Milwaukee, as I know it, will just never go away.
And that’s precisely because, well, I don’t really know it.
Such is life when, in 1977, a place watches you open your eyes for the first time but doesn’t stick around long enough for you to remember what you saw.
It’s there, a lingering curiosity, your familiarity with the town coming via a data center.
It’s that dot on the map, about 90 miles north of Chicago, where the Milwaukee, Menomonee, and Kinnickinnic rivers reach the western shore of Lake Michigan.
There were once multiple native groups, followed by 17th-century French explorers like Jacques Marquette.
The Brits eventually took over, chased by the Americans.
The city was incorporated in 1846, gaining its footing as a wheat shipping hub before branching out and attracting all sorts of immigrants, especially from Germany.
Northwestern Mutual, Rockwell Automation, Harley-Davidson, Pabst Brewing Company, Miller Brewing Company—they were all born there.
Then came the rest—the Great Migration, segregation, suburbanization, and a decline in the number of manufacturing jobs.
The city’s population peaked in 1960 at 741,324, now hovering around 562,407.
Two words come to mind: Rust Belt.
But it’s 2026, and more importantly, it’s October.
In other words, I don’t give a sh*t about any of that.
During the tenth month of the year, the mundane—namely economics and politics—take a back seat to the defining feature of American life: baseball.
Let’s rewind the clock.
Back in 1957, the Milwaukee Braves, recently relocated from Boston and on their way to Atlanta, beat the mighty New York Yankees to win the World Series.
Later, other teams in other sports would make the city proud.
In 1971, the Milwaukee Bucks, led by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Oscar Robertson, won the NBA title. Courtesy Giannis Antetokounmpo, the franchise repeated the feat in 2021.
In 1977, not long before I was born, Marquette University (remember the French guy?) won the NCAA men’s basketball championship.
But in this flashback, only two years truly matter.
The first is 1969, the year the Seattle Pilots joined Major League Baseball, becoming the Milwaukee Brewers (remember those breweries?) the next season.
The other is 1982, when the Brewers made their first World Series, only to lose in devastating fashion to the St. Louis Cardinals, blowing a 3-1 lead in the sixth inning of the seventh and deciding game.
The Brew Crew has never been back, securing the squad’s status as one of five to have never won the Fall Classic.
And that gets me to my plea, the one where a 48-year-old man begs the team that broke his heart at age four (I don’t actually remember) to make things right.
The Milwaukee Brewers are the best team in baseball, and the time has come for them to reach the pastime’s pinnacle.
So please, bring home the bratwurst (remember the Germans?).
