The headline atop the column written by Tom Powers, the fine sportswriter for the St. Paul Pioneer-Press, said it succinctly and perfectly: “It Just Got Harder To Find An Old-Fashioned Sports Hero”

On Tuesday, May 17, we lost Harmon Killebrew and the world is a slightly emptier place, left with less class and grace than it had when Harmon was with us. True, he was a magnificent ballplayer who rightfully earned a place in Cooperstown, but any person who ever had the chance to be near him knew he was far more than that, and the hollow pang of mourning is not so much for the loss of a Hall Of Fame slugger, but more for the loss of a truly great human being. Harmon the man was far more important than Harmon the slugger.

Harmon Killebrew was my first “favorite player” when I was a youngster, growing up with my tattered TC cap on, running around the yard and the neighborhood in Kirkwood, Mo.  It was a lot harder to be a Twins fan in St. Louis then than it is now. No cable, no internet, no satellite dish, and for much of Harmon’s career no color! There was one MLB game on the small black & white box every week, on Saturday afternoon, and I considered it a holiday if the Twins were ever on the “Game Of The Week”.

Still, somehow, my brief brushes with Harmon in spring training and the richness of the stories told to me by my father, had me firmly lined up in the Killebrew camp from the time I put my first Rawlings glove on my hand. He was bigger than life, stronger than an ox, and no doubt able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. He shaped the Twins franchise then, and he maintained his position as its duly appointed leader until yesterday.

Harmon was the face of the franchise, and his grace and class were exceeded only by his lifelong dedication to Twins baseball. His leadership spanned multiple generations and the ups and downs that have taken the club from World Series championships to the brink of extinction, and then back to the top as one of the model teams in the American League.

Through it all, from an old outdoor ballpark that would be replaced by a gigantic mall (complete with indoor amusement park) to a sterile multipurpose indoor stadium with a roof held up by pressurized air, a field made of plastic, and an outfield wall that doubled as a Baggie, and finally to a fabulous new outdoor venue that redefines the term “ballpark.” He was there. Number 3.

Today’s Twins were not born the last time Harmon swung a bat, but they adored and revered him. Last night, in Seattle, the team dealt with their loss and were touched by the class displayed by the Mariners, who offered up a tribute and a moment of silence before the first pitch. They then went on to snap a 9-game losing streak, as if they knew there would be hell to pay if they didn’t get their act together on the day Harmon died.

Twins TV announcers Dick Bremer and Bert Blyleven handled their duties with the same sort of class and dignity, but it was clearly not easy for either of them to get through the night.

There is a genuine pall and a sadness in the Twin Cities today. We didn’t lose a ballplayer, we lost a father figure and a hero. We lost a reason for being lifelong Twins fans. We lost a great man. There will never be another Harmon Killebrew.

For a while, yesterday, I wondered why Harmon’s death was hitting me so hard. After all, I was born and raised in St. Louis and only saw a single solitary Twins game at Metropolitan Stadium. I met him a number of times, but have known other big league stars far better. I am sad at the loss of each one of them, but Harmon’s passing was different. Why?

Because he was my first favorite player. From the time I was 5 until now, edging close to 55, Harmon has always been my favorite player. When Barbara and I had the wonderful good fortune to move to the Twin Cities in 2002, I finally “came home” to my favorite team and found that my favorite player was STILL the face of the franchise. And now he is gone…

Rest in peace, Harmon. We will never know another quite like you. And you will always be my favorite player.