Referring to Bob Uecker as merely an original or one of a kind doesn’t suffice.

Uecker embodied both the essence of baseball and its playful parody, his warm voice on the radio capturing the traditional announcing style of the sport over many decades while also offering a humorous twist on it.

His passing at the age of 90, announced on Thursday, hit hard, particularly since he was an even greater person off the field.

It was symbolic that Uecker’s final appearance in the spotlight was as a motivational force for the Milwaukee Brewers, a team he cherished. Their unexpected early exit from the playoffs last year matched with the realization that this might be the last major league game Uecker would witness added to the emotional weight of the moment.

Uecker’s family disclosed on Thursday that he had been fighting small cell lung cancer since 2023, and players like Christian Yelich struggled to keep their composure, knowing Uecker’s time with them was nearing its end.

It’s remarkable how Uecker could connect with the younger generation of Brewers players, engaging them like an old friend, not merely as an icon of the franchise nor as a demanding elder figure expecting respect for his status.

He was simply Ueck, a quintessential baseball nickname that reflects the sport’s tendency towards brevity. But he proudly embraced the title “Mr. Baseball,” which humorously referred to his .200 batting average – a jab at standards! – while also serving as an apt label, reminding us not to take the game or life too seriously.

Let’s take a look back: Uecker solidified his contemporary persona in 1984 with his unforgettable Miller Lite commercial—”I must be in the front rooooow,” a catchphrase that resonated with people of all ages that summer and beyond.

In 1989, he starred in “Major League,” where his character, Harry Doyle, helped solidify his fame.

Yelich, who stepped onto the baseball scene in 1991, and Jackson Chourio, the Brewers’ upcoming star outfielder born decades later, both echo the wide-reaching appeal of Uecker’s legacy.

His ability to connect with fans across generations demonstrates that kindness and giving back are key to building relationships. Few in his field offered as much time and warmth as Uecker, whether he was supporting newcomers in the sport, chatting with stadium staff, or bonding with fellow media members as if they were lifelong friends.

There’s an intriguing twist in the fact that a player from such humble beginnings would set a benchmark in broadcasting and entertainment that seems impossible to replicate today.

The 1980s represented a time of shared culture, where everyone plugged into the same few TV channels and united over pop standards like Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” Uecker forged his own significant identity in this cultural landscape, just as it began to fracture into a multitude of niches.

At some point, we’ve all watched a game where a pitcher loses control and throws a pitch so wild it’s laughable. During the inevitable awkward silence, the announcer might say, “Juuuuust a bit outside,” a humorous nod to Uecker’s Harry Doyle character.

It served as an instant acknowledgment by the announcer that they were overmatched. It was their way of admitting that while they could describe how poor the pitch was in words, Uecker had perfected that craft.

In later years, sports broadcasters often adopted recognizable catchphrases, akin to quoting movies or songs, but these rarely captured the authenticity that Uecker brought. He made it look effortless to be original, funny, and genuine all at once.

The game’s challenges seemed to keep Uecker grounded. When managers or players comment on someone struggling at bat or on the mound, they usually point out, “The game looks much easier from up here.”

However, once those players or managers step into the broadcast booth, they might forget that reality, critiquing play harshly and overlooking that subpar baseball has always been part of the sport.

Uecker had a unique perspective over many years. He enjoyed national recognition through Miller Lite and “Major League,” along with nationwide broadcasts.

Yet, none of this diminished the 54 remarkable years he spent as the voice—sometimes the only significant voice—of the Milwaukee Brewers. He never outgrew the small market of Milwaukee.

This dedication entailed an endless rotation of day games following night games, delays in unpredictable weather, and moments of truly wretched baseball experiences. I witnessed this firsthand as a young adult, borrowing a friend’s credentials for an inconsequential Brewers vs. A’s game in 1996.

After batting practice, an elevator opened, revealing Uecker with his bag in hand, the weight of decades lingering on him, reflecting the forgettable nature of Game 66 that year.

I was struck, having anticipated that such a long-serving celebrity would have a grander presence at the ballpark. He was equally present for low-stakes games as he was for prime-time broadcasts.

He sensed my surprise and shot me a look that seemed to say, “This is Game 4 of a mid-week series during a long season. Please, don’t bring up Mr. Belvedere.”

The message was clear.

While his presence in the booth might have faded with time, Uecker’s enthusiasm never did. Although that could be seen as him being a “great ambassador for the Brewers and baseball,” it felt more genuine, simply him being himself.

Perhaps there’s a lesson in that—a commitment to hard work and being our best selves. Uecker made it seem effortless, yet his absence will be profoundly felt.