Everyone needs a guy like Jim somewhere in their life. And the best place for a guy like Jim is usually right next door.

But before we talk about Jim, allow me to provide some backstory, and to make one fact abundantly clear:

The doctor described the injury — and I quote — as “manly.” Well, maybe not the injury itself, but the way it happened.

And, yes, she also said it was “stupid.” And she also used the words “poor choices.” But sometimes, as she said, those modifiers are not mutually exclusive.

The story begins on a mostly cloudy Thursday in mid- April, 15 years ago. The next day, my brothers and I had tickets to catch a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. But for now, I had a mission to fix my car and stop it from overheating. Again.

It was a recurring problem that had already soaked up more money and time than it should have and had recurred once more, the day before.

That car and I had already spent lengthy sessions together for months, as I would try not to lose my cool while trying to prevent the car from blowing its top, too. Yet, here I was, the day before a trip into the city, after a day at work, trying once more to keep the car from overheating while on the way to the Friendly Confines.

Already, I’m sure you’re thinking: Even if you’re too broke to pay someone to fix it (I was), why not ask for help? Or: Why not take the train into the city and fix the car over the weekend?

Those are all good, logical questions. And for none of them do I have a good answer.

In any event, there I was, about five feet from my open garage door (an important detail), beginning to make progress on the repair, when the sky clouded over. Then, unexpectedly, a few drops of rain spattered down, signaling this car repair was about to take a dark turn.

Certainly, you say, now just close the hood and wait for another day. And you’d be right. But that was not to be one of those days.

Instead, I decided to continue the repair, only inside the first few feet of my otherwise cluttered garage. After all, that was all I needed. (Remember: poor choices.)

However, at this point, starting the car and driving those few feet forward into the garage was no longer an option. So, after a few moments of contemplating, I did what any manly man would have done. Or at least a “manly man” whose logic center has gone to lunch.

I would attempt to push the car into the garage. By myself.

This wasn’t something I would have attempted then if it wasn’t something I had already done — successfully — on several prior occasions since becoming a licensed driver and proud owner of a series of beater cars.

This time, however, was not like the others. As I went to plant my right foot behind me and began to push, a bullet hit the back of my right ankle. No, I’ve never actually been shot. Yet I imagine that is what being shot in the back of the ankle would feel like.

What happened next is a blur. All I know for sure is somehow the car was put back in park before it rolled helplessly into the street.

And then, when I stepped out of the car, I faceplanted into the hood of my car, unable to walk.

An MRI two days later would confirm the diagnosis: A torn Achilles tendon. And that meant a surgery, followed by a long and painful recovery period — a recovery that would last most of the summer.

It also meant a long and helpless period spent either on the couch or hobbling around on crutches or, later, in an air boot, while we waited for the surgical repairs and physical therapy to do its work.

And as a homeowner, the recovery period meant weeks of watching my household chores and improvement projects pile up, or go unfinished.

Or it would have, but for Jim and a few others.

As soon as my neighbor heard the news, he flew into action. Every week, the sounds of his mower and weed whacker would buzz through our windows, leaving my grass and fencelines looking better than ever.

The gate that had broken over the winter mysteriously fixed itself.

By the end of the summer, there were tomatoes and cucumbers to harvest in our garden, even though I never planted them.

My outside front stairs were painted.

And that car? Within a few weeks, it was fixed, never to overheat again. (I helped with that one, to be clear.)

By September, it was obvious that a summer that began in disaster had instead transformed into a miracle, mostly thanks to a super neighbor and those other friends and family who stepped up to make sure my family didn’t miss a beat, until I could literally get back on my feet.

So to my fellow dads and other men, please accept my hope that my little ditty here encourages and inspires in at least three ways.

First, remember: One poor choice does not need to beget worse choices.

Second, don’t be afraid to ask for help, either before or after the aforementioned “poor choices.

And finally, and most importantly, definitely find someone like Jim.

Or even better, become like Jim, for someone else. Because there will come a day when all of us will find ourselves flat on our backs, in need of some help, whether or not it may be the result of our own stupid, “manly” choices.