Dec. 8, 1980. It’s one of those dates that stays with you.

Or at least it does if you grew up in the ‘60s. It comes one day after the “Day of Infamy,” which marks the surprise attack by the Japanese at Pearl Harbor that ushered the United States into World War II.

For music fans, Dec. 8 is also something of a day of infamy. It’s the day the music died. Again.

I was watching a Monday Night Football game when outrageous broadcaster Howard Cosell broke in with the news.

John Lennon, one of the members of the Beatles who along with Paul McCartney formed one of the most popular song-writing duos in history, had been shot as he entered The Dakota, the apartment building off Central Park where he lived in New York City. He died at a local hospital.

The man who asked us to “Imagine,” and that “All You Need is Love,” was taken away in an instant by crazed stalker wielding a handgun.

Years later my wife and I took a weekend trip to New York City. It was my Christmas gift to her. I was taking her to see her favorite hockey player, Eric Lindros, who was then plying his trade for the New York Rangers after a less-then-amicable split with the Flyers.

But there was something else I wanted to do that weekend. So after we visited Rockefeller Center and watched the folks skating on the outdoor rink, we walked past the Plaza Hotel and into Central Park. It took awhile, but eventually we came to the spot now known as “Strawberry Fields.” We stood at the marker etched with the single word, “Imagine,” in silence with a few other people, most of whom I noticed were about our age.

But there was still one other thing I wanted to do. So we walked across the street in search of The Dakota. It’s one of those building you kind of know the instant you see it. The Dakota is an eerie-looking Gothic structure. I didn’t want to intrude, but I did want to see it for myself.

I still wasn’t completely sure it was the place until the doorman with the topcoat appeared out front. There it was clearly marked on his chest: The Dakota.

I didn’t say a word, I just sort of stood there in silence.

I was stunned in just the short time we were standing there how many people came up and took pictures. One young couple actually asked the doorman to snap a shot of them standing in the doorway where Lennon was slain.

Not me. I just stood off at a distance and wondered if these kids knew what had been lost at this spot.

I guess I was as guilty as anyone else, turning it into a tourist spot. I was tempted to ask the doorman how often this happened, but I didn’t.

My wife was probably a bigger Beatles fan than I was. I’m sure she was mortified. We didn’t say a word. We simply stood there for awhile, then headed back into the park, past Strawberry Fields and eventually back to a world that was a much less better place because of what happened in the doorway to that building so many years before.