Specifically, what the fuck are the Milwaukee Brewers doing in the National League? When I last looked, I mean really looked, back at the end of my childhood, that unbroken ladder of years seemingly aimed in the direction of the gods, there was no clearer representative of the American League than the Brewers. They never sent their keg-bellied hungover hurlers to the plate. They never hosted games below the ceiling of a retractable dome. They never allowed their simple brutish contests to be marred by the calculating timidity of sacrifice bunts. They had the beards and long greasy hair of motorcycle thugs and guzzled Miller High Life and gnawed bulging wads of tobacco and slugged long home runs or struck out swinging. They listened to Waylon Jennings and Hank Williams Jr. on their way to discharge shotguns at wildlife. They smashed into outfield fences and bought mescaline from hippies before pounding them with tire irons. Didn’t they? I mean, now that the Milwaukee Brewers are in something called the Central Division of the National League I don’t feel I can make confident assertions about anything.
