Thurman Munson and the American thirst for further maudlin heights of mourning
I can tell you, as a matter of fact, when it first started. It began, I can tell you with great certitude, on a January day in 1965 when they buried Winston Churchill with proper ceremony and circumstance. I used to live, by the way, about a block away from the Grand Old Man and could glimpse, on special days, the pale, fading face at the window as he made occasional feeble attempts to satisfy gawking tourist cameras.
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