On December 8, 1980, John Lennon died in front of his Manhattan home.
It was the first "Kennedy moment" in my life, a memory that still seems fresh, almost like it happened yesterday. My ritual of falling asleep while listening to an old-school "digital" clock radio (the one with the rotating flat panels for each number), was jarringly interrupted by the breaking news that John Lennon had been shot in New York City. I leapt out of bed, ran downstairs, and stood motionless in front of the TV as Howard Cosell, on Monday Night Football, announced that John Lennon was dead. One of my heroes had been murdered, and it simply did not make any sense.