In My Life
I had been looking forward to this evening for several weeks. The New England Patriots were on national television, and while they had been slumping after a fast start, they were poised to finally beat the Miami Dolphins in their home stadium for the first time since 1966.
The semester would be ending shortly, providing limitless opportunities to shock my parents with my red beard. (To my chagrin, I predated the sexy Kurt Cobain "grunge" thing by ten years; to my peers I just looked like a shaggy Viking rabbi.) Beer in hand, I watched the game on the television set at the campus pub with fellow refugees from the Boston area. Tied at 13, deep in the fourth quarter, the usually dependable Patriots kicker, John Smith, lined up for a chip shot field goal that would win the game. All was right with the world.
Then I heard Howard Cosell mutter something about John Lennon, which sounded incongruent to the action on the field. Did he say he was shot? I was trying to digest this absurd notion when Smith's kick missed the mark. The game was going into overtime, but we were too busy turning the TV dial, looking in those pre-CNN days for a local news broadcast.
A news announcer quickly confirmed the worst. John Lennon was dead, shot twice in the back by a deranged man outside of the Dakota in New York.
Lennon remains an enigmatic figure to me, because the Beatles sang directly to a slightly older generation than mine. Sadly, my initial impressions of the Fab Four came from a cheesy Saturday morning cartoon; they might as well have been a creation of Hanna Barbera for all I knew. Over time I grew to love the music, but missed the early passion that galvanized screaming teenage girls to produce decibels loud enough to fill Shea Stadium.
Yet, on a cold, overcast December afternoon, only a few days after Lennon's passing, I stood in a circle with a group of college classmates, too young to remember the Ed Sullivan show, too old to ignore an artist who managed to mix loud music with a quiet message of hope, human decency and peace. We held hands and shared reflective thoughts, and after about 10 minutes, the circle turned to me to provide some final words before we returned to the term papers and final exams that defined our lives in those days.
I chose not to use my own, and offered these instead:
"One day you'll look to see I've gone. For tomorrow may rain, so I'll follow the sun."
The semester would be ending shortly, providing limitless opportunities to shock my parents with my red beard. (To my chagrin, I predated the sexy Kurt Cobain "grunge" thing by ten years; to my peers I just looked like a shaggy Viking rabbi.) Beer in hand, I watched the game on the television set at the campus pub with fellow refugees from the Boston area. Tied at 13, deep in the fourth quarter, the usually dependable Patriots kicker, John Smith, lined up for a chip shot field goal that would win the game. All was right with the world.
Then I heard Howard Cosell mutter something about John Lennon, which sounded incongruent to the action on the field. Did he say he was shot? I was trying to digest this absurd notion when Smith's kick missed the mark. The game was going into overtime, but we were too busy turning the TV dial, looking in those pre-CNN days for a local news broadcast.
A news announcer quickly confirmed the worst. John Lennon was dead, shot twice in the back by a deranged man outside of the Dakota in New York.
Lennon remains an enigmatic figure to me, because the Beatles sang directly to a slightly older generation than mine. Sadly, my initial impressions of the Fab Four came from a cheesy Saturday morning cartoon; they might as well have been a creation of Hanna Barbera for all I knew. Over time I grew to love the music, but missed the early passion that galvanized screaming teenage girls to produce decibels loud enough to fill Shea Stadium.
Yet, on a cold, overcast December afternoon, only a few days after Lennon's passing, I stood in a circle with a group of college classmates, too young to remember the Ed Sullivan show, too old to ignore an artist who managed to mix loud music with a quiet message of hope, human decency and peace. We held hands and shared reflective thoughts, and after about 10 minutes, the circle turned to me to provide some final words before we returned to the term papers and final exams that defined our lives in those days.
I chose not to use my own, and offered these instead:
"One day you'll look to see I've gone. For tomorrow may rain, so I'll follow the sun."
posted by msockol at 6:03 AM
1 Comments:
What a sad, unbelieveable day it was. My eyes still tear when remembering. Not young enough to have been groupy or a screaming teen, my heart was often touched by his words. Imagine!
Post a Comment
Links to this post:
Create a Link
<< Home