Bob Uecker passed away today.
There isn’t much I can say that hasn’t already been said regarding the special place Bob Uecker held in the hearts of Wisconsinites. He was an institution and was beloved by everyone. I can only record how he unwittingly welcomed me, week after week, to the most important place in my life.
(The first few paragraphs of this are going to be light on Ueck content. I need to set a frame. Forgive me.)
I grew up in the Minneapolis area with Wisconsin transplants for parents. Until I was about eight we lived in South Minneapolis, Morris Park, just a hop over the north boundary fence around Minneapolis International Airport. After that we moved to the northwest suburbs, Plymouth, where we lived until I graduated Armstrong High School with something like a 2.3 GPA because I spent all of my time teaching myself to program computers rather than studying.
While we lived and worked and went to school in the Twin Cities, we always had a cabin in northwestern Wisconsin where we spent our weekends. First a small one on Crystal Lake in Wascott, then, when my sister Allie was born and we needed more space, a slightly larger one on the Minong Flowage on the border between Wascott and Minong.
My dad grew up in that area. The cabins kept him anchored to where he really wanted to be. Minneapolis was a means to an end–where the jobs were. Northern Wisconsin was where his heart was, until the day that he died.
Nearly every Friday evening was the same when I was growing up. We’d pack up the car and head to the cabin. In the early days mom, dad and I would take the Crosstown Highway to I-35E and I-35. After the move to Plymouth mom, dad, Jeena, Allie and I would take Rockford Road to I-494, I-694, I-35W, and I-35. From there we–whomever “we” comprised at the time–would continue north to Hinckley and MN-48 to the St. Croix River where we’d finally break free into dad’s promised land.
There are three things that I remember vividly about those childhood St. Croix crossings into Wisconsin: the terrifying old Parker truss bridge that connected MN-48 and WI-77 at the time and the godawful moan our tires made on its grated deck; the disgusting stench of cigar smoke as my dad lit up an AyC Grenadier to celebrate his weekly escape from Minnesota; and the welcoming voice of Bob Uecker calling the first game of the Milwaukee Brewers’ weekend series on the radio.
“Get up! Get up and get out of here…Gone!”
Uecker had long been the iconic voice of the Brewers at that point. But in that era he was much more than a color commentator for a baseball team. He was a TV star, a movie star, a beer spokesman, and an occasional guest on The Tonight Show and Late Show with David Letterman.
The man was everywhere, inside Wisconsin and out.
To me he was mostly the voice on the radio that welcomed me, every Friday evening, to the place where I was free.
As a kid you’re rarely free. Life is scripted, scheduled, and menued by your parents of necessity. But on those trips we’d stop at a restaurant where I could eat what I wanted. We’d end up at the cabin where I could do what I wanted–I could vanish and spend the whole weekend in a tent on an island if that’s what I chose to do. It was where I first experienced a degree of independence.
Bob Uecker’s voice was tied up in all of that for me. In growing up, in independence, in being where you want to be rather than where you have to be. Every time I heard it for the following thirty years it took me back to that time and place. His voice was a portal to the best parts of my childhood.
That portal closed today.
Godspeed, Mr. Baseball, may you rest in peace.
Appendices
- The “Uecker Six” departure procedure from Milwaukee International Airport. Even the FAA knows how important Bob Uecker is in Wisconsin.
- Not Uecker-related:
- The bridge over the St. Croix was eventually replaced, thankfully. Driving by week after week as they built the current bridge, watching how it was done, was another highlight of my life up to that point.
- KARE-11 News coverage from the day of the trip I remember most vividly, when a tornado went through Fridley shortly after we passed. I remember my dad looking up at black clouds as we crossed the I-694 Mississippi bridge and saying “we’ve gotta get the hell out of here.”
