Bob Uecker: The Heart and Humor of Baseball’s Greatest Moments

“You need to check out this guy. He’s uproarious.”

The exact year is unclear, but it must have been before “Mr. Belvedere,” which premiered in 1985. It was prior to the Miller Lite ads that commenced in 1983, or perhaps it was after they aired but before they became a cultural phenomenon. It might have been one of many “Tonight Show” spots, yet it’s tough to envision spending time with my father past 9 p.m. on a school night. It must have been a local program, a delayed interview, a game show, something along those lines. All I can recall is my father diverting my focus to the man on the screen.

“He used to be a baseball player, but he was quite poor at it, and now he mocks himself. He’s amazing.”

It had to have been a brief moment, somewhere between the beginning of my obsession with baseball and the time when anyone with a television, including a 6-year-old boy, would recognize Bob Uecker. My dad didn’t introduce him as the longtime play-by-play commentator for the Brewers, which would have been a much clearer reason why a silver-haired former player was on our screen. All I understood was that there was a retired athlete who was so unremarkable at baseball, he could enjoy a career long after his retirement, joking about his lack of skill.

So I observed and chuckled alongside my dad, as my mind raced to rewire my expectations of what a baseball star could be. I already possessed numerous boxes of baseball cards, so I was acquainted with many athletes, and I was aware of various avenues to stardom. They could be the fastest (Rickey Henderson) or the mightiest (Jack Clark). They might deliver the hardest throws (Nolan Ryan) or sport the most remarkable mustache (Rollie Fingers). But the funniest? Even in their wretchedness?

Uecker wears a Daniel Boone hat during a group photo prior to the filming of the 11th annual Miller Lite commercial in 1987. Surrounding Uecker, from left, are Japanese baseball player Koichi Numazawa, and former football players L.C. Greenwood and Ray Nitschke. (Alison Wise / Associated Press)

Before long, my classmates were dashing around the playground shouting, “He missed the tag! He missed the tag!” and everyone, whether a baseball enthusiast or not, was acutely aware of Uecker and his comedic charm. My first encounter with him is a pivotal memory, genuinely. I can picture the room’s illumination, the television’s arrangement, and how taken my father was. It would be overly sentimental and inaccurate to connect that moment directly to my ultimate profession as a baseball writer who incorporates silly humor into his work, but it is completely valid to assert that was the first instance when I acknowledged that baseball could be amusing. It marked an introduction to the absurdity of baseball, something truly revered in the sport.

Baseball is an exquisite game. It’s an artful endeavor. It’s a pastime that rewards like a slot machine, where you can insert coin after coin without much outcome, but you are assured a future jackpot of suspense and exhilaration. Yet, it is also a remarkably ludicrous sport, there’s no denying that. It’s a game where you witness grown men in pajamas failing repeatedly. Every so often, an older gentleman will lumber onto the field, also clad in pajamas for some bizarre reason. It can be the most trivial thing in the universe and simultaneously hold utmost importance, a quantum superposition we often overlook.

Uecker became a baseball icon and cultural figure due to all these factors. His persona suited the Harry Doyle character from “Major League” flawlessly, but not merely because he could deliver the line “juuuuuust a bit outside” and turn it into something that gets referenced countless times each baseball season. That character resonated because his journey mirrored one that every baseball fan could comprehend, transitioning from exasperation to neglect to renewed passion to jubilation to triumph. When Doyle rejoices in Cleveland’s pennant (spoiler), he has earned that joy, and you’ve witnessed him work up to that rewarding jackpot. The sport wasn’t taken seriously until it was. Baseball’s merely a game until it isn’t.

This was the gap Uecker filled, the aspect of baseball that always lingered in the background but hadn’t been articulated or embodied as it needed to be. Baseball legends were expected to be demigods, akin to Willie Mays or Mickey Mantle, possessing extraordinary abilities beyond the comprehension of any observer. They were unrelatable, but that was the intention. That’s how baseball was meant to be.

However, when Uecker found himself bumped from the prime seats and relegated to the cheap seats in that Miller Lite spot, it represented a more relatable aspect of the baseball experience. And when he’s hollering about a missed tag, he’s so invested that he ceases to be a conventional, courteous member of civilized society and starts shouting at someone who will never hear him. You can be sure that’s also what baseball aims to represent. Indeed, it extends beyond just the sport, but baseball acts as one of those avenues that assists in processing everything. We are all in the third tier of the universe, somehow isolated and yet part of an assembly simultaneously, pointing and shouting at something that’s about as significant as a play during the sixth inning of a regular-season Brewers game.

Uecker’s capability to embody this duality rendered him ideal for all manner of roles, not solely baseball-related. It enabled him to be the representation of the average person on a sitcom, confronting typical challenges that the everyman watching could resonate with.

This is why he was the perfect choice as commentator for Wrestlemania, and not just any Wrestlemania, but the one where Andre the Giant squared off against Hulk Hogan. There existed two other cultural legends, with the literal giant donned in a leotard and the other flaunting a golden skullet and handlebar mustache, who were set to embrace each other, toss one another, and fake punch one another because the script mandated it. Entirely absurd and trivial. It shouldn’t possess any significance. Yet, it’s still something I sought out on YouTube last year, despite having ceased following professional wrestling in the 1980s. There lies a fine line between completely inconsequential and perpetually meaningful, and don’t you ever forget that.

This is the reason Uecker’s moniker — Mr. Baseball — stands out as one of the finest in the annals of the

sport. It’s an activity of triumphs and setbacks, with more setbacks than any other professional sport. It’s a sport that ought to evoke laughter. It’s a sport that should ignite your passion. It’s a sport that’s not solely filled with stars but necessitates a base of underperformers and also-rans, individuals who can develop and achieve enough to represent their local team, yet lack the skills to become a regular player, let alone a star. It’s a sport that children engage in daily, and some of the least skilled players often fall the hardest for it.

Perhaps the finest way to illustrate it all is to reflect on the final game that Uecker participated in the majors, in 1967. In the opening inning, Bob Gibson took the mound, a demi-god, a sorcerer with the baseball and a grumpy, all-business persona that emanated into the audience and through television, radio or newspapers. In the opening inning, Gibson faced Henry Aaron, another demi-god and one of the greatest players to ever step on the field, with two runners on and no outs. He struck him out on a called strike.

Orlando Cepeda began the following inning, and Roger Maris concluded it. Curt Flood was also in the match, shortly before he transformed the sport permanently off the field. He batted after Ed Spiezio and Julian Javier, whose sons would later play and impact an entirely different generation of baseball athletes. When Uecker was unceremoniously taken out of the game due to a double switch, Joe Torre stepped in behind the plate, one of the rare players with a Hall-of-Fame-level resume both as a player and a manager. Lou Brock came into the game as a pinch-hitter and popped out because sometimes the stars and Hall of Famers don’t achieve anything. The match was ultimately determined by a two-run double from Tim McCarver in the top of the 11th inning, who would later become part of as many baseball memories as anyone else in the sport.

It was a trivial game, played with only a couple of days remaining in the season, as the Cardinals headed toward 101 victories and a pennant they had secured weeks beforehand. Yet, it held enough significance for Gibson to pitch nine innings and for the stars to remain and take their at-bats in the extras.

And there was Uecker, who wasn’t deemed reliable enough with the game in the balance. He entered the game as a career .200 hitter, a neat round figure that will always be linked to inadequacy and disappointment. With a single hit, he could have ended his career with a .201 batting average. He couldn’t obtain it, so he concluded with a .1997264022 batting average. It rounds up to .200.

That encapsulates all of baseball in one match. It represented everything and nothing. There were heroes and legends, some of whom were defined by their post-baseball activities. It was a Friday evening match, which made it an ideal opportunity to watch a baseball game, just like every other day and night. And it was a moment where someone concluded their playing path, only to embark on a new journey, in which he would spend the remainder of his life reminding us of a simple reality.

Baseball is enjoyable. Mr. Baseball has reminded us of this for many years, and he will continue to do so for as long as the sport exists.

(Top photo of Bob Uecker before a Brewers game: Jeffrey Phelps / MLB Photos via Getty Images)