I’m sitting alone on my couch as I write this, witnessing something I’d never thought I’d see in my lifetime: A World Series Championship for the Milwaukee Brewers.
Somewhere in the late innings of the 4-1 clincher, I texted my mom:
“How is Dad doing?
Her response: “Tense…”
If you have been a Milwaukee Brewers fan as long as he has been, that totally makes sense. You never want to even HOPE that it MIGHT be our turn because that hope is so fragile that it seems like the universe is just taunting us, daring us to hope, just to crush that hope.
Hope has not been the friend of Brewers fans since 1982, the last time the team went to the World Series. We’ve consistently endured last-place finishes, horrible managerial choices, bad drafts and mediocre teams. The other constant over the past 44 years has been the trove of memories the Brewers have provided to Dad and me.
An early photo of Dad and me outside our old house on Armor Avenue. Just a brief reminder that the 1970s were not good to anyone who wore clothes.
I was 8 years old in 1982 when Dad took me to my first baseball game. Had he known it was Bat Day in the middle of a pennant race, he might have thought twice about going that day.
We climbed into the upper deck of old County Stadium and the first thing I noticed was the giant barrel and mug in the outfield. Dad explained that when a Brewer hit a homer, a guy would slide down from the barrel into the mug and release balloons, but I shouldn’t get my hopes up, as homers were rare.
The Brewers hit four that day.
Hitting homers had become the trademark of that team. It was known as Harvey’s Wallbangers, a play on the name of manager Harvey Kuenn and the popular 1970s drink. All summer and into fall, we followed the Brewers’ charge to the top of the standings, listening to announcer Bob Uecker on the radio or catching the local broadcast on Channel 18.
A Harvey Wallbanger: 1.5 oz vodka, 4 oz OJ, 1/2 oz Galliano. Mix the OJ and vodka, then float the Galliano on top. You’re welcome.
We made it all the way to the World Series that year, only to lose in seven games. Mom sent me to bed early in Game 7, but I snuck out of my upstairs bedroom and crouched silently at the top of the steps, straining to hear the TV in the living room. When the game finally ended with a Gorman Thomas strike out, I slunk back to bed and I cried.
Still, there was always next year. There had to be. We had five future hall of famers on that team. Heck, if Rollie Fingers doesn’t get hurt toward the end of the season, we probably would have won it all. Harvey Kuenn was coming back as manager. We had more experience.
Next year, we all thought. Wait until next year.
That year, 1983, the Brewers finished a respectable 87-75, but management fired Kuenn. A year later, the team finished 36.5 games out of first. With a few notable teases, it didn’t much better than that for quite some time.
As far as Dad and I were concerned, it wasn’t bad at all. He managed to get in with some guys who shared a season ticket package consisting of four front-row seats along the third-base line. We got something like a dozen games a year and each one was a thrill.
No matter what game we got that first season, it seemed like Bill Wegman was always pitching, which made sense as he started 32 games that year, finishing with a 5-12 record.
I also caught my first ball that year, tossed to me by Cleveland pitcher Jamie Easterly.
“Caught” might be a bit of an overstatement, as he tossed it to me and I dropped it. The ball rolled down the tarp in front of our seats and out onto the warning track. Easterly took pity on me, jogging back to pick it up and put it in my hand.
“Don’t drop it this time, kid,” he said as he trotted out to the bullpen.
That day, a Cleveland baseball fan was born. Another tragic tale of wasted youth…
It wasn’t the only ball we’d get in those seats, with one of the more memorable ones coming off the bat of slugger Rob Deer.
In the ninth inning of a losing effort, Deer fouled a ball down the third-base line. It went right into our seats, through my dad’s hands and into the skull of my friend Sean’s dad. County Stadium personnel rushed us to the infirmary, where they made sure he was OK. When they finally released us, the game was over, the stadium was empty and we were locked inside.
As we tried to figure out how to get back to the car, we spotted pitcher Teddy Higuera, giving autographs to a couple kids. Sean and I went over and he signed our scorecards. As that was happening, more players kept coming our way, so we kept getting autographs. At that point, we figured we’d wait for Deer and see if he could sign the ball he’d hit.
Eventually, a security guard unlocked a gate and chased us out, but we caught up with Deer in the parking lot, who obliged us. Sean’s dad put a bandaid on the signed ball as a joke and displayed it proudly on his mantle.
Of all the autographs on this, I treasure Gorman Thomas the most. After he signed for me, Dad asked, “Who was that homeless looking janitor you were talking to?”
Over the years, players often stopped by our seats during batting practice for an autograph or to toss us a ball. Boston Red Sox first baseman Bill Buckner even put his glove down in front of me as stopped to tie his shoe.
“Hey, Bill,” Dad called out to him. “How about an autograph for the kid?”
Buckner didn’t even look up. “I don’t do that stuff.” He then walked away.
(Later that year, this happened to Buckner. I will not claim causation, merely correlation.)
Eventually, we stopped being part of that ticket package, as I got older and we had more commitments. Still, Dad would get us tickets to a game or two, here or there. When we weren’t at the stadium, he’d have the ballgame on the radio while he was working in the garage or doing some yard work.
When I moved back home after 10 years out of state, we found ourselves going to games again. One of my favorite moments was when the whole family went to a game together. Dad and Zoe sat next to each other as he explained how certain parts of the game worked as she munched on a soft pretzel.
That year, the Brewers made a run toward the playoffs, clinching the wildcard berth on the last day of the season. The minute the Marlins beat the Mets to seal the deal, my phone rang. It was Dad.
“Get some tickets. We’re going to a playoff game.”
The Brewers lost that series 3-1 to the Phillies, but we saw the one game they won.
That started the halcyon days of fandom for us, as each year we seemed to make one more step toward the Promised Land. The Wild Card, the NLDS, the NLCS… Dad and I caught a game each of those steps, managing to see them win a game in each series.
The thing I remember most about those games wasn’t the hitting or pitching or score, but how wonderful it was to be there with Dad and how much he loved those experiences. In a textbook definition of irony, he was genuinely happy to be in a crowded place, filled with lines, that charged more for a single beer than he’d pay for a 12 pack. Being in those moments with him reminded me why I wanted to move home in the first place.
Over the past few years, we kept saying the same thing to each other, “Can you imagine what a World Series game would be like? If the Brewers make it, we’re going.”
For the past eight years, they came so tantalizingly close… Each year, we waited… waited until next year…
When “next year” finally became this year, I found myself desperately pounding the keyboard in my office, trying to get tickets to one of the games in Milwaukee. Amid the chaos, I managed to land a pair that cost more than my first car, which naturally freaked me out, so I called Mom. Turns out, she was in church that weekday morning, praying that we’d get tickets.
“It’s fine,” she said. “We’ve got it covered. Whatever it takes. You guys need to go.”
So, last week, I drove down to Milwaukee on Friday to catch Game 1. We paid $20 to park in a driveway about a mile from the stadium, the money apparently going to the Lego fund of the kids whose parents lived there.
After we sat down in our seats, oddly enough located along the third-base line near the tarp, Dad turned to me and said, “This is worth every nickel.” It was still three hours before the first pitch.
As the teams took the field, Dad turned to me and said, “This is amazing. I’m just shaking.”
To explain the next three hours takes more than I can put into words. The whole night was a blur. I think I bought a couple giant beers and and high-fived at least a dozen strangers. Dad never stopped smiling.
After the game was over and we were back at home somewhere around midnight, neither of us could even think about sleeping. We just kept talking about the game over and over and over.
“This was one of the greatest moments of my life,” Dad said.
“Me too,” I replied. “Thanks, Dad. Thanks for everything.”
