Staying Alive, and Living Well

The unreserved catharsis of it was breathtaking. William Contreras didn't hurl his bat into the sky to show up the Marlins; he did it because he needed to. He plainly felt good about the high line drive he smashed to left-center field in the bottom of the ninth Sunday; he stood and admired its flight. But in the close-up replays of the event, you can see that he was also judging the ball, unsure it would go out for the game-winner, willing it to do so—and maybe even praying. Not until after it caromed off a piece of ballpark behind and above the wall did he turn and perform his feat of strength.

As he threw the lumber, he spread his arms to the heavens, and that's clearly where his attention went, too. He had to pause after a moment and judge the flight of a second projectile, because when he threw the bat, for a moment, he ceased to care or perceive where it was. His gaze was fixed on something you couldn't have seen even if you were standing right next to him and craning your neck the same way—something that wasn't up there. Eventually, he had to turn his attention to what really was, so he wasn't thwacked by his own falling club.

Contreras needed that homer, and so did the Brewers. That's an odd sentiment, at first reading, because Contreras just got back from his third All-Star Game, and the team is still comfortably in first place in the NL Central. Life is all about reference points and recency, though, and recently, the Brewers have run into that old frenemy, Trouble, around every corner. Trouble always lurks in Pittsburgh just before the All-Star break. Trouble always lurks in Brandon Woodruff's shoulder. Lately, Trouble has been unyielding in its invasions, and the team is feeling the drag.

Of course, for Contreras and several fellow Brewers, there's also Trouble's big brother, Tragedy, with whom to deal. The earthquake(s) that struck Venezuela last month devastated the country Contreras calls home, the one he represented in the World Baseball Classic and for which he won that championship this spring. When the sad accounting is complete, the death toll will be over 10,000. The damage is catastrophic. Whatever joy there was in Contreras's bat throw, there was also a healthy measure of defiance. He was roaring his refusal to be governed by Trouble and Tragedy.

That's the Brewers in a nutshell. When they seem to be cornered or compromised in a way they could surely no longer survive, that's when they thrive. Somehow, they withstand a parade of injuries and other setbacks and keep winning games, anyway. That has been such a prevailing pattern since Pat Murphy and his devotion to relentlessness took over in 2024 that it feels almost as if this team is invincible. We know that they aren't. We know that the blow of Woodruff being out for the year hurts, and that that comes on the heels of several smaller (for now) injuries that threaten to erode the greatness of this team. We know they're not guaranteed to keep finding this almost-magical success in October, because (to paraphrase Billy Beane) Murphy's **** doesn't work in the playoffs—at least, ot yet.

Still, that bat-launch on Sunday might well be the one most emblematic of this team. They weather the storm, and then they become the storm. They may not defy God, but they're not afraid of him, either. Contreras isn't a slugger who goes deep 30 times a year; Sunday's was only his 10th long ball. But he made it count, and the team and its fans got to celebrate an unexpected triumph, capping a weekend of them, even as they all quietly mourned the losses they share and the ones that are personal to each. Moments like that make it a little easier to imagine another flavor of unreserved catharsis the team hopes to unleash: the feeling of finally bringing a World Series championship back to Milwaukee.