I feel stupid. Here is my memory of 30 years ago yesterday, the night John Lennon was murdered:
I was 8. The Patriots played the Dolphins in Miami that night on Monday Night Football. It was a big game with playoff implications. This was back when the Orange Bowl jinx -- the Patriots went 19 years without winning a game in Miami -- was still on. My parents allowed me to stay up to watch the first quarter. I was in bed when Lennon was shot and killed and my parents actually got me out of bed (oftentimes I had trouble sleeping as a kid; come to think if it I still do), after Howard Cosell announced, with seconds left in the fourth quarter and the Patriots lining up for a potential game-winning field goal, that Lennon had been shot and killed.
As an 8-year-old, I barely knew who the president was. My first thought was: "Wow, John Lennon. I've actually heard of him." My second thought was: "What's the score?"
Patriots kicker John Smith missed the field goal. My parents let me stay up a little while. The Patriots lost 16-13 in overtime; the loss eliminated them from playoff contention.
The next morning, my third-grade teacher said there was a big news story last night and could anyone explain what it was. I raised my hand and grumbled, "Yeah, the Patriots had a chance to make the playoffs last night and they blew it." I could tell pretty quickly that wasn't the news story she was thinking of.