Some people who have manual jobs are just one injury away from becoming homeless.

Most Americans make a living without taking too much of a toll on their bodies, but millions of blue-collar workers rely on their bodies for income. Eventually, these workers will face a harsh reality: As they age, their bodies will limit the amount of work they can do. In May, I spoke with two older homeless men living in Venice. Their bodies served them well—until they didn’t. Both were talented athletes and aspired to play professional baseball, and later both found construction work, which paid well—until it stopped. In Los Angeles County, where rents are rising, they are forced to work in the construction industry. Average more than $2,000 a monthAnyone who has a manual job is especially vulnerable to becoming homeless. If we want to keep people off the streets, we need a stable support system for those who can no longer do the backbreaking work that once sustained them. Kenny and Daniel agreed to share their stories with The Times on the condition that their last names not be used. —Robert Karron

Kenny

My name is Kenny and I am 59 years old. I was born and raised in Santa Monica. I went to Grant Elementary School, John Adams Middle School, and Santa Monica High School. I am a slow learner, and when I was in high school, my grades were slipping: A's turned into C's. Teachers don't have time for people who don't catch on quickly. Plus, I was into sports (anything involving a ball) and was on every team they had. That made studying harder. Practicing…that's two hours out of your day, easy.

I was a good baseball pitcher. In the minor leagues, a famous pitcher and coach, Burt Hooton, saw me play and told my father that I had an “exciting arm” with my curveball, but that he could teach me to throw a knuckleball, which wouldn’t hurt my arm as much. You can’t hit those balls. You don’t know where it’s going. It’s like a face coming at you. He taught me, and I got good. Even today, people call me “Knuckles.” We finished second that year.

I left Samohi and enrolled at Olympic, the alternative high school. After that, I played baseball for the American Legion, but I wasn’t big enough. I’m only 5’8”. My arm isn’t long enough to throw a 90- or 100-mph fastball, where you need it. My fastball, on a good day, is 80 miles an hour. So I reached my full potential early. Everyone around me grew up and everyone got better. I left that league and played for another league for two years as a switch-hitter before I started hanging out with my friends in Lake Havasu. I had made rich friends in Santa Monica. They would invite me out on their $125,000 boats.

I went into construction. I was a journeyman carpenter for 10 years. I trained at Cal State Northridge, after the earthquake. I started as an apprentice, but after two years I was already at the top. We had to rebuild that whole place. We tore down the library and built it again from scratch. I felt bad for that school. But math hurt me, all that technical drawing. It was like going back to high school. I thought, “If you're not going to help me, I'm just leaving.”

I moved back to Santa Monica and started surfing and skateboarding professionally, and I hung out with Jay Adams, Jeff Ho, and Tony Alva (I saw Tony a few months ago, on the Boardwalk). Check out my Dogtown tattoo: “POP,” after Pacific Ocean Park, our place. I also worked at a few golf clubs. I think I always focused on sports because I felt like I couldn’t hang out with the smart kids, the Bs, the intellectuals. There was a huge divide.

I continued to work as a carpenter. Those rich friends always had construction projects they needed help with. The father of one of my sons owned an apartment complex and I worked on it. If someone asks me, I still do construction work. I'd rather work than not. But it doesn't pay much and for the last 20 years I've been in and out of apartments or staying with friends. For the last 10 years I've been in this car. I once had a house with a friend in Valencia, but when she started being pushy, I told her she'd be better off without me. I grabbed my El Camino, my skateboard, my wetsuit and my trophies and said, “Have a nice day.”

Things took a turn in 1999 when I lost my driver’s license. I had a great job, maybe my favorite of all. My friend’s dad got me a job: freight forwarder for Gateway Freight Services at the Los Angeles airport. I got on planes before anyone else. I had all these patches on my arm. We moved 1,500-pound pallets—I worked with some Samoan guys who just loaded them onto the truck—but I needed a forklift. I did that for four years. But when I lost my license, I lost that job.

My father owned a gas station on Lincoln Boulevard and Rose Avenue in Venice, across the street from where Whole Foods is now (yes, next to La Cabaña). When he died, my brothers sold his house and I got $100,000. I rented a place with that amount, of course. I lived there for a few years. But then the money ran out.

Daniel

My name is Daniel and I am 64 years old. I was born in Oxnard and had a great childhood. My mother was a social worker and my father was a contractor. I was valedictorian my senior year in high school. I went to Cal State Northridge on a baseball scholarship and played shortstop. I loved my classes. Paula Abdul was in one of them. I was very good at math, but I wanted to play professional baseball and I focused so much on that that I didn't finish. I still have four or five classes left.

“Construction is bad for your knees,” Daniel said. “It all started with baseball, but since then I’ve had five knee surgeries.”

(Robert Karron)

After college I worked for an electrical company. I had made contacts with all these contractors because they sponsored summer leagues. When work was slow, I took jobs with Ferro's, a framing contractor. That was a steady job for seven years. But I got tired of the Valley and moved back to Ventura, where I worked as a mortgage lender—construction loans, refinancing. Because of my math skills, I was good at it, but it didn't interest me. There's no base pay. It's all commission. Some months I made $8,000, other months nothing. After five years, I quit and went to work for my father at the cement finishers union, Local 741, in Ventura. I had cousins ​​there, my brothers, lots of friends. I worked 10 years with him. We poured patios, house foundations. Because we were union members, we made $42 an hour, and this was in 1991. I went to night school some semesters, trying to make up for the classes I missed, but I'm not done yet. I was busy. My son was born in 1993.

Then the unions went under. We had to stop unionizing. We had no benefits, no insurance. We would go to union headquarters, but they had no work. Meanwhile, outside, these contractors were saying, “We need help and we pay $250 a day, cash.” I had a baby at home. I said, “I’m out of here.” I was the first one to jump. At first everyone was angry, but then the next week, they were working right next to me.

Construction is bad for your knees. It started with baseball, but I've had five knee surgeries since then. I had my knee replaced in 2012. After a while, I couldn't work without pain. I was limping. I got my inspector's license. I did home inspections for six years, but it didn't pay well, so I started working as a contractor on my own, working for another contractor who was licensed. I did kitchens, room additions; I hired my brothers. But by 2001, construction had dried up. Then I broke up with the mother of my son.

My sister lives in San Luis Obispo and owned a body shop with her husband. I worked there for two years. The money wasn't great, but it was enough to pay $400 in child support. Sometimes I would go to a famous restaurant called Jocko's, which has been there forever. That's where I met Kim. We were together for 10 years before she passed away from breast cancer on August 29, 2010. She was my best partner in the world. On her deathbed, she asked me if I would marry her so she could die as my wife, so I did.

The first year of her illness, the insurance covered most of it. Then they started cutting back on payments (it's in the fine print). When she passed away, I had nothing. I sold my car, I sold all kinds of stuff. I came back to Ventura and met Cindy. We got along. I moved in with her; we were together for six years. She wanted to get married, but I didn't want to get married anymore. That was four years ago.

I moved in with cousins ​​and paid their rent. I moved in with another friend and paid him. I was back and forth. I went to Vegas for a month, Laughlin for six. Last December, I drove to see my friend Andy in Venice. We do this every Christmas—we spend the week together playing golf. The second night we went to the movies and the escalators weren’t working. We walked up and near the top there were ice cubes on a step. Both of my feet slipped out from under me. Those escalators are stainless steel and they’re sharp. I broke my left hand, my wrist, separated my shoulder, and cut my right knee. The theater said they would take care of it and they have insurance, but I ended up having to hire a lawyer. I’ve been going to therapy three times a week for 15 months, but my fingers are still numb.

Now I'm stuck here, because my doctor, my physical therapist, and my lawyers are all here. I lived on Andy's couch for a while, but I finally said no. I went to my car. After six months, I took it to the service center, and they tried to charge me more than it was worth. I told them to keep it. For four months, I was in a tent. That was bad. I got this van last week, for $500. I'm trying to get into a shelter—I mean, I'm disabled, I'm elderly, and I'm low-income… But I haven't found anything yet, and I'm not sure how much longer it will be until my lawyer settles with the theater's insurance company.

Robert Karron teaches English at Santa Monica College. @robertkarron