Letoto

I moved away from Milwaukee when I was 6-years old, but 30-years later I still eagerly tell people it’s where I’m from. My family moved to a small town right in the center of Illinois called Mahomet that was divided evenly between Cardinals and Cubs fans - a split that did not apply to football where Bears fandom dominated. My brothers and I proudly upset all of them wearing Brewers and Packers gear as much as humanly possible. Maybe it would have been easier to make friends by assimilating my fandom, but I didn’t want to be like them, I wanted to be from Milwaukee. I have my father to thank for that. An altogether composed man by his nature, sports was the one thing that would consistently get him animated. I suppose us boys subconsciously picked up on that because it became our whole childhood. There’s very few memories that stick with me that don’t involve playing or watching baseball, football, basketball, soccer, golf, or tennis - we’d go from one to the other. When my dad could, he’d coach and if he wasn’t coaching you’d hear him (and even more so my mom) from the stands. He loved sports trivia and would bring packs of cards to give away to whichever kids got questions right after practice. I would get upset when he told me I couldn’t answer any more after I got one right, but deep down I knew he was delighted to have to cut me off. My dad didn’t care whether we won or lost, whether I played well or didn’t, only that I played the game the right way. I still remember him deriding me at home for gloating about my pitching performance in fourth grade. “That’s not how you act no matter how you played.” I understood from then on reflexively that you played for the spirit of competition, not your desired result. As I grew older and my aspirations didn’t match my work ethic, I became disenchanted with the game. Jaded that it didn’t give me all the things I wanted from it. From 2012-2025 I can count on my hands the amount of Brewers games I watched after consuming 100+ games a season during my teenage years. I would tell others it’s because I wanted a break after football season, but my childhood self knew it was because I had never envisioned myself on this side of the television. That is, until I had my son in May. The most beautiful blank slate to imbue the lessons I have learned from a lifetime of messing up. When I looked back on my childhood contemplating which experiences I wanted to give to him, baseball kept coming up. Playing home run derby with tennis balls in a grade school playground across from my grandmas. Hitting my first home run with a Rawlings Mac 25 bat. Throwing my first curveball. Watching Scott Podsednik drive in Craig Counsell at 1:30am in a 17-inning 1-0 snoozefest. The game I thought only gave me heartbreak actually had given me so much more. It connected me to my dad. It connected me to my hometown. It taught me life lessons I didn’t even know I was learning. All the things I hope to give to my son. He won’t remember any of the 40 or so games we watched this year - or slept through in his case - but I’ll never forget them. There are more days than I care to admit where I question whether what I do means anything. Whether I’d have been better off putting my math skills to use as an engineer or actuary. Then I think back to myself as a little kid who always felt most like himself on a baseball diamond or football field or basketball court and I remember the power for good sports can be in the lives of many. I pray I never lose sight of that. Thank you, dad. And thank you, Milwaukee. You both deserved this.