I was an altar boy at St. John’s Church in East Bridgewater, Mass., my hometown (population 8,500 at the time). It was my mother’s idea. I would have preferred my father’s suggestion for a kid to make a few bucks on weekends: setting pins in an old bowling alley in a Brockton social club. But the more godly choice won out and I went into altar boy boot camp. I learned all the Latin prayers only to have the Vatican approve the Mass in English a f…
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