I READ THE NEWS TODAY, OH BOY, ABOUT THE LUCKY MAN WHO MADE THE GRADE...

 

By Juan Montoya

Like the assassination of John F. Kennedy in 1963, the murder of John Lennon on December 8, 1980 was an index point for our generation and we all remember what we were doing on that day when we heard the news that he had ben assassinated by the insect named Mark Chapman. 

I was typing a term paper for a mass communication graduate course at the University of Wisconsin in Madison, Wisconsin. I was sitting on the floor in the middle of our living room of our apartment in Eagle Heights married housing surrounded by books open to tabs which I was using as citations for the paper. The television set was on and the chatter of Frank Gifford and Howard Cosell droned mindlessly as I typed. The New England Patriots and the Miami Dolphins were playing. The game was almost over.

Then came the news.

Cosell:... but [the game]'s suddenly been placed in total perspective for us. I'll finish this; they're in the hurry-up offense.

Gifford: Third down, four. Chuck Foreman... it'll be fourth down. Matt Cavanaugh will let it run down for one final attempt; he'll let the seconds tick off to give Miami no opportunity whatsoever. (Whistle blows.) Timeout is called; three seconds remaining; John Smith is on the line. And I don't care what's on the line, Howard, you have got to say what we know in the booth.

Cosell: Yes, we have to say it. Remember this is just a football game, no matter who wins or loses. An unspeakable tragedy confirmed to us by ABC News in New York City: John Lennon, outside of his apartment building on the West Side of New York City – the most famous, perhaps, of all of the Beatles – shot twice in the back, rushed to Roosevelt Hospital, dead on arrival. Hard to go back to the game after that newsflash, which, in duty-bound, we have to take. Frank?

Gifford: (after a pause) Indeed, it is.

Stunned, I rose, put on my winter boots and heavy coat and walked out of the apartment and started walking toward the student Memorial Union. Finishing the term paper – due the next morning – no longer seemed urgent, or important.

Since bus service had stopped for the night, I decided to walk directly across frozen Lake Mendota and – guided by the lights of the building across the lake – walked out onto the ice. The ice groaned and  made cracking sounds that seemed to travel under the ice but I continued on. In the distance, a few other people were making the trek across the ice. I convinced myself that it was the frigid air blowing over the ice and snow drifts that was making my eyes tear up in the darkness.

When we got to the other side, we walked quietly inside the building and into the Rathskeller. We looked at each other - total strangers bonded by his music - as if for confirmation of the awful news and gathered in small groups. But yes, it was true.

The Rathskeller crew turned on the radio to the Madison public radio station which played Beatles and Lennon songs as people stood in silence. The grief was palpable. No one said a word, and after the music died, we all left toward our respective living quarters, knowing we would all remember that dark, cold night 45 years ago today. 

"It's funny how one insect, can damage so much grain..."