As Game 5 of the World Series begins tonight, I’m still thinking about a woman holding a Rosary in a Rothschild bar. I never learned what she was praying for, but I suspect I’ll remember her long after I’ve forgotten most of Game 4’s pitches.
My buddy Kevin and I had decided to watch together, despite overwhelming evidence that Wisconsin sports would benefit from a restraining order keeping us apart. Whenever we gather for the Brewers, Badgers, or Packers, our team loses. We know the curse, and apparently we’ve learned nothing.
But the Brewers had a chance to win the World Series. Kev and I have been friends for over 50 years and have spent too much of our lives loving the team to pass up the chance to be together when it finally happened.
Before leaving, I checked with my extraordinarily beautiful and smart wife about the last-minute plan. She understood the stakes immediately: “Be careful driving and don’t make the Brewers lose!”
I proposed a precaution: “I should stop at KFC to get a chicken to sacrifice.” Somewhere in the baseball universe, I hoped Uecker appreciated the Major League reference.
ICYMI: We Grew Up With Uecker, and We Grew Old Waiting for Another World Series
The evening gave us something worth remembering before the pitch. When the national anthem played, the bar quieted, people stood, and hats came off. In a room ready to roar, people paused to honor our flag, and I was deeply moved by the simple act.
Then the noise returned. “Let’s Go Brewers!” rolled through the crowd, followed by cheers and groans as each pitch gave us another reason to hope or worry. For a few hours, strangers had plenty to talk about.
Kev and I caught growing up. We still love the game within the game, trying to work out what the pitcher should throw next. I hate to brag, but I called far more pitches correctly than incorrectly! Unfortunately, the Brewers don’t award championship rings for excellent barstool catching.
Behind us sat a quiet retired woman whose cable had gone out. She came because she had to watch the game; her husband stayed home and listened on the radio. When I glanced over, I noticed the Rosary in her hands.
Perhaps praying it was her nightly habit. Perhaps she was asking the Holy Mother to help the Crew. It wasn’t my business, so I didn’t ask. I simply liked knowing she was there, sharing the evening in her own way.
My phone kept me connected to another crowd: my middle daughter and her husband, my brother Dean, my nephew Michael in Virginia, and others. Baseball gave us an excuse to keep reaching for one another across the miles. Every message added someone else to the night.
The strongest thing I drank was Coke, although the first glass suggested the dishwasher had contributed a flavor. Later glasses tasted better, and I was grateful for a clear head driving home to Plover.
On I-39, a semi about 200 yards ahead disappeared around a curve. I came upon the scattered remains of a deer it had apparently struck and barely had time to steer around the debris. Wisconsin recorded nearly 1,800 deer crashes in 2025, with 42% occurring from October through December. The fall rut makes bucks, like plenty of men pursuing love, bloody idiots.
The Brewers lost in extra innings, leaving our curse depressingly intact. I wanted that championship celebration with Kevin badly, and I still do. But I’m glad we risked another entry in our miserable record together. As we were leaving, we promised each other we’d never watch another game together again.
Before heading out that evening, I had thanked my wife: “Thank you for letting me, and for understanding.”
Her answer was entirely within character: “I did not let you, you dweeb! Having experienced you and Kevin watching sports together, you need to be with each other.”
She knew how much the night could mean before I’d even left home. Tonight, I’ll hope for the final out that makes Milwaukee champions, and think about how lucky I am to have so many people I want to call when it happens.
