My great-uncle Jim passed away in 1995. He was a carpenter by trade, living in the the town he and my grandfather had helped build for Uncle Sam back when “Oak Ridge” were words that would bring the FBI to your door. He introduced me to baseball, pitched me windfall apples to swing at in the church parking lot. And when he died, the picture at his bedside was not of his children, his family, or even his patriotic youth - but of Neyland Stadium from overhead, in 1982, on the day that the Vols beat Alabama at home for the last time of his life.
I Want To Believe
