Time to Process

On October 20, 1982, the Milwaukee Brewers faced the St. Louis Cardinals in Game 7 of the World Series. It had been a difficult postseason for six-year-old me because my home team had taken me on an emotional rollercoaster.

In the best-of-five American League Championship Series against the California Angels, the Brewers lost their first two games before winning the final three and advancing. After that, I endured another six games of ups and downs.

I was a wreck. Each night, I’d place my souvenir plastic batting helmet on top of our TV for good luck. (We had the very same Zenith floor-model television that everyone had back in the early 1980s.) Inning by inning, I’d scream with joy or tear up from sadness.

I was embarrassed by my tears, so I tried to hide it. I mentioned this recently to my mom, and she told me she knew exactly what was happening at the time. When I was especially overcome with emotion, I’d head to the backyard of our small home in rural Wisconsin and cry. I’d wish for the baseball gods to make the Brewers win.

But in Game 7 on October 20, they didn’t come through for me. After leading 3-1 through five innings, the Cardinals scored four runs in the sixth, and the Brewers couldn’t recover. My team lost the World Series and hasn’t been back since. It’s been forty-three years.

I have great parents, but their advice for addressing my feelings was very Midwestern. If I was emotional, the guidance I’d get was to “get a hold of myself.” They would say, “You’re acting as if you’ve lost an arm!”

From then on, I worked hard to suppress my feelings. My progress was gradual. My grandma Jane would refuse to play cards with me because I got too emotional. I was a poor winner and an especially sore loser.

Even in my early twenties, I struggled. When my hometown Green Bay Packers lost a game on a last-minute play, it ruined the rest of my day. The worst was January 3, 1999, when the San Francisco 49ers beat the Packers 30–27 on a fourth-down pass with eight seconds remaining.

Throughout the rest of my twenties, thirties, and early forties, I devised strategies to suppress my emotions.

Here’s a technique I honed for sports: Watch games only for enjoyment and with zero expectations. Or, if a game is particularly meaningful, simply don’t watch it. Wait until the game concludes, then if my team wins, watch a replay of the highlights.

Just recently, my Brewers beat the Chicago Cubs in a decisive Game 5 to advance to the 2025 National League Championship Series. I checked the score after the game ended after spending a wonderful evening having dinner with friends. When I saw that the Brewers won, I spent the rest of the night watching highlights of the game.

In the last few years, though, I’ve realized my methods aren’t the answer. Losing my cool isn’t right. But neither is suppressing my feelings. There is a third solution.

The Midwesterner’s answer to handling emotions isn’t the right one. Or perhaps I misinterpreted my parents’ advice to “get a hold of myself.” That shouldn’t mean pushing down your feelings. I think it should mean excusing yourself from difficult situations, then giving yourself time to feel those feelings and process them appropriately.

How did I learn this? I have a smart wife who’s taught me about it over the years. I have a son who I want to learn this too.

Have I figured it out? No. I don’t have advice for you here—I’m still working on it. But I’m fortunate to have the time to keep at it.

It might be another forty-three years until the Brewers make it to the World Series (and maybe even win it?). But I’ll be ninety-two years old then, still practicing how to feel my feelings, and cheering my home team on no matter the outcome.