A lifetime of Brewers fandom peaks with World Series title

Here I am in Mevaseret Zion, Israel, more than 6,000 miles away from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, celebrating a moment I have dreamed about for most of my life: a World Series championship for the Milwaukee Brewers. And I am celebrating with my mother, a lifelong Milwaukee baseball fan.

I have lived in Israel for more than three decades. I made aliyah in 1993, built a life here, raised a family, and dedicated much of my professional life to standing up for Israel and bringing people to this amazing country. But one thing has never changed: my love for the Milwaukee Brewers.

No matter where I am in the world, no matter the time difference, and no matter how many years have passed, I am still that kid from Milwaukee cheering for the Brew Crew. And now, with the Brewers back in the World Series for the first time in 44 years and finally winning it all, all those memories have come rushing back.

But this story isn’t really just about baseball. It’s about family, memories, and a connection to Milwaukee that no amount of distance can ever erase.

My father, Norbert Eglash, affectionately known to his grandchildren as Papa Norb, was the heart and soul of my love affair with Milwaukee baseball. My father didn’t simply follow baseball. He lived it, breathed it, and knew its history in extraordinary detail.

Growing up with my brother and sister, we would listen to him tell stories about Milwaukee baseball long before the Brewers ever existed. He remembered the old Milwaukee Association minor league team of the 1940s and the legendary Borchert Field, where Milwaukee baseball fans gathered long before County Stadium – and later American Family Field – became the center of the city’s sporting universe.

He would talk about Milwaukee baseball with such animation, recalling the players, the games, and the atmosphere that made those early years so special. What always amazed me was his encyclopedic knowledge of the game. Mention a player from the 1940s or 1950s, and my father would have a story. Alvin Dark? Joe Adcock? Tommie Aaron? Of course he knew them. But it wasn’t just the famous players. My father seemed to know every player who had ever put on a Milwaukee uniform.

He knew their statistics, their personalities, and their careers.

Some of my fondest childhood memories are of my father taking us to baseball card shows throughout Milwaukee. We would walk from table to table, looking at old baseball cards, photographs, memorabilia, and collectibles. For me, it was exciting to see the cards and imagine the players. For my father, each card was a doorway into another story.

Of course, he would get annoyed if my brother rushed too quickly from table to table or focused too much on the modern players. My father wanted us to appreciate the history, to understand the players who had come before, and to recognize that every generation of baseball had its own stories worth telling.

He would pick up a card, look at the player’s face, and immediately begin telling us about him. I can still hear his voice. He didn’t need Google. He didn’t need Wikipedia. He had lived the history, and he loved sharing it.

Looking back, those trips weren’t really about collecting baseball cards. They were about a father passing along his love of the game to his children. And I was listening.

My father passed away in 2020. He would have turned 94 on October 27, just days before this championship celebration. As I watched the Brewers win the World Series in the early hours of the morning here in Israel, I couldn’t help thinking about how much he would have loved every minute of it. I wish I could pick up the phone and talk baseball with him one more time.

While my father was undoubtedly the driving force behind my baseball obsession, my mother was every bit as much a part of our family’s baseball tradition.

She grew up in Milwaukee and attended Braves games as a young teenager. She still remembers fondly the Milwaukee Braves’ 1957 World Series championship. In fact, she was there for one of the most celebrated moments in Milwaukee sports history when the Braves brought a title to the city.

And now, nearly seven decades later, after thousands of Brewers games watched, she is visiting me in Israel, and we are watching Milwaukee baseball together once again.

My mother is 86 years old. There is something almost surreal about sitting together in my home in Israel, thousands of miles from the city where we both grew up with Milwaukee baseball, watching the Brewers in the World Series and celebrating their championship.

For her, it brings back memories of 1957. For me, it brings back memories of 1982. For both of us, it’s a reminder that baseball has a remarkable way of connecting generations and bringing families together, even when life takes them halfway around the world.

If you were a Milwaukee kid in 1982, you remember Harvey’s Wallbangers. Robin Yount, Paul Molitor, Cecil Cooper, Gorman Thomas, Rollie Fingers, Pete Vuckovich, Jim Gantner, Don Money, and so many others. Even today, those names give me goosebumps.

I was 14, and Milwaukee was consumed by baseball. These larger-than-life players were our childhood heroes. I remember celebrating in the streets on Milwaukee’s west side when the Brewers reached the World Series against the St. Louis Cardinals.

The city was swept up in the excitement. The Brewers weren’t just a baseball team; they were part of our identity. We believed this was our moment, and we were ready to celebrate a championship together.

Losing in seven games was heartbreaking. For a young fan, it was difficult to imagine coming so close and falling just short. But 44 years later, those memories remain as vivid as ever.

And now, all these years later, the Brewers have finally done it!

Led by the passion and experience of team captain Christian Yelich, this remarkable team won 103 regular-season games, swept the Dodgers in the NLCS, and captured the franchise’s first World Series championship. A new generation of heroes has emerged, including Jackson Chourio, William Contreras, Jacob Misiorowski, Cooper Pratt, and Brice Turang. Contreras earned World Series MVP honors, while Misiorowski and Pratt delivered unforgettable performances in the championship-clinching game.

For those of us who grew up with Harvey’s Wallbangers, watching a new generation finally bring a championship to Milwaukee is a dream come true. The names have changed, and the years have passed, but the feeling is remarkably familiar.

Only this time, we get to celebrate the ending we always wanted.

When I moved to Israel in 1993, I left behind many things: my hometown, my childhood friends, the familiar streets of Milwaukee, and the ability to attend Brewers games whenever I wanted.

But I certainly didn’t leave behind the Brewers.

In fact, living thousands of miles away has sometimes made my attachment to the team even stronger. Following American baseball from Israel has never been easy, particularly with the time difference. In the years before streaming services, smartphones, and instant sports updates, keeping up with the Brewers required a little creativity and a lot of dedication.

One of my greatest Brewers memories came years ago during an early-morning drive from Mevaseret Zion to Tel Aviv. I called my parents back in Milwaukee, and my father put the phone on speaker and gave me a running play-by-play of a Brewers game that had gone into extra innings.

For the entire hour-long commute, I listened to my dad describe every pitch, every hit, and every tense moment as though he were Bob Uecker himself.

There I was, driving through Israel while my father brought the excitement of Milwaukee baseball right into my car. The miles between us disappeared, and for that hour, it felt as though we were sitting together at the ballpark.

It was one of those simple but unforgettable father-son moments that I will cherish forever. Looking back, I realize that it was never just about following a baseball game. It was about the bond we shared, the stories he loved telling, and the way baseball gave us a common language no matter where we were.

Now, watching the Brewers win it all with my mother beside me, I feel that same connection. The difference is that this time, I wish my father could be here to share it with us.

People sometimes ask me whether, after living in Israel for more than 30 years, I still feel connected to Milwaukee.

The answer is absolutely.

Israel is my home. It is where I have raised my family and built my life. It is the country I love and the place where I have chosen to live. But Milwaukee will always be part of my identity.

There is something special about Milwaukee sports fans. We are loyal, passionate, and often accustomed to heartbreak. We don’t necessarily expect things to come easily. We know what it’s like to get close, to believe, and to come away disappointed.

Perhaps that’s why moments like this mean so much. After so many years of anticipation, hope, and heartbreak, a championship is about much more than the final score. It is about the memories accumulated along the way, the people with whom we shared them, and the generations of fans who never stopped believing.

For me, the Brewers have always been a thread connecting the different chapters of my life. They connect the Milwaukee kid I once was with the Israeli father and grandfather I have become. They connect my childhood memories of sitting with my father to the moments I now share with my own family.

And they remind me that no matter how far away we travel or how much our lives change, some things remain a permanent part of who we are.

As I sit with my mother celebrating the Brewers’ World Series victory, I find myself thinking about the passage of time.

In 1982, I was a 14-year-old kid dreaming of a Brewers championship. My mother, who witnessed Milwaukee’s championship in 1957, is sitting beside me. And my father, who taught me to love the game, is no longer here to share this moment, but his presence is very much with us.

I still find myself wishing he were here to witness this historic run and victory, offering his take on the games, recalling some obscure baseball statistic, or telling another story about a player from long ago.

I know exactly what he would be doing. He would be watching every pitch with us. He would know every player’s background. He would be telling us stories about the great Brewers of the past and loving every minute of it.

He would probably remind us of something we didn’t know about a player, correct a statistic someone had gotten wrong, and find a way to connect this championship team to the Milwaukee teams he had followed decades earlier. He would have something to say about every player, every decision, and every pivotal moment.

And I would be listening, just as I did when I was a kid.

Somewhere, I like to believe Papa Norb is watching alongside Bob Uecker, Hank Aaron, and all the great baseball personalities who have passed through Milwaukee’s remarkable history. I can almost hear him taking it all in, shaking his head in amazement, and finally saying, “Wow! How about the Brew Crew!”

More than 6,000 miles away, sitting in my home in Israel with my mother beside me, I couldn’t agree more.

Forty-four years after the heartbreak of 1982, a lifetime after my father first taught me the stories behind the players, and more than three decades after I made aliyah, the Brewers have finally brought it home to Milwaukee.

And I feel like that 14-year-old kid all over again.

Go Brewers!

Michael Eglash is a Milwaukee native who made aliyah to Israel in 1993. He lives in Israel with his family and proudly considers himself one of the Milwaukee Brewers’ biggest fans in the Jewish state.