It was the summer of 1983 in Milwaukee, beautiful and balmy. It
was the season after the Brewers had choked in the seventh game
of the World Series against the St. Louis Cardinals. I'm still
bitter about that. I was 8 years old, and walking home from
County Stadium where two friends and I had just finished
watching the game. The Brewers had won, and it was a beautiful
comeback win. I remember clearly being down by 2 in the bottom
of the 8th inning when the second baseman, Jimmy Gantner,
stepped up to the plate. We all groaned. Gantner was a great
infielder, but he couldn't hit for a damn. To top it off, we had
two men on base but there were two outs against us. We knew we
were sunk.  Gantner took a couple of strikes, and just as our
hopes were about to be dashed, the world slowed down. It was
like a movie, everything went slow-motion. I saw the pitch
heading for the plate, saw it start to dip. A sinker! My brain
screamed out to Gantner, it's a sinker! He started to swing, and
I knew he was gonna whiff. I knew