It was August, and I recall it being an overcast day. I was driving toward that which we locals refer to as “Hamburger Hill.” It got its name from the several fast-food restaurants that sit up on the hill near the highway in this rural northern Michigan community called West Branch. The news on the radio caught me off-guard; the lump in my throat caused me to lose my appetite.

On that day, fifteen-years ago, I lost my boyhood idol – Mickey Mantle. I was a thirty-five year old man, so I surprised myself when my eyes began to water, and I started to sob. I pulled into the parking lot of a local business, and listened to the rest of the story about how “The Mick” had lost his battle with cancer. I sat there in a daze for several minutes after the news report ended.

Many years have passed since that day; almost sixteen to be more precise. I have often thought about the men who I looked up to – my heroes. Their passing has made me very aware of the mere mortal that I am.

The fact that most of my heroes were baseball players speaks volumes as to why I am a die-hard fan of the game. Given that I was born, and raised, in Michigan the Detroit Tigers were then, and are still today, my favorite team. That however, didn’t limit my hero worship to players on the Tigers; Mickey Mantle, a lifelong New York Yankee, was evidence of that.

On Tuesday of this week I lost another hero – Harmon Killebrew. Killer, as he was known, was a classy-leader, yet quiet man. His nickname came from his last name along with his proficiency at slamming home runs. I never told anyone of my high regards toward the gentle giant from the Minnesota Twins baseball team. It is something I have always kept to myself due to the reason I was drawn toward him.

To me Harmon Killebrew seemed like he was a regular guy. He never appeared to put himself above the average Joe who went to work every day to feed his family; like – oh I don’t know – let’s say a firefighter. The kind of guy, that had he not made it in the major leagues, would have been content living life watching his son become a man.

I remember being a young boy, and opening a pack of Topps baseball cards like I had done many times before. The distinctive smell of the wax-wrapped package along with the small piece of bubble-gum is etched in my brain forever. As I rifled through deck I stopped cold on one of the cards. It was, as I saw it, a spitting image of my father. Dad played minor league baseball for a short time, and for a split-second I knew what it felt like to have a father who played major-league baseball. Then I looked at the name on the card – Harmon Killebrew. Until now I have never told anyone of this moment, nor of my secret admiration for Harmon Killebrew.

Harmon Killebrew was a very good man, and although he never knew I existed, I felt an empty feeling when I heard of his passing. I lost my secret hero when Mr. Killebrew passed away on Tuesday, and I lost my father all over again.

R.I.P. Mr. Killebrew.