Turn of the century: Looking ahead to 2000

By Drew Olson

of the Journal Sentinel staff

Nov. 8, 1996 Tuesday afternoon . . . April 4, 2000.

Despite the cloudy, chilly conditions, a festive atmosphere permeates the parking lot outside spanking new Miller Park.

The beer is flowing freely and smoke is rising from the hundreds of grills that are sizzling with steaks, burgers, chicken breasts and Usinger's new fat-free Olestra bratwurst.

Inside the Harley-Davidson Cafe, located just beyond the wall in right field, a VIP reception is under way.

Brewers President Wendy Selig-Prieb, back from her radio and TV spots, is greeting local celebrities. Gov. John Norquist chats on a cellular phone while former Gov. Tommy Thompson, now campaigning for the presidency, shakes hands with business leaders.

In the back of the room, Summerfest's Bo Black poses for pictures with the Bucks' Vin Baker and Glenn Robinson and Ald. Daschel Young. Members of the BoDeans, who will sing the national anthem, watch out the window as groundskeepers put the finishing touches on a Miller Park painting in centerfield.

Tuesday morning. April 4, 2000.

The ringing starts at 7:17 a.m.

Jeff D'Amico reaches over, thumps the top of the clock radio and lets his celebrated right arm fall over the edge of the bed.

The ringing continues.

D'Amico, his eyes barely at half-staff, reaches for the clock again and -- his senses awakening -- realizes that the noise is coming from the telephone.

"Hello?" he says, his voice still scratchy from sleep.

The voice on the other end sounds disgustingly awake for the early hour.

"Good morning, Bull," a male voice says, using the nickname that has made D'Amico -- the Milwaukee Brewers' top pitcher -- a fan favorite.

"It's Ivan the Intern from Rock 105. I'm sorry to wake you up, but we're broadcasting live from the parking lot at Miller Park and . . ."

D'Amico watches the digits on the clock flip to 7:18 a.m. He has been doing phone interviews with Brian and Bob for three years now on Milwaukee's top-rated morning show and is used to wake-up calls. This one, though, was unexpected.

"I'm not doing the show today," he says. "I never go on the day that I pitch."

"I know," Pete interrupts. "Jeff Cirillo is going to fill in for you, but we can't find his phone number. Do you have it?"

"Sorry," D'Amico says. "Try calling Greenberg for that."

Jon Greenberg, the Brewers' vice president of media relations, arrives at his office at 6:45 a.m. this chilly morning to discover a growing stack of pink phone message slips on his desk.

With five radio stations and four TV outlets broadcasting live from the parking lot, he knew there was little chance any of the messages would be returned before Friday.

"I can't wait until the game starts," Greenberg tells his public relations director, Steve Gilbert. "Then, I'll finally be able to relax."

Right now, Greenberg has to make sure that Selig-Prieb, General Manager Sal Bando and field manager Phil Garner show up on time for live TV interviews at various locations.

A TV reporter remarks that Garner, who led the Brewers to within a game of a division title and one-half game of a wild-card berth in 1999, has been with the same club longer than any other manager currently in the game.

"Nine years," Garner says, an unlit cigar dangling from below his bushy gray mustache. "I guess I'm officially a cheesehead now."

After eating a bowl of Frosted Flakes and a bagel, D'Amico grabs his keys, sidesteps his son's Nerf basketball and heads out to the garage. He jumps behind the wheel of his black Chevy Suburban, which he received as a gift from his wife after winning 20 games the previous year.

As he drives east on Interstate 94, D'Amico notices that the traffic is heavier than usual. Of course, his job doesn't usually require that he travel during rush hour.

As he approaches the Miller Park exit, he glances at the dilapidated gray building next to Miller Park and notices that the faded "Home of the Brewers" sign is still visible but the electronic message board has been removed.

The console of his truck tells him that it's 8:35 a.m. and that the temperature is a chilly 39 degrees. The gray sky tells him that it may snow before the day is over.

A little more than 24 hours earlier, the Brewers held a workout under sunny skies. Nearly 30,000 enthusiastic and curious fans gathered and the temperature was 63, warm enough to keep the roof open. Today, it's closed.

"Thank God for the roof," D'Amico tells a parking lot attendant who looks old enough to have been around for the opening of County Stadium.

Looking through a window in a work room, Greenberg sees Milwaukee Mayor Ulice Payne and his entourage arrive.

Payne, a former basketball star at Marquette University, was instrumental in getting Miller Park built and will throw out one of the six ceremonial first pitches before the Brewers game against Tampa Bay.

"I don't worry about the mayor, Robin or Brett throwing strikes," Greenberg says, referring to Payne, the Brewers' bench coach and the quarterback of the Super Bowl champion Green Bay Packers.

"I just hope the other guys can get it close."

The "other guys" are Miller CEO Paul Pilsner, U.S. Sen. Herb Kohl and his college roommate, baseball commissioner Bud Selig.

At the players' entrance, 10-year-old Ross Bartelt waits behind a barricade and gets autographs from his favorite players: shortstop Jose Valentin, coming off a 35-homer season; Cirillo, who won the batting title two seasons ago but missed most of the '99 campaign with a knee injury; Cal Eldred, the veteran middle reliever; first baseman Antone Williamson, whose keen sense of humor and bowling skill made him an instant Milwaukee hero; and, rightfielder Geoff Jenkins, who thrilled fans at the workout with a 450-foot homer.

"This is awesome," says Bartelt, who is attending the game with his father, Bruce, a season-ticket holder.

As Hall of Fame broadcaster Bob Uecker walks briskly toward the door, Ross sticks out his hat and a magic marker. Uecker tries to sign, but the magic marker has stopped writing because of the cold weather and heavy use.

"I'll get you next time, buddy," Uecker tells Ross. "Tell your old man to buy ya a new pen."

After signing a few dozen autographs outside, D'Amico heads down a flight of stairs to the bowels of the stadium.

Though the Brewers' clubhouse is immaculate, much of the lower level of the building is unfinished. The hallway leading past the players' wives lounge to the weight room and indoor batting cage is filled with ladders and other equipment left by workers who are about three weeks away from completing their work.

For two years, the Brewers' marketing department has seized on the "Under Construction" and "Work in Progress" themes. D'Amico and teammates had even appeared in hard hats and tool belts on the cover of the 1998 media guide.

"No more of that corny stuff," D'Amico thinks as he pulls open the door to the clubhouse. "It's show time now."

Show time arrives at 1:07 p.m. With the ceremonies and speeches and player introductions out of the way, D'Amico winds up and delivers a fastball to Devil Rays shortstop Derek Jeter.

Strike one.

A deafening roar rumbles from the lower box seats, gathers steam in the outfield bleachers and reverberates off the closed roof.

On the bench, Garner smiles.

"This is going to be fun," he says.

In the stands, nearly 42,000 people feel the same way.

At the 2000 home opener, Brewers President Wendy Selig-Prieb is greeting local celebrities. Gov. John Norquist chats on a cellular phone while former Gov. Tommy Thompson, now campaigning for the presidency, shakes hands with business leaders.