlord—all while working six days a week selling cars. When I saw him last week, enjoying his retirement, I asked him if he ever regretted working so hard all those years. Typical of his generation and background, he told me he never worked hard. He had seen migrant workers in the fields picking crops. That was hard work, he said. He made a sale, handed the ticket to the office, and his work was done. The hours were long, yes, but it never felt like hard work to him. Not bad for a Mexican-American kid with a sixth-grade education from a barrio in San Antonio. My sales career ended after six months. The long hours working my route were getting to me, so I put in my notice. I wasn’t making great money and, with my sales skills lacking, I didn’t see that changing anytime soon. I got a temp job that eventually led me to a position at the plant where I work today. It was a great move for me. I did develop an appreciation for the sales industry, though. The profession isn’t always given the respect it deserves. Every company relies on sales, and it’s a job that provides opportunity for those with sales talent, skills and drive. Your education, grades and background don’t matter in sales. What drives your career and salary is your results, and my dad’s friend Pablo is a great example of that. “Only in America,” as Don King would say. Juan Fourneau’s goal is to retire at age 55. When he isn't at his manufacturing job, he enjoys reading and writing about personal finance, investing and other interests. Juan, who is married with two children, retired from the ring after wrestling on the independent circuit for more than 25 years. He wrestled as a Mexican Luchador under the name Latin Thunder. Follow Juan on Twitter @LatinThunder1, visit his website and check out his previous articles. [xyz-ihs snippet="Donate"]

FINANCIAL EXPERTS often advise retirees to delay claiming Social Security. Their actuarial tables and statistics make a compelling case. Still, as soon as I’m eligible, I’ll strongly consider claiming Social Security. Why? I never knew either of my grandfathers. My mom’s dad died of a stroke when she was age 19. One of my favorite photos of my parents’ wedding is that of my uncle—my mom’s oldest brother—walking her down the aisle. My grandfather never got to see my parents wed. My dad’s father died very young as well. Dad had no memory of his father. My dad Jorge passed away at 72. I was grateful he had 10 years of retirement, and was able to enjoy his grandchildren and have some years of leisure. He had earned it after almost 40 years at a retread factory. One summer, I worked as a temp at the same factory. Despite the modern machines and far safer working conditions, it was hot and the work physically demanding. I was 25 years old and in good shape, but it was still tough. It made me appreciate the work my dad did to support our family all those years. Along with his pension, he was able to retire only by claiming Social Security benefits at age 62. My father-in-law Mike was a kid from a working-class background. The only high school graduation gift he received was a Vietnam draft letter. After a tour of duty that exposed him to Agent Orange and constant military combat, he came home and started a small business as a plaster contractor. He made a living. He didn’t get rich. For more than 15 years, to earn extra money, he worked at the local bowling alley after a full day of backbreaking plaster work. When I met my wife, he no longer had his second job, but continued hanging plaster ceilings and doing repair work fulltime until he claimed Social Security “early.” He continued to work part-time, doing small jobs until he paid off his mortgage and was able to retire fully. To say his work was hard on his body is an understatement. His knees, back, hands and neck all paid a price for the incredible workmanship he displayed with his craft. [xyz-ihs snippet="Mobile-Subscribe"] I’ve had it easy compared to my dad and father-in-law. But I did work a swing shift for 20 years. One week, I’d work 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. I’d get the weekend off and go in Sunday night for my week of graveyard shifts, 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. On Friday morning, I’d get off work at 7 a.m. and not have to return until Monday at 3 p.m., when I’d start my week of 3-11s. I always slept fine when I was on the graveyard shift. But as I got older, it began to wear on me. Currently, I’m just working straight days. I didn’t expect working a straight day-shift schedule at the plant to be that different, but it’s been enlightening to see how much better I sleep and feel. I understand the numbers and statistics that support claiming Social Security benefits later. But I can’t help but want to hedge my bets and claim my benefits at age 62. I’m 100% certain that, if I’m still working at the plant at that age, I won’t hesitate to retire and claim my benefits. That would go double if I was still working a swing shift. Hooking up a railcar in subzero temperatures at 3 a.m. in January isn’t something I’ll be doing if I can supplement my retirement savings with Social Security. The numbers a financial advisor can show me in his temperature-controlled office won’t be enough to convince me to go to work on a wintry Iowa Sunday night for one more shift than is absolutely necessary. Juan Fourneau’s goal is to retire at age 55. When he isn’t at his manufacturing job, he enjoys reading about personal finance and investing. Juan, who is married with two children, can still be seen in the ring on the independent professional wrestling circuit. He wrestles as a Mexican Luchador under the name Latin Thunder. Follow him on Twitter @LatinThunder1. Juan's previous article was Taking on Tenants. [xyz-ihs snippet="Donate"]

IN THE FALL OF 1994, when I was 21, I made the trip south from Iowa down I-35 to Texas. I was starting my wrestling training on Commerce Street in downtown Dallas at Doug’s Gym. What I wasn’t expecting were the financial lessons I picked up from some of the colorful professional wrestlers of that era. Doug’s Gym wasn’t air-conditioned. It had a classic collection of weights and machines. I felt transported back in time, using the same equipment that Jack LaLanne and Steve Reeves would have used decades before. Doug Eidd still owned and ran the old-school gym, which he opened in 1962. The building was across the street from the police station where Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald days after President Kennedy’s assassination. I was there to meet Doug’s cousin, Skandor Akbar or, as we called him, Ak. His real name was Jim Wehba, and he was 60. He had the brawn, broken-down knees and walk of a retired professional wrestler. As I began to train and spend time at Doug’s Gym, we would get visitors. They all came to hear Ak’s stories. It became clear that Ak was good with his money. He was not wealthy. But over the years, he had made a good income working in some of the major wrestling territories. He’d spent time in New York working for Vince McMahon Sr. He’d made a good living there, despite missing out on the chance to have a Main Event program with the Italian-born strongman and champion Bruno Sammartino. Fellow Texan Stan Hansen broke Sammartino’s neck in Madison Square Garden, costing Ak his big payday. Instead of New York glory, Ak had extended stays in Georgia, Australia and the Dallas office of a promoter who had wrestled under the name Fritz Von Erich. But his home base became Mid-South Wrestling. Mid-South was a big territory that covered the states of Oklahoma, Louisiana, Mississippi and parts of Texas. Eventually, in the late 1970s, Ak transitioned out of the ring to become a manager. He participated in a great era of wrestling and made good money until the oil bust of 1987. That’s when Vince McMahon Jr.’s national expansion caused the old territory system to dry up. Unlike most wrestlers of that era, Ak saved his money. He lived frugally, though he always spent money on quality cars. He explained that he depended on a car’s reliability to get him to his bookings. Besides, he spent so much time driving, he wanted to be comfortable. A second big expense for Ak was taxes. Many wrestlers of that era failed to pay their quarterly taxes, so they often fell behind. Fines would follow from the IRS, so they would dig themselves into an even deeper hole. Since Ak paid his Social Security payroll taxes, he received benefits in his golden years. He also made a little cash from small wrestling bookings and the students he trained. Ak lived in a paid-off house, so he was comfortable. On the wall of Doug’s Gym was a tattered picture of another legendary wrestler, Bruiser Brody. Doug told me on my first day at the gym that he missed his deceased friend Bruiser, whose real name was Frank Goodish. Bruiser was another grappler known for his frugal ways. [xyz-ihs snippet="Mobile-Subscribe"] Bruiser ate tuna fish right out of the can to provide cheap, quality protein to his massive 6-foot 5-inch, 300-pound frame. If he was paying for a hotel room, Bruiser shared it whenever possible—along with the car rides to the next town. On the income side, Bruiser insisted on getting his full value when it was time to get paid. He often butted heads with promotors over his demands. He made a fortune for that time, earning more than $15,000 a week during tours of Japan. Tragically, Bruiser was stabbed to death backstage at a wrestling event in Puerto Rico in 1988. The final Texas wrestler who gave me a lesson in finance was John Layfield. In January 1995, Layfield came into the gym to work out with us. He wanted to keep his cardio in shape for his weekly title matches at The Sportatorium, an old Dallas wrestling venue. Layfield was flat broke then. He was signed as a free agent with the then-Los Angeles Raiders, but was released before the season. A year of football in the World League hadn’t amounted to much. Independent wrestling in Texas wasn’t paying well at the time. As he approached 30, Layfield was banking on his athletic background—and his 6-foot 6-inch frame—to make it to the big time in professional wrestling. The transformation he made from that first day in Doug’s Gym was amazing. After that practice session, I saw Layfield climb the ranks to WWE Champion, earning six figures. That was impressive but not surprising, given his talent and drive. It was his stock-picking abilities and business mind that transformed Layfield into a wealthy man. He’s been a featured financial commentator, first on CNBC and later on Fox Business Network. He began to run in circles that allowed him to meet his current wife, Meredith Whitney, a prominent investment manager. Those of us who enjoy reading and discussing money can find lessons in frugality and creating wealth everywhere. Even in a dusty old iron dungeon like Doug’s Gym, surrounded by sweaty, professional wrestlers living the circus life. Juan Fourneau’s goal is to retire at age 55. When he isn’t at his manufacturing job, he enjoys reading about personal finance and investing. Juan, who is married with two children, can still be seen in the ring on the independent professional wrestling circuit. He wrestles as a Mexican Luchador under the name Latin Thunder. Follow him on Twitter @LatinThunder1. Juan's previous articles were Why I Won't Wait and Taking on Tenants. [xyz-ihs snippet="Donate"]