The Milwaukee Brewers Won the World Series and I Can't Come Up With a More Clever Headline Than That

The Milwaukee Brewers won the World Series on Wednesday.

I'm sorry, I need to type that twice because I'm still having a hard time believing this actually happened:

The Milwaukee Brewers won the World Series on Wednesday.

Are we dreaming?

Anyone who has paid the smallest bit of attention knows how long we've been waiting for this around here because it was discussed ad nauseum in all media outlets for the last month: 44 years ago in 1982, Harvey's Wallbangers, led by Robin Yount and Paul Molitor, lost the World Series in seven games to the St. Louis Cardinals. They hadn't been back since. The victory on Wednesday marked the Brewers' first world title in franchise history, an improbable feat for Major League Baseball's smallest market in an age of insane spending by the largest markets in the league. Indeed, to achieve this feat, the Brewers had to get past MLB's second largest payroll in the Los Angeles Dodgers, the team that bounced them from the playoffs in 2018, 2020, and most painfully, in a 2025 NLCS 4-0 sweep.

To be a Milwaukee Brewers fan the last few decades has been to understand a hard truth that seemed pretty inevitable about Major League Baseball: that if your team resides in the smallest market in the sport, there is a glass ceiling to your home team's success. It's how it felt to me after a bitter 6-game loss to the St. Louis Cardinals (that year the #9 ranked payroll in the league) in the 2011 NLCS and after the bitter 7-game loss to the Dodgers (then-#3) in 2018. And boy, after last year's sweep, I was probably saltier than ever. Watching Shohei Ohtani hit three homers and strike out 10 against my team was a throw-up-my-hands moment. There's always going to be something like this, right? As soon as the Brewers knock on the door of the World Series, there will be some big-money team slapping them down, patronizingly saying "have a seat – the adults are playing."

I'm not saying that was necessarily the Dodgers' attitude, but that's how it felt. And I'll be honest – it's possible that I was projecting here based on the fact (yes, fact) that to live in Milwaukee – either the biggest little city or the littlest big city – is to get shit on from both ends by people who don't know better. It's a big part of why Milwaukee's local homerism and rah-rah boostering sometimes borders on the obnoxious, even to someone like me who has lived in the area for just shy of 25 years. We Milwaukeeans – and sure, my address for the last 10 years has been in Cudahy, but close enough - have a bit of defensiveness about ourselves and our city. To many in rural Wisconsin, we're the state's scary, dangerous war zone; to bigger city folk, we're a quaint little rust-belt backwater with less going for it than their big, cosmopolitan city on the coast (or in Chicago's case, the Third Coast). The "big city bad" trope is something urban areas deal with all over the country, so that's not unique to Milwaukee, but it's something else when it's compounded by condescension from even larger urban areas (despite our world-class art museum, exquisite dining scene, phenomenal local music, top-shelf county park system, etc. etc.). So yeah, we overcompensate sometimes.

I was an 8-year-old in tiny Hilbert, WI, pop. 1200, when the Brewers went to the Series in '82. While I don't remember a thing about that series (I was too preoccupied with astronomy, Star Wars, and comic books to really pay attention to anything else), the names from that team represented my earliest awareness of baseball as a thing. I knew Rollie Fingers was the guy with the mustache, and learned names like Yount, Molitor, Cooper, Vuckovich, Thomas. I followed Team Streak in '87 and when I started my paper route for the Appleton Post-Crescent in 1989, the presence of a daily sports page helped me keep constant track of the team. From there, I could rattle off dozens of Brewers memories: following the 1992 division race, stewing when the Blue Jays took the AL east (and took Paul Molitor the following year). Grimacing through the 90s teams and getting behind Phil Garner's guys like Jose Valentin, Ricky Bones, and Greg Vaughn. Moving to Milwaukee in 2002 and going to game after game with fellow punk rock scene buds, taking the secret path under a bridge to avoid paying for parking, and exploiting MLB's carry-in policy to bring in vodka-infused watermelon and cheer for Geoff Jenkins and Prince Fielder (Vodka-infused watermelon may not be a full spaghetti dinner, but it was pretty dope). In 2007, making my first trip to Wrigley Field with pals to see a Brewers-Cubs game while paying way too much for standing-room-only tickets in the outfield bleachers (my favorite memory from this game: my friend Chuck getting stinkeyes from Cubs fans while drunkenly yelling "Now up to bat – 23 years old, making league minimum, and out-hitting the entire Cubs lineup – RYAN BRAUN!"). But let me rattle off my top 3 Milwaukee Brewers memories for you right here:

• In 2008, I splurged on field level first base-line tickets for my parents and me for my dad's 60th birthday. At the time it was a bit of an expense, but it was worth it to get my dad, then in an 8-year fight against throat and mouth cancer, to a game. I drove up to the Mequon Park and Ride to pick up my parents (Mom gets anxious driving in big cities) and drive them into town. We tailgated with a portable grill I borrowed from a friend and then got bonus baseball when Gabe Kapler hit a walk-off home run off the left field pole in the bottom of the 13th. Couldn't have asked for a more exciting game. Dad was gone five years later. I've thought about him a lot this past month.
• I spent the 2011 season going to as many games as possible, and watching even more on TV. The Brewers set a team record with 96 wins, won the NL Central, and faced the Arizona Diamondbacks in the NLDS. Somehow my friend Sean came into tickets for the deciding Game 5, and we were in the stands when Nyjer Morgan "tickled it into the outfield" and sent a walk-off base hit up the middle to score Carlos Gomez and send the Crew into the NLCS. It was the Brewers' first postseason series win since 1982 and ensured that "Tony Plush" would never have to pay for a beer in Milwaukee again. It's the biggest game I've ever attended in person.

• In July 2021, our friend Brad, who was living in Michigan, invited my wife and me to attend a game with him at American Family Field Miller Park between his two most beloved baseball teams: The Chicago White Sox and the Milwaukee Brewers. We were still emerging from COVID and both Dixie and I were incredibly nervous about being among so many people, despite having the new vaccines in us. But we loved Bradley, wanted to spend time with him, and didn't want to disappoint him by refusing, so we gutted it out. He was super chill and understanding of the situation the whole time, noting to me a few times that we could bounce if it became too much. It never became too much. We felt right at home in the upper decks with our friend Brad, and we owed him one for helping us re-enter the world. We capped off the evening by taking him to our mutual friend Michelle's 50th birthday party, which surprised the hell out of her in the best way. He gleefully popped balloons with his lit cigarettes as Michelle, Dixie and I laughed and laughed. Less than a year later, Brad was gone. Michelle still finds old balloon material in her yard. I've missed him a lot during the playoffs.

All of these memories have been vibrating in my mind in the past month, as the Brewers stormed through the playoffs, starting with that wild Game 1 NLDS win against the Padres (apologies to my Padres die-hard pal Rob, who sent me a very angry text message after the ball donked off the Miller Park roof cables and into the glove of Jackson Chourio). Jack Jack's walkoff shot in Padres Game 2, Garrett Mitchell robbing Brewers villain Manny Machado of a home run in Game 4...I wish Dad were here to see this. I wish I could be texting Brad about this.

The entire NLCS was an exorcising of demons for the team as well as for us as fans. To endure that 4-game sweep last year, only to come back and sweep the Dodgers this year...it's like poetry; it rhymes. The Jake Bauers at-bats that drained the souls of Yoshinobu Yamamoto and Blake Snell. Watching the Crew claw back in Game 4 like it was nothing after Dustin May gave up a 3-run blast to Ohtani, especially finding out afterward that the team was completely unfazed, was catharsis.

“We got down early tonight and we were like, it’s going to be a great story,” Brewers veteran Christian Yelich said. “We’re going to come back and win this. Like, stay together, start chipping away. And that’s exactly what they did.”

I cried after Chourio caught that final out. Of course I did. Never mind that the Brewers won 103 regular-season games: after decades of following this team, of floating in and out from attending a dozen games in 2011 to checking out during COVID and rolling my eyes as the Brewers kept getting bounced out of Wild Card rounds in '23 and '24 – Christ, we didn't even get to the ballpark for a game this season; life got in the way – I was conditioned to think that this franchise wasn't meant to go all the way. Never mind however many people said this run felt different; the Milwaukee Brewers were always destined to run out of gas just before the end, like Shaun Marcum falling apart in the 2011 NLCS. As confident as I got as the playoffs marched on, there was a little voice at the back of my head saying don't celebrate yet; you're going to jinx it.

And then Aaron Ashby and Jackson Chourio and the Milwaukee Brewers shattered that glass ceiling and broke the dam that unleashed the waterworks. I posted on my Facebook page, "HEY DAD, THEY FUCKING WON THE PENNANT."

Because I had Sean to thank for that Tony Plush memory, I wanted to watch as many World Series games with him as possible. We ended up watching all 5 together in what practically ended up a tour of the Southeast side of Milwaukee County. Game 1 at Gingerz on Howell and Howard. Game 2 at the Humboldt Park Pumpkin Pavilion (with the Long Line Riders killing it in the background). And the night before Game 3, a fateful text from my friend Scott from the terrific band Exitstatements:

The Exitstatements dudes had two extra watch party tickets. Sean and I were headed for the stadium on Monday.

Game 3 will inevitably be the most enduring memory of this World Series for me. Sure, the game was in Tampa, but the stadium crew treated the watch party like a home game. I cackled as we walked to the stadium and saw 50/50 raffle tickets being sold. The concession stands were all open, lines ran out the entrances to the team stores, the cheerleaders and mascots were doing their thing. Every game had its moment – the double play that wasn't at the end of Game 1, Sal Frelick's improbable bomb to tie Game 2 – but I am forever stoked that I was at the stadium when the Brewers exploded for an 8-run fifth inning that gave them a 10-0 lead. My god, that place lost its collective mind for the 6 minutes or so of that offensive outburst. I had been debating the wisdom of buying something overpriced in the team store as a memento of the evening, but after that 8-run fifth, I eventually found myself in the shop buying a $40 hat and an $8 Pride Night coozie. WORTH IT.

Game 4 was a rowdy night at Club Garibaldi's with Sean and friends Nick & Jocelyn, sitting on the stage in the back room while overhearing the usual entertaining drunk sports fan commentary, like someone yelling "OK, DOUBLE PLAY BALL, HERE WE GO!" in the bottom of the 12th, nursing a one run lead, while the Rays had runners at the corners with no outs. Miller High Life is a helluva drug. Did I scream myself hoarse, jump around on stage, and punch the air enough to make the entire right side of my body sore for the next two days after Cooper Pratt socked that dinger to take the lead? Oh yes. No regrets. After the Rays rallied to win and force Game 5, we did a shot and as I signed out my card, I said to the bartender, "we'll get 'em tomorrow." "Fuck yeah!," he replied, like what I had said was a given.

For Game 5 Dixie and I got dinner at St. Francis Brewery, with Sean joining us later. The place wasn't crowded, but had a healthy crew of regulars and older folks who remembered 1982 and wanted a nice chill evening out. Once again, the Brewers slowly built a lead, one run here, one there, while The Miz consistently dealt the heat. On this night, I found myself very aware of the slow build of anxiety that gestated in my guts every World Series game. For the first five or so innings it was very easy to be chill; we were having a nice dinner, our server was delightful and made fun conversation, and I was draining Miller's Highest of Lifes with gusto. When Miz was pulled from the game with cramping or a calf strain after 5 2/3 innings, leaving the Crew's instant-legend bullpen to clear the remaining 10 outs, the butterflies started to build – a low, dull buzz at first, until with two outs in the bottom of the ninth, I was standing beside our booth, heart racing. Trevor Megill, the Brewers' closer and resident Classic Baseball Galoot, was on the mound. God damn, I love a classic baseball shlub in the Vuckovich/John Kruk mold, someone disheveled, paunchy, looking like he was napping on a used couch in the bullpen until they're shaken awake to go to work. During Game 4 a camera caught Megill from behind, preparing for what was a 9-pitch outing, pants open and adjusting what I assume were tighty whiteys before hiking everything up. I mean this in all sincerity – this guy's my new give-no-fucks hero.

And then he got Richie Palacios to ground out to Brice Turang, who made the most stressful routine toss to first base of his life. And Jake Bauers caught it, and I screamed. Oh lord, did I scream.

High fives with strangers. Hugs. I kissed my wife. I cried and cried. I looked at the screen and a graphic displayed the iconic ball-in-glove symbol – the greatest team symbol in all of baseball – with the caption "WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS." I had to keep looking at it. Yep, it was real. I screamed again.

My sister Tracy texted the family thread: "Hey Dad, guess what?"

Professional sport is a land of contrasts, every league an amalgam of clubs with local community roots and squads built from players with no prior connection to the community. The Brewers were brought to town in 1970 by a proud Milwaukee native, and sold to a Los Angeles business guy in 2005. The roster consists largely of guys from California, Venezuela, Boston, Missouri, etc., and yet it's a group in which Milwaukee sees itself. Heck, it's not like I was born and raised in Milwaukee either. But in a distinctly blue-collar city, the Brewers are what passes for blue-collar in a multi-billion-dollar sports league. They don't have the money to throw around that other clubs do, so they are built to play the long game. The farm system is maybe the best in baseball; they have a whole division set up to scout Latin America for future stars; they are constantly looking at ways to trade and build value for the future. They build from within and, like many working-class Milwaukee folk, find ways to stretch their dollars. Milwaukee has a sizable Spanish-speaking population, so loads of Milwaukee kids see themselves in players like William Contreras, Luis Lara, and Jackson Chourio. We also see ourselves in workhorse goofballs like Sal "What the fuck just happened?" Frelick. It's a beautiful thing.

So yeah, I have been feeling a certain way for the last few days, after 750,000 strong, from Milwaukee and the rest of Wisconsin, descended on our downtown to celebrate with the team during their World Series victory parade. Wisconsin's sports teams are celebrated by the entire state, and that's how it should be. I grew up in the shadow of Green Bay and was raised in a Packers-first household, but we loved the Brewers too, even if we were two hours from the stadium. But having lived in the Milwaukee metro area for 24 years, it's hard to not resent when the rest of the state turns up its nose at Milwaukee while also coming to town to enjoy the stadium our local sales tax paid for. (At least the rest of the state is chipping in for the upcoming renovations, I guess.) It's the classic urban-vs.-rural feud that many states deal with, not just Wisconsin. Urban crime is hyped up while crime in smaller towns is downplayed. Milwaukee revenue powers the state while Republicans claim the city is a drain on state resources. On and on and on. The Milwaukee Brewers are a team for the whole state, but big chunks of Wisconsin love to diss Milwaukee. As someone who still has plenty of affection for small-town Wisconsin, despite all its flaws, it's exhausting to see Milwaukee's flaws blown out of proportion by people who don't hang out here enough to see all the good. Whether it's Hilbert or Milwaukee – we're all Wisconsin, dammit.

So yeah, when Milwaukee is derided as a "ghetto" by the rest of the state, it's doubly annoying to have the big coastal media markets act like anything worthwhile coming out of our city is some huge shock. Brewers fans all watched as panelists and commentators alike reacted to the Crew's success with disbelief or almost out-and-out frustration, worried that a smaller city in the World Series would impact their TV ratings or something (never mind how Brewers fans set MLB records for merch sales in the past week, or how traveling Milwaukee fans sent bar business booming in St. Petersburg). So what is it? Are we an urban hellscape or a provincial gee-whiz backwater known for Laverne & Shirley and not much else? Can you people pick one, please? You'll forgive us if we laugh along with Trevor Megill when he says "Have fun talking shit to Chicago next year – we have a ring."

Watching the Brewers celebrate on Friday by partying along with the fans – slapping high fives, snatching beers out of the air and chugging 'em like champions, and even from what I hear, Megill closing Wolski's that night (because of course he did) – it's pretty clear that they see themselves in the Milwaukee fans as well. At least, the love fest definitely ran both ways. For all the ugly truths about the economics of baseball, the questionable financing for stadium renovations, the cold realities of business, the jaded discussions that have already started about who will be staying and who will be eventually grabbed by the Yankees (I'd say give it some time, for fuck's sake, except that Pat Murphy was joking to Jake Bauers about it approximately two minutes after the final out), at the end of the day, there's no baseball without baseball players and baseball fans. Wisconsin fell in love with this colorful, diverse, loose-lipped and rowdy Brewers team, who won the World Series by mastering the fundamentals of the sport and using them to suck the spirit out of their opponents, slowly, scrappily, and deliberately. The Milwaukee Brewers are a team of misfit toys, this city is their island, and thanks to their winning ways, everyone has to contend with the idea that, hey, maybe good things DO come out of Milwaukee. We put a lot of fucking effort into this shit.

Somewhere, Dad and Bradley and Bob Uecker and every other Brewers fan that didn't make it are seeing this too, and also asking, "are we dreaming?"