Yes, Wisconsin, your Milwaukee Brewers have gifted you a World Series championship.
It took 57 years, but the Brew Crew delivered Wednesday night, dispatching the Tampa Bay Rays in five games to clinch the franchise’s first-ever title. Fans across America’s Dairyland no longer have to “wait until next year.”
Many casual supporters jumped on Milwaukee’s bandwagon in recent seasons, as the deluge of massive watch parties across the area showed. American Family Field sold out each of the final three road World Series games for enthusiasts to witness the historic moments amongst friendly faces on the massive scoreboard.
Other Wisconsinites, like myself, a 57-year-old baseball nerd, have lived and died with this club since its 1970 debut. To us, this was more than just the home team earning a championship ring. This was the culmination of what makes sports great: a lifelong devotion that miraculously transformed into the prideful reality of finally rooting for the best team.
Wednesday represented the highest of highs of Brewers fandom. This finally allows our team entry into the A-list club with the other champs and, more importantly, off the list of “Those Who Have Never Won It All.” Trust me when I say, however, there have been lows that sank below rock bottom, so low-lying that I questioned whether or not they had the mettle to win the big one.
When the final out of the 2026 season was registered, I did not jump up and down or make a viral video of the moment. Instead, I soaked up 57 years of baseball memories in one almagamorous, magical night, and my Brewer love affair flashed before my eyes. Allow me to inflict my winding road of devotion and reflect on what it means to be a member of the True Blue Brew Crew.
The Brewers And I Grew Up In The 1970s
After the Seattle Pilots went belly-up after one season, Milwaukee businessman Bud Selig purchased the bankrupt team and promptly relocated it to his hometown. Thus, the Brewers were born. Like any newborn, growing up was full of hard learning experiences for the fledgling franchise.
Their first game was an omen for things to come in those early years. The Brewers lost 12-0 to the California Angels, and the first eight seasons in Cream City were forgettable when looking at the final American League East standings. Only once, ironically in their inaugural season, did they finish as high as fourth out of six teams, and the high-water mark for wins was 76, which happened in 1974.
It was in that 1974 season that I had my very first baseball memory, and it had a specific connection with Milwaukee. On April 8, my dad, probably under protest from my mom, woke me up to witness Henry Aaron’s 715th home run. I vaguely recall him explaining the significance of what I was seeing, but as a four-year-old, I do not recall much more than that.
My first vivid recollection of attending a game at the old County Stadium occurred a year later when my pops took me to the 1975 All-Star Game. I remember being late and having to park about a mile away from the stadium, but my dad put me on his shoulders and ran to get to see the first pitch. The spectacle of the sold-out crowd and colorful bunting along the grandstands was not lost on me, and the ovation given to Aaron, now a Brewer, was the loudest sound I had ever heard.
From there, I was hooked, and it did not matter that they were a losing franchise. Just being able to see the greenest grass of the outfield and smell the distinct aromas (Milwaukeeans know what I mean) of that rickety stadium clinched my allegiance to our home team.
In 1978, something amazing happened: the Brewers became a contender. George Bamberger took over as manager, and his squad, affectionately known as Bambi’s Bombers, lit up the scoreboards via the long ball. They registered an astounding 93 wins that year, and even though it was only good enough for third place in the AL East, we now had something we had never experienced before: hope.
During that season, I attended a game in early July to see my Brewers take on the vaunted New York Yankees. Pitching for the Bronx Bombers was Ron Guidry, who entered the game with a spotless 13-0 record en route to collecting his AL Cy Young Award. No matter. Larry Hisle slugged two home runs against Guidry, and Milwaukee handed the left-hander his first loss, a 6-0 drubbing.
Years later, I took my then-toddler kids to a children’s museum for the day. I saw Hisle there, with his grandchildren, and while my own daughters were playing, I summoned the gumption to introduce myself to him. I was nervous as hell, but he could not have been more cordial. When I explained that one of my fondest Brewers memories involved him and his big night, we settled in for a 15-minute conversation that will forever live in my mind.
The fact that Hisle spoke at length with me is what Milwaukee and the Brewers are all about. Even then, the members of the team were relatable and approachable, not standoffish or aloof. That relatability became even more evident in the next decade, the most storied stretch of Brewers baseball until now.
The Harvey’s Wallbangers Brewers Introduce Joy And Heartbreak To Fans In The 1980s
In 1982, the Brewers had it all. The Kid. Rollie. Coop. Benji. Gumby. Vuke. Stormin’ Gorman. The Ignitor. All that was left was a rightful World Series pennant for a proper coronation.
As an eighth-grader, I was in my prime fandom years, and I could not get enough of this team, but I was too young to comprehend the heartbreak that went with it.
The Brewers fell behind 2-0 to the Angels in the best-of-5 ALCS, but the next three games were to be played in Milwaukee, giving us a glimmer of solace. The old man came through again, scoring tickets to Game 4, seats in the first row of the upper deck right behind the plate. I recall how loudly I screamed when Public Enemy Number One, Reggie Jackson, struck out, and after Mark Brouhard’s line drive leaked over the left-field wall to clinch the series-tying victory.
It was on to the climactic final game, and my spot on the shag carpeting about 18 inches away from our television set never wavered over the course of the game. Cecil Cooper willed a dramatic two-out, two-run single in the seventh inning, and all the Brewers had to do was get six more outs to win their first pennant.
Don Baylor, California’s preeminent slugger, stepped to the plate in the eighth, and he hit a rocket to left. It had that “sound,” the one that you hear, even through the TV, when the ball meets the barrel just right. As my breath gasped and my heart palpated, little-known outfielder Marshall Edwards became a made man in Milwaukee when he crashed into the wall as he made the grab. Those mere seconds felt like minutes, and my respiratory system was allowed to continue on.
The lasting flashback of that game for me was not when Pete Ladd enticed Rod Carew into the game-ending groundout. It was what transpired about 20 minutes afterward.
I grew up in Waukesha, about 15 miles due west of Milwaukee, on the same block with three other guys: Billy, Johnny, and Rhino. We, the “Hadfield Gang,” have now been friends for well over fifty years. As soon as the game was over, we all connected via our rotary wall phones, and the plan was to grab our moms’ brooms and run out to Oakland Avenue to celebrate. When cars drove by, we stepped a few steps onto the street and waved our brooms, begging those vehicles to honk for our championship team.
In the World Series, the Brewers faced the St. Louis Cardinals, who were no strangers to the Fall Classic, unlike our neophite Crew. Again, the series went the distance, and Game 7 was a winner-take-all battle.
Before the game, the Hadfield Gang agreed to meet on Oakland Avenue with our brooms (mine broke during the previous use – sorry, Mom) to repeat our goofy celebration. After all, this was our team and nothing was going to stop them in Game 7.
It looked like that was going to happen, as the Brewers took a 3-1 lead heading into the bottom of the sixth, just twelve outs to go before our second revelry commenced. Then, the Cardinals scrapped back, scoring three in the sixth and two in the eighth to make a certain 13-year-old despondent, unable to grasp what happened. My parents let me stay up way past my normal school-night bedtime, but I stared blankly at the screen, watching the “other guys” celebrate for about 20 additional minutes.
Always looking to put a positive spin on things, my dad said something that made sense at the time but turned sour over the following years. I am paraphrasing, but he said that losing was okay because it would make them hungrier going forward. I accepted that – kind of – because, after all, my Brewers were now going to be in the thick of a pennant race every year for a long, long time.
Yeah, right. The Brewers did not earn a playoff spot for another 26 years, and that only happened because they were a wild card entrant. We would get teased year after year with several division titles and postseason appearances, but we were never able to celebrate the last game of a Brewers season.
Brewers Nation was getting restless, and we were starving for a championship, not ready to settle for a really good regular-season team that was not ready for the big stage. On October 28, 2026, I was finally able to see the Brewers’ defense record and not hit into the final out of their final game.
End Of My Brewers Rant: Yes, Wisconsin, You HAVE A World Series Championship!
Being a true fan of a team is funny to me. Here I am, an AARP-eligible man who still sits on the edge of my recliner for luck while watching a kids’ game played by adults. Our country and world face far greater troubles that should warrant my rapt attention, but there I am, living and dying by whether or not my team succeeds. It is silly, but I am and always will be here for it.
Sports truly are a metaphor for life. The lessons learned by competing – hard work, accountability, perseverance, dealing with setbacks – translate into every walk of life we choose to follow. I have played, coached, and spectated some sort of athletic endeavor for my entire life. I draw on those experiences to forge daily decisions in my family and professional existence.
I know I am not alone, living vicariously through men I have never met to dictate my state of mind. In the grand scheme of things, it is truly absurd to have something so relatively meaningless hold so much sway with me.
I am not too proud to admit that when Brice Turang threw to Jake Bauers for the 27th and final out of the World Series, I teared up. My emotional response was not solely because “we” won. It was the rush of all that led up to that magical moment. It was my dad instilling in me the love of baseball, the Hadfield Gang, and how I paid that affinity for the Brewers to my own kids.
Being a member of the True Blue Brew Crew, or any other fan base, is a tribal phenomenon. It brings Wisconsinites together, and through the years, that meant shared despondency and despair. Now, that has shifted to pride and honor.
I root for the Milwaukee Bucks, and I am a staunch supporter of the Green Bay Packers, but I love the Brewers. The fact that the Brew Crew and I are the same age is not lost on me, and maybe that is partly why I am so invested in them.
Through the years, I have directed curse words towards them and opined my displeasure to anyone who would listen. Now, I have just two words to sum up my feelings towards the Brewers.
Thank you.
