Love's a gift that's surely handmade

RIP to a couple of folks with absolutely no connection to each other.

Yeah, I had this card

Except in my memories.

June 19, 1966, was the date of my first major league game. Yankee Stadium, Mickey Mantle, the green grass in the outfield that went on forever. A shrine. A cathedral.

Tiger second baseman Dick McAuliffe threw cold water on my dreams that day, hitting two home runs that accounted for both Detroit runs in a 2-1 victory. Jim Bouton was the losing pitcher for my Yankees team that had begun the long drop to despair.

But that Tigers squad was loaded: Al Kaline, Norm Cash and Bill Freehan would form the nucleus, along with Denny McLain and Mickey Lolich, for a great World Series-winning team two years later.

I'd forgotten about McAuliffe over the years, but not the way he made me feel that overcast day in the Bronx. That feeling was multiplied by the trip home, when my Dad got lost (which he always did when we drove to the City). I think it took us about 8 hours to get home. I still remember my Mother shaking her head in front seat.

But I wouldn't trade that memory for anything.

I bought Guy Clark's "Old No. 1" album in a long-gone record store in Wilkes-Barre when it came out. It was featured on a rack and it caught my eye. I was just getting knee-deep in Texas singer-songwriter fascination: Jerry Jeff Walker was an early favorite and his covers of "Desperadoes Waiting for a Train," and "L.A. Freeway" were both immense, and I knew Clark had written them.

I still love "Old No. 1" (just listened to it the other day), with this being a song that still sticks with me -- the imagery here puts me smack-dab in that West Texas town on that hot day. Like "Desperadoes," it paints a vivid landscape of beauty and wonder:

I saw Clark several times, and his songs broke my heart time and time again. But, unlike Dick McAuliffe, it was a heart that was broken in a sweet and satisfying way.