The man in the casket
was beloved in this town.
To us kids he’d been “Doc”-
Its hard believing  he’s gone.

A long time ago,
on a field far away,
He had been a young Giant
waiting his chance to play.

“Doc” Graham had played baseball
in many minor league parks,
in an age before lights,
in an age before darks.

An elegant fielder
with a strong rifle arm
“Doc” had one “cup of coffee”
and then he was gone.

He played in right field
on a warm Brooklyn day
you could look it up
the old professor would say,.

He played in the field
but was denied an at bat.
He was waiting on deck
when Claude Elliott flied out.

Though quick as the moonlight
through shadowy leaves,
“Doc” never again played
in the National League.

He hit  the books instead
and became a physician
In our small town of Chisholm,
he found a position.

A lifetime of love
yields a lifetime of care:
He tended our needs
and shared in our prayers

No trace of self-pity-
having missed that at bat.
Being “Doc” to us all
meant far more to him  than that.

Now Moonlight is elusive
never grasped in your hands.
But on nights short of heroes
I remember this man.