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Man of the forest, island son
Fleet-footed runner with arm like a gun,
Holy Cross man for two magical seasons
Played your heart out, best in the nation.
You went to the majors where Cleveland played rough
Handsome and mild, you knew when to be tough.
Throws to the plate, sizzling line drives,
Baseball's First Indian, you brought crowds alive.
But the high life dazzled you, too many rounds
Wrecked your sharp eye and brought you down.
Your career unraveled, your bright star fell
Deep into alcohol's hazy hell.
So you fled home to your people's embrace.
Purified your soul in that wide river place.
Taught all you knew to the tribal boys
Far from the bright lights, the crowds and the noise.
Penobscot pioneer, you've played your final inning
But your life meant more than losing or winning.
And standing here now at your quiet grave
I give thanks for the gifts you gave.
Baseball's First Indian, from the People of the Dawn
Though you played long ago, your memory lives on.
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