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As a starter he was lit up, each stint merciless and brief.
He was destined for the minors till he pitched well in relief.
Then Tom Seaver, Jerry Koosman, Nolan Ryan, Gentry, too,
Learned salvation wasn't something you were given in a pew.
With a fire in his belly when the game was on the line,
And a Scroogie, Tugger consecrated 1969.
Without Tugger, Philadelphia's 1980 would not be.
And to make it, gritty Tugger had to get through surgery.
Only four more wins than losses had the Mets in one strange year,
Yet they got into the Series with the help of Tug the Seer.
This magic flag resulted from a spell McGraw did weave.
It started with "Ya gotta" and concluded with "believe!"
When the arts in Philadelphia needed money for the rent,
The Muses pondered for a while, and then McGraw was sent.
His "Casey" in performance from the critics garnered raves.
Peter Nero called the concert one of Tugger's greatest saves.
Unlike others, Tugger loved real grass and reveled in the sun.
Unlike others, Tugger understood that baseball equalled fun.
Think Tekulve, Scarce, Frisella, Lyle, Orosco—all we saw:
Not one of them could match that laughing leprechaun McGraw.
I see him leaping off the mound, his arms raised to the skies.
I see him re-enact that leap three months before he dies.
I see him mobbed on baseball's fields, embraced in baseball's hug.
They laid to rest Frank Edwin. But they didn't bury Tug.
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