IN YESTERDAYS COLUMN about Bobby Clarke, which will appear tomorrow (Friday, Oct. 27) on the Inquirer's op-ed page, I ended with the words "it made me believe I saw evidence of that missing angel in every happy, scarred and painted face I saw." This is what I was talking about. That's Bobby Clarke on the left, smiling at the reception he received from members of the James "Froggy" Carr comic brigade of the mummers parade when Clarke walked into Dirty Frank's bar on New Year's Day 2005.

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THE FIRST TIME I met Bob Clarke, I didn't know who he was, but I couldn't take my eyes off him. He looked like an angel, an honest-to-God "Gloria in excelsis Deo" angel, his exquisitly calm beatific face framed by a natural halo of soft golden brown curls that gently flew backwards against his shoulders as he skated over to where I stood along the boards of an ice skating rink in Radnor Township.

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