Some Milwaukee things come and go, while some become icons. Mandatory Milwaukee is all about the latter. This week: Uecker.
On the morning of Thursday, January 16, I was planning on taking it easy. My kid was under the weather and staying home from school. I had a few emails to catch up on but not much else. It seemed like a good day to chill on the couch, maybe do a little cleaning, and play Balatro or whatever. A nice relaxing day.
And then, around 10 a.m., my phone buzzed. It was a Slack message from my Milwaukee Record partner in crime, Tyler Maas. “A dark day in Wisconsin/the world,” it began. “RIP Bob.”
No last name was necessary. I instantly knew what the message meant. Bob Uecker had died. He was 90.
The next few hours were a blur. I broke the news to my family, and we had an honest-to-god family hug. I quickly put together an article for our site that included a statement from the Brewers (“Today marks one of the most difficult days in Milwaukee Brewers history…”) and a reprint of a piece I wrote back in 2016, “A Milwaukee Day ode to Bob Uecker.” My phone, email, and social media started blowing up with friends and family offering their condolences on the loss of someone I held so dear. I couldn’t believe it.
At some point my kid and I drove to Culver’s for lunch. While we were eating I checked my phone and saw that folks were making pilgrimages to American Family Field and leaving flowers, messages, and cans of Miller Lite beneath the statue of Uecker outside the stadium. My kid and I agreed we should do the same. We hopped in the car and headed out.
That’s when my phone started buzzing again. I saw a text with the words “David Lynch,” and I instantly knew what that message meant, too. Another one of my heroes had died. I couldn’t believe it. I turned the car around and drove home.
The next few hours were really a blur. Yet at some point I found myself at American Family Field, alone, standing beneath the Uecker statue. I wasn’t expecting a party, but I was surprised—and moved—by how somber the scene was. Handfuls of people would show up and solemnly approach the statue, leave something at its base, take a moment, and then walk away. No one spoke. Even the media crews stationed nearby seemed on the verge of tears.
And finally, those tears came for me. I was sitting in my car, still parked at AmFam Field, scrolling through the now-overwhelming number of messages I had received. “I’m so sorry, Matt,” began many of them. “You were the first person I thought of when I heard the Uecker and Lynch news.” Close friends, distant friends, folks I hadn’t talked to in years, all of them reaching out. “Thinking of you today. I hope you’re holding up.” It was like a member of my family had died. It was surreal.
So I cried. I sat in my car and cried. It felt like the thing to do. A dark day for Wisconsin/the world, indeed.
It’s strange when the death of a public figure—a public figure we didn’t personally know—affects us, isn’t it? I can remember crying over the loss of only one other such person: author Douglas Adams, way back in 2001. But the loss of Uecker felt—and continues to feel—different. It feels foundational. Not only to me and my sense of self, but to the city of Milwaukee, the state of Wisconsin, and to baseball fans everywhere. I’m still crushed. I’m obviously not alone.
In my 2016 “ode” to Uecker, I explained why I held/hold him so dear:
Uecker is my Milwaukee. He contains all that is good and weird about our good and weird city. His lifelong celebration of his own mediocrity (.200 career batting average, 14 home runs) is self-deprecating and played for laughs, sure, but it strikes me as uniquely Milwaukee. His weird, wonky career filled with beer commercials and Wrestlemania hosting gigs with Vanna White seems uniquely Milwaukee. The fact that he’s stuck with a team that’s seen more bad than good seems uniquely Milwaukee.
Now, I would add this: Like baseball, Uecker was an unwavering constant, a voice and a presence and a personality you could depend on. Sure, there were changes over the years—not traveling for away games, calling fewer and fewer home games—but the man behind the Brewers radio mic in 1971 was the same man behind the Brewers radio mic in 2024. He was simply always there. And now, just as simply, he isn’t.
And so we’re left with memories—memories that span literal lifetimes. I remember listening to Uecker at my family’s fishing cabin when I was a boy. I remember listening to Uecker at my family’s fishing cabin when I was a new father. I remember going to Brewers games with my parents and my dad pointing to the radio booth and saying, “Hey, there’s Uecker.” I remember going to Brewers games with my own child and pointing to the radio booth and saying, “Hey, there’s Uecker.” I remember the jokes, the TV shows, the sports blooper videos, the movies, and the talk show appearances. I remember the champagne-soaked celebrations. I remember the calls that left you with goosebumps and the calls that broke your heart. I remember the endless innings where he riffed on a furry convention.
And I remember the exact circumstances surrounding the photo at the top of this article, the photo of me sitting next to the Uecker statue in the stadium’s “last row.” It was taken (by my kid) on October 3, 2024. It was Game 3 of the NL Wild Card Series against the New York Mets. It was an absolutely thrilling game…until it wasn’t. The Brewers lost in crushing fashion in the game’s final moments, 4-2. It turned out to be the final game of the season. And sadly, incredibly, unbelievably, it turned out to be the final Brewers game that Uecker would ever call.
I remember walking out of the stadium with my family, all of us dejected. I remember dialing up the radio broadcast on my phone and pressing the phone to my ear so I could hear Uecker’s farewell. His final call.
“I’m telling you, that one had some sting on it,” he said.
I know I’m not the first person to make the comparison, but Uecker’s death had some sting on it, too. It still does. So I’ll simply remember. Remember everything—everything I mentioned above and more. It isn’t the same, but it helps with that sting. It seems like the thing to do.
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