Listening to John Ward, I see my dad. See him in the garage, after dark, bright lights inside and yellow pools of light out at the road under the streetlamps. Hood of the car open, but ignored for now. My old man is leaning against the counter by his electric grinder, smoking a cigarette and bringing his head down close to the silver-and-black transistor radio he has owned for probably 40 years. Ward's gravelly voice is coming through the speaker. And every time John Ward gets excited, my dad gets excited. Pumps a fist in the air, turns and smiles at me, says something about those Vols of ours.
My dad died three years ago. I miss having him with us for games more than I miss him anywhere else. John Ward's voice brings him back, every time.
Go Vols!