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In July of 2004, on my 36th birthday, Jim pulled me aside with that familiar mix of mischief and sincerity in his eyes. He told me he wanted me to be the next caretaker of his newly acquired 2004 Pontiac GTO. It wasn’t a sales pitch. It wasn’t a favor. It felt like a passing of the torch. A quiet acknowledgment that he saw something in me, something that mirrored the fire he carried for decades.