It's 1987. My dad is on the couch reading the newspaper, and there's a picture of Dale Sveum on one of the pages. I get an explanation of what happened on Easter Sunday, but it sounds complicated. I'm 5. I want oatmeal.
It's 1989. I don't understand what's happening, but the announcers disappeared and I could hear Al Michaels saying, "We'll be right back. Hopefully." My parents tell me something might be wrong with the TV signal. I hope it comes back soon, because man, do I love watching the World Series. Several years later, when I'm in middle school, I'm going to give a classroom speech about the Loma Prieta Earthquake.
It's 1991. Paul Molitor just hit for the cycle, information I get through my bedside boom box from Bob Uecker. I don't know what the cycle is.
It's 1992. Somehow, we get grainy footage from the stadium in our Northwoods Wisconsin home as Robin Yount bats, looking for his 3,000th career hit. I'm sitting on the floor in my parents' bedroom watching it happen. It's the first time I feel a genuine thrill about baseball.
It's 1993. I'm with my mom and my great-grandma at County Stadium, overwhelmed by how green the grass is and how the park is more beautiful in real life than I could have imagined. Rick Sutcliffe is pitching, and his last name is kind of like mine. Robin Yount is there, right in front of me. The Brewers lose badly. It can't get better than this.
It's 1994, maybe? I'm out in Lake Michigan near the breakwall on a dinghy driven by my grandpa, listening to live coverage of a stadium vote on my Walkman. I know if it gets voted down, the Brewers might leave Wisconsin. It does get voted down. We get back to McKinley Marina, and I am heartbroken.
It's still 1994. Everyone says they're never going to care about baseball again, but that's nonsense to me. Of course I'll keep loving baseball. I'm just so confused why it had to stop. I don't need the Brewers to be good. I just want to keep watching.
It's 1997. Why don't any of my friends want to talk more about Steve Woodard?
It's 1998. I'm driving a Pontiac Bonneville, less than two months after getting my license. It's the first "new" car I ever remember my family getting, and now, several years later, it's mine. The Brewers are in the National League! I am completely free. It can't get better than this.
It's 1999. My family drives past the stadium to see the Big Blue crane collapse. I can't believe it's real.
It's 2001. I'm in college. My parents surprised me with tickets to one of the exhibition openers at Miller Park. It's one of the best gifts I've ever gotten. I've recruited some friends to come with me, and we're driving the 2½ hours to go see the new stadium for ourselves. Later, I feel the rush of cold air hit my face as I watch in awe, seeing the stadium roof opening for the first time. It can't get better than this.
It's 2002. My family is moving to Kentucky. I'm home for the summer in a small apartment we've rented during the transition. It's tight, but all I need is a TV in one corner (where the Brewers are losing) and a desktop computer in another (where I'm monitoring the Brewers minor leagues on Brewerfan.net).
It's 2003. I'm covered in sweat, trying not to fall over, as I run along the warning track at Miller Park. I'm an intern with the Milwaukee Brewers, the luckiest break and greatest summer of my life. I'm the Polish Sausage. I am struggling to get to the finish line. It absolutely rules.
It's 2004. I'm a senior in college and I can't get a radio signal, so the Brewers are experienced through internet updates. Chad Moeller hits for the cycle (I know what it is by now). Bill Hall hits a crazy walk-off homer. Chris Saenz throws six shutout innings.
It's 2005. I'm attending one of my first weddings featuring college friends at the altar. Congrats to the happy couple. The Brewers win on a walk-off balk.
It's 2007. I'm trying to save money in my one-bedroom apartment and don't have cable. Sometimes I get broadcasts in Spanish. Sometimes I just sit in my green Hyundai Accent in my parking space and listen to the radio. The Brewers start the year 24-10.
It's 2008. Tomorrow will be the greatest day of my life when I marry my best friend. Tonight, I make the mistake of going out with friends and accepting all the drinks they buy me, annoyed that the Brewers are losing to the Reds. I don't sleep much. I won't be able to have a drop of alcohol on my wedding day. But I make it, and it's amazing, and it's actually OK that I know in my heart the Brewers aren't going to the playoffs yet again.
It's less than 10 days later. I'm covering the final game of the year for a wire service. I know when Ryan Braun hits that baseball, there's a crowd roar. But in my memory, he hits it and there's a moment of silence as I watch it jump into the air. "Is that really what I think it is?"
It's 2009. There's no cell reception at Denali National Park in Alaska, and surely that's for the best. We're on our honeymoon, a year after the wedding. It's a breathtaking six-hour tour. I'll never forget it. I'll also never forget crossing out of the park, where my phone finds reception and alerts me that Yovani Gallardo has pitched well in a Brewers victory.
It's 2011. She's annoyed with me because I botched trying to sell our Game 2 tickets, so we show up for the game instead. She's five months pregnant and not really up for another playoff game. We're in the process of discussing our short list of baby names when Ryan Braun homers in the first inning.
It's five days later. I'm covering high school football, and Joe Schobert is leading Waukesha West to a win over Arrowhead. It's probably the worst job I've ever done covering a game. Between Twitter and a patchy radio signal, I learn of Nyjer Morgan's walk-off winner.
It's 2014. I'm holding my newborn daughter in the hospital. The bases clear on a wild pitch against the Rockies, with Jean Segura scoring all the way from first base.
It's 2018. We leave the game early because our kids are young, and my daughter only wanted to see Bernie Brewer go down the slide anyway. We don't get to see it, but we hear Christian Yelich and Ryan Braun go back-to-back on the radio to end the game, just as we reach the highway near the stadium in our Ford Escape. She cries about that, but falls asleep shortly thereafter.
It's 2019. My son is 7 years old and, for the first time, seems to understand every nuance of what's happening in the game. We watch Ryan Braun's grand slam in St. Louis together in the basement. He's running around like crazy. It's the first time I think he feels a genuine thrill about baseball.
It's later in 2019. I'm in Washington, D.C., watching fireworks explode in center field as the Nationals celebrate a wild-card win. I squint trying to comprehend how fast everything changed.
It's 2020. I'm camping at Harrington Beach State Park with my family. I'm following the MLB Draft on my phone. The Brewers have selected an outfielder named Garrett Mitchell. Everything in the world is a mess, but we're OK. Am I selfish to just want baseball back most of all?
It's 2022. A Reds reliever named Reiver Sanmartín throws my daughter a ball during batting practice, and she catches it. Honestly, I can't believe she held on. She's so happy.
It's 2024. The stadium has probably been quieter before. I just can't recall a time.
It's 2025. My son, sitting next to me down the left field line, is determined that Caleb Durbin is going to do something great. I tell him not to get his hopes up. Durbin hits a walk-off homer, and my son turns to look at me with a wide smile on his face. "I told you so!"
It's later in 2025. The Brewers have beaten the Cubs. It can't get better than this (although I'd be curious to find out).
It's 2026. Jackson Chourio slaps a ball up the middle against Mason Miller, and the crowd pop is the loudest I've ever heard. My ears are ringing and, though I've covered my share of walk-off winners and exciting finishes, for the first time, my hands are shaking a little. It's starting to feel like this year might be different.
In each life journey where baseball is a passenger (and sometimes the driver), we get unforgettable moments. Plenty of random ones, as well. But through the ups, downs and randoms, there's one place Milwaukee Brewers baseball has never taken me or anyone my age.
That's about to change.
Here's to the memories every Brewers fan will get to make during the 2026 World Series. It can't get better than this.
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This article originally appeared on Milwaukee Journal Sentinel: A life measured in Brewers moments has led to the World Series
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