Let’s begin our ode to the Milwaukee Brewers in the strangest place, with a man who has probably never even been to Milwaukee: Novak Djokovic. It is pretty widely accepted — not universally, by any means, but widely — that Djokovic is the greatest men’s tennis player who ever lived. Some will fight to the death for Roger Federer or Rafael Nadal, maybe even Rod Laver, or Pete Sampras, and that’s perfectly fine. It’s fun to argue about sports.
But the breadth of Djokovic’s accomplishments — the fact that he has won the most Grand Slam titles, been in the most Grand Slam finals, spent the most weeks at No. 1, won every Masters 1000 title at least twice, on and on — leaves little room for reasonable debate. He’s the best.
And how did he become the best?
By being whoever he had to be on the tennis court.
Federer was always Federer. Nadal was always Nadal. Laver was always Laver. That’s not to say their games were one-dimensional; not at all. They all had awe-inspiring all-court games. They could all serve brilliantly, return brilliantly, rally brilliantly, volley brilliantly, etc.
But Djokovic, alone, could shapeshift into his opponents’ worst nightmare. When they wanted to play short points, he stretched rallies. When they wanted to rally, he would attack with drop shots and lobs. If they had big serves, he blasted them backward with fiery returns. If they got hot and couldn’t miss, he’d outlast them. He can still do much of this as he approaches 40.
And as we watched the Milwaukee Brewers roll through this postseason — as we watched them do every little thing right in beating the gritty Padres in four tight games, and then watched them overpower the presumably invincible Los Angeles Dodgers, and then watched them grind down the ultimate grind-em-down team in Tampa Bay with a flurry of singles and doubles — I kept trying to think: Who do they remind me of? The 2015 Royals? The Bruce Bochy Giants? Some older team?
Finally, it hit me: These Brewers are baseball’s Novak Djokovic.
They are whatever they need to be.
And I’m not sure you can pay a higher compliment to a baseball team.
Here’s an outdated number for you: .280.
What do you think of when you see .280? It’s obviously a batting average. In ancient times, back when we old people were young, that was the most solid batting average imaginable. Harold Baines hit .280. Chris Chambliss hit .280. Dave Winfield hit .280. Mike Schmidt hit .280. Larry Bowa, in a good year, hit .280, and Al Oliver, in an off-year, hit .280.
These days, with all the 100-mph fastballs and savage sliders and harsh checked-swing calls and strikeouts, .280 might put you among the top ten in the league.
The Milwaukee Brewers, as a team, hit .280 in this World Series.
That’s the highest batting average for a World Series team in almost 20 years, going all the way back to the 2007 Red Sox, who had the distinct advantage of playing the Colorado Rockies in the World Series. Anyway, baseball was different in 2007.
And the Brewers hit .280 in ways that most of us thought impossible in this epoch of whiffs and designer defenses.
“Well, you see,” Wee Willie Keeler said to a Philadelphia fan who asked for the secret to hitting, “there are seven hitters in front of you, all of them placed so that they are in a position to pounce upon all kinds of drives, liners or grounders. The principal thing to do is to hit ‘em where they ain’t.”
Wee Willie said that in 1901.
The Brewers brought it back in 2026. One recurring image of this World Series was Tampa Bay outfielders looking at data-rich defensive cards telling them where to stand. And then, Jackson Chourio and Cooper Pratt and William Contreras and Brice Turang and the rest would hit a line drive or a short fly ball or a blast into the gap that they couldn’t reach.
“If do right,” Mr. Miyagi told Daniel of the Crane Kick, “no can defend.”
The Brewers just kept Crane Kicking the Rays in the face.
