Reflecting on tears through music and memories

“There’s no crying in baseball!” Tom Hanks once exclaimed in “A League of Their Own,” but he didn’t rule it out in popular music.

Here, in chronological order, is a baker’s dozen of my favorites:

—“Tears on My Pillow,” Little Anthony and the Imperials (1958).

—“As Tears Go By,” the Rolling Stones (1964).

—“Crying Time,” Ray Charles (1966).

—“96 Tears,” ? and the Mysterians (1966).

—“Tracks of My Tears,” Johnny Rivers (1967).

—“Cry Like a Baby,” the Box Tops (1968).

—“Tears of a Clown,” Smokey Robinson and the Miracles (1970).

—“Cry Baby,” Janis Joplin (1970).

—“Cry Me a River,” Joe Cocker (1970).

—“Don’t Cry Now,” Linda Ronstadt (1973).

—“Before the Next Teardrop Falls,” Freddie Fender (1975).

—“Don’t Cry No Tears,” Neil Young (1975).

—“Here Come Those Tears Again,” Jackson Browne (1976).

Crying, the specialists say, is unique to humans, so if you’re a believer in crocodile tears, consider yourself educated, even if you’ve experienced a person well-schooled in the practice of producing fake tears whenever it suits their duplicitous purpose.

She — or he — is (as the Rolling Stones wisely said in “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”) practiced at the art of deception.

Cornered politicians and preachers who run afoul of the morality police are especially adept at turning on the waterworks on cue.

It’s a childish thing to do, something most people outgrow in adolescence, a nasty habit to leave behind before it’s too late.

Crying is an intensely visceral reaction and can express sadness, joy, relief or appreciation. It’s most often done privately, but there have been memorable times when it happens in the public eye.

Think back to Nov. 22, 1963, when Walter Cronkite choked back a sob as he informed a stunned audience hanging on his every word that John F. Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas. Even “America’s Conscience,” as he was known, had to fight his emotions as he delivered the devastating news.

“The flash, apparently official,” he said, removing his glasses and looking into the eyes of a nation. “President Kennedy died at 1 p.m. Central Standard Time … some 38 minutes ago.”

And then there was Jim McKay, the TV voice of the 1972 Summer Olympics in Munich, who had the unenviable task of reporting the deaths of 11 Israeli athletes, ending a draining hostage crisis.

“They’re all gone,” he said softly, his eyes moist with unshed tears.

We cry at movies, sometimes ones we’ve seen over and over again.

This might be a guy thing, but when Kevin Costner plays catch with his father at the end of “Field of Dreams,” I’m a goner.

It gets me every … single … time.

The same thing happens when “It’s a Wonderful Life” is winding down, the moment when Jimmy Stewart realizes he’s so lucky.

“Remember: No man is a failure who has friends,” reads the inscription from his guardian angel. “Thanks for the wings!”

When “Auld Lang Syne” starts up, my tears start falling again.

And that brings us to the story of Jack, a good-natured, friendly Springer Spaniel, and the way our lives became entwined for a time.

It was a rainy evening in Columbus, about this time of year, and my best friend and I were walking along High Street, the busiest thoroughfare in the capital city, especially on Saturday nights.

Suddenly, we became aware of a little dog, apparently all alone, making his way through the puddles, getting splashed by passing cars as he trotted alongside the curb. He was soaked and looked miserable, and it was clear he was in real danger of getting hit.

I scooped him up, and we examined him in the shelter of a bus stop, looking for a collar with a nametag, something to identify him. We scanned the passersby, hoping his owner might walk by, but that too proved futile. It was late, and we were running out of options.

“We can’t just leave him,” I said as the rain intensified, “right?”

I’d known my friend since junior high, and we’d been through some adventures together, some of which were, well, risky, but we’d always come out the other side relatively intact. Most recently, we’d spent the week between Christmas and New Year’s in Jamaica, an exotic place where, let’s just say, we had a lot of fun.

But this was a mission of mercy, not merriment, and we quickly agreed we’d take the dog back to his apartment, just for the night. After that, as was our custom, we’d figure something out.

Once out of the chilly rain, I used a beach towel to dry him off as my friend filled a dish with Chinese leftovers. I poured us a couple of healthy shots of Jack Daniel’s while my friend turned on the TV.

Believe it or not, “One-Eyed Jacks,” with Marlon Brando, was on.

Henceforth, that affable Springer Spaniel would be known as Jack.

In the morning, unbidden, he trotted behind me as I got into my Chevy Impala, ready for the drive home, where I still lived in the basement of my parents’ house. Naturally, Jack jumped right in.

“Looks like you’ve got a roommate,” my friend said, waving us off.

Once Mom and Dad got over their initial shock — there was, after all, another dog living there, a mongrel dowager named Heidi, who had ruled her realm for years — we conceived a plan on how to make the new arrangement work for everyone, those with two legs and those with four. Jack, it turned out, was as laidback as Heidi was high-strung, and for a time, they lived in a tentative accord.

Then Heidi died, and then Mom passed, and then Dad remarried, and it was just Jack and me in that big house. Working a split shift — mornings putting the paper out, evenings covering games — I wasn’t able to feed or walk Jack on a regular schedule, which meant sometimes the call of nature resulted in a cleanup session.

But we managed, and even if I wasn’t back to take him outside until 3 a.m., he was always patient, and he soon knew the neighborhood as well as I did. Jack didn’t need a leash as he responded to his name being called, sometimes in an urgent whisper, and we fell into a comfortable rhythm, both of us at ease.

When he began having difficulty walking and seemed to be in pain when I picked him up, I took him to the vet, who asked Jack’s age.

“I don’t know, really,” I said. “I’ve had him for about five years.”

“Well,” he said, scratching the back of Jack’s neck and smiling, “we’ll run some tests and see what’s going on. Sound good?”

Jack, ever wanting to please even when he was dealing with cancer, did his best to maintain our evening walks, but soon enough, it proved impossible. All that summer I gave him his pills and tried to make him comfortable, but there came a point when it was too much, for him and for me, so I made the appointment I’d dreaded.

“I can take him from here,” the nurse said as I walked into the office, Jack wrapped in his favorite blanket.

“No,” I said, “I’d like to sit with him for a while, if that’s OK.”

I remember getting into the cage with Jack, hugging him to my chest, telling him how much he’d meant to all of us and for him not to be scared, that things were going to be better. But he knew.

Then a door opened, and the vet came in and said, “It’s time.”

I handed Jack to him, not wanting to let go but having no choice.

“I’m gonna miss you so much,” I said, trying my best to smile, knowing that what I needed was to get home and have a good cry.

Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where it’s OK to shed a few tears now and then.