This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2016, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

Chicago White Sox player Adam LaRoche announced his retirement from baseball after being told by the club president to reduce the frequency of bringing his 14-year-old son, Drake LaRoche, to work.

Adam, who brought Drake to work as often as possible, will lose the $13 million left on his two-year contract. That's how strongly he feels about having a close relationship with his son.

Lots of kids might like going to work with their fathers, provided the work involves doing something interesting. I'd have a hard time believing Drake LaRoche would want to spend every day at work with his father if the job were selling auto insurance instead of professional baseball.

How many 14-year-olds would want to job-shadow a parent who worked as a schoolteacher, assembly line worker, sewage pumper, newspaper columnist or a street sweeper? I'm not seeing a lot of hands right now.

When I was a kid, the Old Man had an interesting job. He was a criminal investigator for the military. He took me with him to work three times.

The first time I was excited. I thought I was going to watch him catch criminals. I'd follow him into an opium den or an illegal gambling operation. If I was lucky, there might even be gunplay involved.

It didn't take long to realize that he took me only to give Mom a break. It was a Saturday and he and the other agents had decided to repaint their offices. I WAS the criminal and the "take your kid to work day" was more of a work-release situation.

The second time was a bit more exciting. The Old Man took me on a three-day road trip through Montana, Idaho and Wyoming. This would have been either '69 or '70, and he was tracking down discharged soldiers who had witnessed the My Lai massacre in Vietnam.

Since I had to sit in an office, the car or a motel room while he conducted interviews, I looked forward to getting back out on the road. Without Mom's stern warnings, the Old Man drove 100 mph on Montana's backroads and highways.

I am not exaggerating. One. Hundred. Miles. Per. Hour. We hit a bird and it exploded. I couldn't believe this was the same guy who blew his top after I got my first speeding ticket.

When I pointed out the irony to him, he gave me the best advice a father could. "Don't tell your mom" and "There is no speed limit in Montana."

The third time was just as memorable, although nowhere near as fun. I was older and more defiant. He had to run into the office and pick up a case file. He told me to have the yard mowed by the time he got back.

We got into an argument over whether I would mow the lawn or hitchhike 30 miles to see this girl I liked (who, as it turned out, didn't like me). The Old Man was death on me hitchhiking ever since the time the highway patrol brought me home.

We went the rounds. Mow the lawn. Go see Roxanne. Mow the lawn. Go see Rox— urk!

The lawn didn't get mowed before he got back. But I still lost the argument — I ended up running into the office as well, handcuffed to the passenger seat.

Worse than going to work with my father that day was years later going into the same line of work and doing exactly the same thing to perfect strangers.

None of my daughters or grandchildren will end up doing what I'm doing now. They're completely bored by it.

According to my oldest grandson, "He just writes words on the computer and cusses."

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley