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From Johnny Hiko: My mama died bringing me into this world. Dad named me after her father – figured it was the least he could do to keep her memory close. Growing up, my old man was everything to me. He had this quiet strength about him, you know? Could be tough when he needed to be, but there was always warmth underneath. I remember being eight years old, flying down a hill on my bike with no brakes, screaming my head off as I headed straight for the cliffs above the river. Out of nowhere, Dad came running – caught those handlebars just before I went over. We went tumbling together, scraped up and bruised, but we were alive. That was him. Always there when it counted. He never had much – no college degree, no inheritance. Just calloused hands and a stubborn Irish heart that refused to let me go without. Spent his last dollars on my football gear, drove me to every practice. Made me the best player our little town had seen. He'd raised Catholic, and he lived by it too. "Treat people the way you'd want to be treated, son" – I must've heard that a thousand times. Evenings, he'd sit on the porch with a beer and sing these old Irish songs. Never played an instrument, but man, he had a voice that could stop you in your tracks. Women took notice, sure they did. But after Mama, he never looked at another. Everything changed when the Army reported me missing in Afghanistan. Neighbors told me later that he just... broke. They'd find him on that old bench outside our house, watching the road like I might come walking up any minute. That's where he was when his heart finally gave out. He didn't leave me money – the house had been mortgaged so many times there was nothing left. But what he did give me? That was worth more than any inheritance. He taught me that you keep going, no matter what life throws at you. You see it through. And honestly? That lesson's gotten me through things I never thought I'd survive. This song is for him.