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The game-for-the-ages that before the Seventh Inning Stretch was just humdrum. Then it became among the greatest of all walk-off grand slams, and I was there to witness it … Sorta. And how World Series win by Atlanta saved Milwaukee’s soul.

This coulda been. Or maybe it was, as the season-long promising Brewers are from Milwaukee, just like — originally — the coming-on-late Braves that proved to be the actual World Series champions for the first time in decades, but now hailing from Atlanta.
This irony was not lost on a buddy of mine, a Braves fan himself but longtime Wisconsinite who screamed out the following: “You had a part in this.” He said this with just just two chops, or outs, left in that last decisive game, then added he went down “there” to Georgia (looking for a base to steal) just once for an Atlanta contest, decades ago, on a fan’s mission — only to have Hammerin’ Hank remain seated in the dugout the entire game, but at least he managed to get a visual, if not at home plate itself.
My luck, as luck often has it, was better. I only saw Aaron once, back at the old County Stadium and he hit a screaming homer to left that I swear never reached a height of much more than a basketball hoop, and here I go again with a Bucks reference.
But speaking of home runs, I was on hand late in summer for one of the most memorable you will ever find … sort of. And it came after a game so chock full of blunders and missteps and poorly played infield hits that people started leaving right after the Seventh Inning Stretch. They would likely be in the car for a walk off to top all walk offs. This resonates with my crew, as we held out until The Ninth, but then there was a fateful decision, and we are not talking merely a win-loss for the starting pitcher, as he was long gone from the game.
We also up and left. We didn’t want to see another outfielder trip and fall and hurt his knee while the play was being made 100 feet away and uncontested. Or let a dribbler from a bat that trickled down the third base line and was left to go foul but ended up out in left field for a double. Or a propensity to be high in the strike zone by multiple pitchers including our ace. The result was fittingly on the theme of Bobblehead Day featuring another star outfielder, by name of Braun, a scant Brewer lead going into the middle innings. There was not as foul ball all the way through the first two and the game was rolling right along. That was soon to change …
The pace slowed considerably and was chock full of 3-2 counts and fouls that were not fly balls with a chance of reaching the fence.The Brew Crew now trailled and after a couple more innings that were less then noteworthy, it was D-Day and two of the new Harvey’s Wallbangers were coming up in the eighth. The bases were full when Rowdy came a calling, a hitter made for situations like this. Alas, on slider low and inside, he fanned in front of the chagrined hometown fans. That left it up to the former MVP Christian Yelich — who is kinda and sorta known to my family and all will be revealed in a later post — and boy did he come through … Well sorta.
Batting lefthanded, he delivered a rocket that would have gone to the fence for a three RBI at-bat to send the game to extra-innings, but the Cardinal first baseman speared it while leaping toward the line and it snowconed for a third out. That was in the bottom of the eighth.
Should We Stay Or Should We Go? The dominant voice among mixed reviews was to head on out, as the game would take five hours upon conclusion and my nephew had to be somewhere. It would be fitting that out in the parking lot was seen, for the second time that day, an old body chalk line or two in the midst of the tailgating.
Talk was aplenty among us about things like the new presence of the term quality at-bat, determined in large part by the length you milk the count and partly responsible for longer games like this one. Being in Cheesehead country, you’d think it to be more than an eventual single.
But there were more than one of those, again filling the bases. We started second-guessing ourselves, crisscrossing closer to my parent’s house, where we were stopping before my brothers. As we were only blocks away, talk briefly turned to the cool new name for a tattoo shop and the best grub at a pub. Second-guessing took a third try. And my nephew was being implicated more and more as we drew closer.
At the short driveway, we hustled in and dad had the game on. He had not gone with us. People took turns quickly using the bathroom. I had noticed more of a hubbub as I exited, and was a first-down’s away from the television when indeed IT HAPPENED. My dad squirmed in his easy chair and the call was made by my brother, from right behind him, who could have been Bob Uecker himself: Game-Winning Home Run! And we could have been there. At least we saw it on TV, not having to settle for a car radio, like some others.
Mom made sure we were each supplied a brat or two, to grieve? Reminisce? Or simply process the events of the now-spent afternoon.
It least it wasn’t when Hank Aaron rode the bench.

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