The Catcher in the Wry by Bob Uecker and Mickey Herskowitz (1982)

‘Outrageous but True Stories of Baseball’ by the man who made mediocrity famous (with 16 pages of tasteless photos)

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Nearly 40 years ago, I was born in a central-Wisconsin town, and although I’ve traveled the world much since then, I still call this great state “home.”

We’re the Dairy State. We’re the land of the Green Bay Packers. We’ve got more lakes than dumb ol’ Minnesota. We’ve got more breweries than citizens. We’re even the original home of Culver’s (and their deep-fried cheese curds). In fact, I read somewhere once that Wisconsin is the fattest state in the Union; and with America being the fattest nation in the world, I’m pretty sure that gives us top honors globally.

But even beyond all these notes of obvious prestige, we can also boast one of the most iconic voices in baseball—no, not Charlie Berens, but Bob Uecker himself. Uecker, the former Milwaukee Brave and longtime announcer for the Milwaukee Brewers, is a man whose jovial voice continues to stir up in Wisconsinites pleasant cravings for summer, for joy, and of course for Usinger Sausages. “Mm!”

Like most people, my earliest memories of life are either visual (like the fog sitting atop the glassy surface of Stormy Lake up north) or fragrant (like cut grass in the summer). But I’m not joking when I say that my earliest auditory memories are of Bob Uecker calling the Brewers’ games on the radio during my family’s drives down Hwy 16.

To this day, my childhood buddies and I still mimic this legend calling a strike: “Juuust a bit outside.” And I dare say 90% of Americans today (including those who hate baseball) could recognize Uecker calling a homerun in his classic fashion: “Get up! Get outa’ here! Goooone!!”

I’ve always had on my to-read list this apparently humorous memoir of Uecker’s time in the big leagues, and now that Spring Training is upon us (and my March Madness bracket has been completely destroyed), I figured, ’tis the season. I found it on my mom’s bookshelf when visiting her this past week and ate it up.

Because the book was published a year before I was born, I knew that it’d contain a hefty dose of names and anecdotes that I couldn’t possibly remember. Still, I enjoyed his strolls down memory lane, recounting his experiences of moving from farm teams to the majors in the 1950s and ’60s, and then into broadcasting throughout the ’70s and into the ’80s. Always a crack-up and prankster, his funny stories and memories give a unique insight into the development of the game in post-War America.

Some of the anecdotes in this book were a bit more crass than I had anticipated (especially since it’s been on my mother’s bookshelf for so many years!), but a heavy dose of locker-room humor ought not have been surprising to me. I can’t imagine any kids will be tempted to read a book by Bob Uecker from the early ’80s, but you never know.

I just enjoyed reading this book, so I didn’t mark it up too much, but these few lines about baseball stuck out to me:

“Baseball lore is filled with tearful stories of great players like Ruth and Mantle visiting hospitals and then slugging homers for a little sick kid. I made the same promise once, struck out three times and then found out the kids was an out-patient.” (82)

“Babe Ruth urged the parents of the country, ‘Start him when he’s young, teach him to play baseball when he’s four years old.’ How Babe arrived at that age isn’t clear, but no doubt he just considered three to be too immature…Ruth and Cobb and the guardians of the game knew something the critics cannot understand: that there was never a game more ideally suited than baseball to the soaring spirit, the boundless energy of the eternal child.” (153)

“[Branch] Rickey understood kids and knew why they were important to baseball. He also knew why baseball was important to them. ‘Leisure is wonderful in creative hands,’ he said. ‘It accounts for great architecture, great paintings, and great music. Leisure, however, is a damnable thing in the hands of an adolescent.’ Added Rickey: ‘Baseball is a romance that begins when a boy is very young; it brings a diamond into his vision where the bases are fixed and the outfield is endless.'” (153)

I’m ready to step back into the romance of America’s pastime this Spring, thanks to Bob Uecker. Hopefully I’ll be able to catch him for the few innings he calls each game. At age 88, he hasn’t called a full game in years, yet when the time is right, you can still catch him shouting for the good guys: “Get up! Get outa’ here! Gooooone!!” I can’t wait.

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