March 21, 1895, Philadelphia—Walther Boeselager unlocked the gate to the side entrance, and a group of men armed with suitcases and bags walked through. Karl stood next to Walther and paid attention to the smiles and the hands that shifted their flat caps so they could look up at the facade.
“It’s finally happening,” Moriarty Stapleton commented as he walked by. “It’s magnificent.”
“You did it, sirs,” Now it was Leo McKenzie’s turn. He shook Walther’s hand first, then shook Karl’s. “I wish my father could see this. Thank you.” Then he looked down at the kid next to Karl. “You can be proud of your dad, young man.”
McKenzie moved on and disappeared in the darkness that would lead the players to the locker room. Karl looked after Leo and remembered the first time he met Michael McKenzie. Michael was a baseball fanatic, and he never stopped dreaming of having Leo turn into a professional athlete. Every day, both of them were playing baseball somewhere. Michael also came to watch every game in the amateur or youth leagues. Two years ago, Michael died in an accident at the quarry. Karl didn’t hesitate and hired Leo to work in the brewery.
Now, he looked at his six-year-old son, Peter. Would he play baseball one day? So far, he has shown little interest, but who knows? Maybe Alois, his second son, would become more of an athlete.
“Let’s go. We have some work to do,” he told Peter, and both followed the last players stepping through the gate. Karl looked back to the past 13 years and how they led from the Philadelphia Athletics to the Philadelphia Brewers.
In January 1882, Wilhelm passed away after a brief but severe illness. It left the brewery personnel in shock since the founder of Boeselager & Sons Brewing Co. led the business stably and safely. The sons, committed to their father’s legacy, assured the brewers and other workers that nothing would change for them and that if there were changes, they would undoubtedly benefit. Soon, Walther took command of the business end of the brewery while Karl led the platoon of brewers and workers. To avoid conflicts, major decisions required both of them to sign off.
A few months later, Walther informed Karl that the Philadelphia Athletics would move from Oakdale Park to a location they knew very well: Jefferson Street Grounds. They sat in their father’s office, which Walther altered by adding a second desk, and now he laid out a business opportunity.
“What about McCabe?” Karl wasn’t interested in any skirmish as they had experienced a few years earlier. “I thought they serve McCabe’s at Oakdale? And I thought the old ballpark is gone?”
“Karl, the Athletics came to us. They only had a one-year contract with McCabe and don’t like his Gepansche. They will have a refurbished Jefferson Street Grounds up and running for Opening Day.” Walther sipped on his whiskey. The mild burn of one of Philadelphia’s finest distilleries reached his throat. Gepansche, he remembered, was his father’s favorite word for anything of lesser quality. “Father told us to forget distributing beer at sports events, but I’m not giving up.”
Walther invited Karl to inspect the new Jefferson Street Grounds in early March 1883. He wondered how Karl would react, considering he once played here. Actually, he didn’t. In 1877, the city built a school on the original field at 26th and Jefferson Street, so the Athletics are now setting the diamond up at 27th and Jefferson Street. When Karl finally arrived, he was speechless.
“How big is this ballpark? How many does it hold?” He pointed at the two-storied grandstand.
“Over 2,000 people behind home plate,” Walther answered. “With the stands along the foul lines, I believe 6,000.”
The two entered the ballpark, and a familiar face greeted Karl. “Lon? What are you doing here?”
“Long time no see, Karl. I’m playing and managing the Athletics.” Lon Knight was 29 and debuted in professional baseball in 1875 for the Philadelphia Athletics. It was the only season Karl and Lon played together because Karl got injured before the 1876 season. Lon didn’t play professional baseball from 1877 until 1879, then joined the Worcester Ruby Legs in 1880. He was a Detroit Wolverine in 1881 and 1882, then finally moved to the Athletics in 1883.
“I thought you enlisted to the Navy after you’ve proven to be a capable sailor.” Karl referred to an incident in 1880 where Lon got in a boat to chase a ball that went over the fence. Albany’s ground rules didn’t include automatic home runs for balls hit outside the ballpark.
“Very funny,” Lon chuckled. “Let’s look at the new ballpark.” The group headed through a hallway. Walther looked at Karl’s jaw-dropping face when he discovered the gigantic Boeselager advertisement board in centerfield.
The Athletics manager also noticed Karl’s amazement. “I hope our team will have a similar effect on you as the sight of our diamond.”
It did. The 1883 Athletics won the American Association championship and the popularity battle against the Philadelphia Quakers, who had a disastrous 17-81 inaugural season in the National League. For the Boeselager brothers, it was a double triumph as the Quakers sold various McCabe soda drinks because of the National League’s ban on alcoholic beverages.
Tim McCabe joined the Beer and Whiskey League a year later by supporting the Brooklyn Atlantics. The agreement irritated Walther because he tried to help the struggling New York branch and had a generous contract delivered to the club owners. While the Athletics still held the upper hand, there was no championship, and the National League Quakers attracted more and more people.
From 1885 to 1888, the St. Louis Browns raised the trophy at the end of each season. The Athletics’ highest ranking was third place, eleven games behind the Browns and seven games behind Brooklyn, which changed its name from Atlantics to Grays in 1885 and to Bridegrooms in 1888.
Although the brewery owners had no say in the baseball operations and didn’t want to intervene, the supporters’ pride in their beer raised the rivalry to a battle of the breweries. When Brooklyn became the 1889 American Association champions, McCabe organized a victory parade that demonstratively passed the Boeselager brewery in Williamsburg twice—a humiliation in the eyes of the Boeselagers.
At the pinnacle of their success, the Bridegrooms quit the American Association and joined the National League. Never in history did a reigning champ switch active leagues (the St. Louis Maroons joined the National League after winning the only Union Association season in 1884). It was an earthquake for Baseball America, which divided the nation’s baseball enthusiasts. Some believed it was treason, and some said the best team should play in the best league. For Tim McCabe, the situation was far from perfect. He invested in the Phillies, formerly known as the Quakers, solely to damage the Athletics. Every baseball fan deciding to go to a Phillies game instead of the Athletics was a small win. The soda he sold at National League games barely covered the costs. However, the beer he sold at the Bridegrooms games provided a significant income.
Unhappy with the move, he demanded an exception regarding alcoholic drinks during National League games. Nick Young, the National League president, denied McCabe’s request and wouldn’t compromise even after McCabe threatened to end his Bridegrooms investment.
The American Association stood on sandy ground. Karl and Walther Boeselager knew it and couldn’t believe their eyes when they saw McCabe Red Ribbon advertisement at the Brooklyn Gladiator ballpark.
“The old bastard won’t stop until the Athletics are gone,” Walther analyzed the situation.
Karl shook his head in disbelief. “Can’t we sell the New York branch? There’s barely any profit, and I don’t want to come here any longer.”
“Father wouldn’t be happy about these words, Karl. I’m sure it’ll turn out alright in a few years.” Then he pulled out two bottles of Boeselager Pils out of his coat. “Warm by now, but still better than this garbage.” He pointed at the McCabe sign.
The end came faster than anyone expected. In 1890, the Brotherhood of Professional Baseball Players formed a new league—the Players’ League. The athlete union fought for better salaries and contracts and used the Players’ League to pressure National League owners. They wanted to eliminate the National League’s salary cap and reserve clause. The three leagues competed for players and fans, leading to the deconstruction of professional baseball.
Three teams folded in the American Association. First, the Brooklyn Gladiators dropped out after 99 games, then the Syracuse Stars about two weeks later. Finally, the Philadelphia Athletics announced their retreat. The Players’ League also ceased to exist after one season.
Although the Players’ League Philadelphia Athletics replaced the vanished Athletics, the Boeselager brothers wouldn’t support them. The brothers wondered why the American Association added another season. Attendance was down, and the National League was too powerful. Tim McCabe felt the same and attempted another push to bend the regulations. Once again, the president denied his requests, but it didn’t stop McCabe from serving beer during a home series without the Phillies’ knowledge.
President Young warned McCabe, but his stalls sold Philly Fizz and McCabe Red Ribbon every other week. After a month, Young fined the Phillies for violating the regulations. Although he wasn’t the owner, McCabe willingly took over the bill because his profit outweighed the penalty. Some other owners applauded the bold move, while others protested and demanded harsher actions.
In the middle of the 1891 season, the National League declared ballparks and a cordon of 150 yards of no-alcohol zones for the duration of the game and an hour before and after as no-alcohol zones. National League officials and police rigorously enforced this new rule and dumped any alcohol they confiscated.
Somehow, Tim McCabe successfully shifted the blame on the National League. For a few days, newspapers repeated McCabe’s criticism that the league refused any compromise. Before a game in Brooklyn, Tim McCabe led a protest march to the stadium. When they reached the final destination, McCabe angrily stated that the American Association lies on its deathbed and that investors would love to make ticket prices more affordable for the working class. The masses, mostly McCabe employees, cheered. Every week, public pressure increased, and by August, the first announced retreat of investment hit high waves. Although the sponsoring company owner was an ultra-conservative abstainer who disagreed with the efforts by McCabe and other tobacco and alcohol magnates, the media changed the story so that Mr. Ferdinand Urbanus Christopher Kunkelgruber criticized the stance of the National League.
By the end of the season, only a few investors pledged to support their respective clubs the following year. The financially crippled National League had no other choice than to close its doors just days after the American Association folded. The United States of America was without a professional baseball league.
Players and managers returned to the factories, offices, breweries, distilleries, mines, farms, or other places of employment. They still kept playing baseball but did so in the ever-changing patchwork map of American regional semi-professional and amateur leagues. Most American Association and National League stadiums vanished, as did Jefferson Street Grounds and the Philadelphia Baseball Grounds.
It was a shame, mainly because a talented young player emerged and was about to sign a contract with a team: Leo McKenzie. Michael’s son worked with his father in the quarry and became a stellar athlete. Leo crushed amateur leagues, and his speed was unmatched.
Karl and Walther Boeselager now focused solely on the Boeselager & Sons Brewery. While the main brewery in Philadelphia continued to thrive, the New York branch struggled. The ingredients and the process were the same, but it was a repeat of the early days in Philadelphia. An unknown and pricey high-quality product didn’t sell. Therefore, only a few bars and pubs in New York City sold Boeselager Pils. Every month, the brothers took the train to Williamsburg. Karl even went every other week because he trained the young brewers. Every time he taught them something new, he noticed how they seemed to enjoy their work more and more. Then, he wondered what his sons would do once they were old enough to pursue a profession.
By 1894, the brewery in Williamsburg had stabilized. The profit was nowhere near the mother brewery in Philadelphia, but it ran smoothly. Although it wasn’t anything official, in March 1894, Karl promoted two of the brewers he’d been training personally to Braumeister. Karl insisted they should carry the German title of brewmaster because he taught them based on his and his father’s knowledge. Both brewmasters were Williamsburg natives and sons of German immigrants. Their German names added more authenticity to their new job titles, and the certificates Karl prepared in German had no real value except the pride it would give their new owners. Karl and Walther ordered the crew to go home early and celebrate. The brothers will have a meeting in Greenwich Village tomorrow to negotiate terms with a potential distributor.
They walked toward the ferry dock at Broadway Landing, passing factories, bakeries, and butchers. The streets were busy, but the brothers had nothing planned for the rest of the day. Walther bought smoked sausages and a small loaf of bread, something their parents did when they were younger. At least once a month, they would hike outside Cologne and devour a ring of Flönz — a smoked blood sausage in Cologne dialect—with a jar of mustard and fresh bread.
The ferry rocked gently as Karl and Walther leaned against the railing, finishing the last bites of their bread and smoked sausages. The skyline of Lower Manhattan loomed ahead, shifting with each passing minute as they drifted closer to the ferry dock.
Karl wiped his hands on a cloth and gestured toward the cluster of new buildings rising behind the old churches. “Every time we come here, there’s another one.”
Walther swallowed a bite and followed his brother’s gaze. “That’s how it is now. The banks, the newspapers, the insurance companies—they all want to outbuild one another.”
The towers of the Brooklyn Bridge rose to their left, their gothic spires standing defiant against the haze rolling in from the harbor. Though impressive, the bridge was already a familiar sight—a landmark they had come to expect when crossing the river.
Karl shifted his focus south toward the Statue of Liberty, its brownish hue barely visible in the distance. When he saw her last time, slight green streaks marked her appearance. “Do you think she watches over everyone?” he asked absently.
Walther smirked. “Only the ones with money.”
Karl snorted. “Then she wouldn’t have noticed us when we arrived.”
The ferry gave a short whistle, signaling its approach to the dock. The brothers stepped back from the railing, already preparing for the bustle of the Lower East Side.
Disembarking into the chaos of the waterfront, Karl and Walther pushed through the crowds of laborers, street vendors, and newspaper boys hawking their latest editions. The scent of the city was a mix of fresh bread, horse manure, and coal smoke—a far cry from the malty aroma of their brewery.
They navigated northwest toward Greenwich Village, taking their time. It was early afternoon, and their business wasn’t until the next day.
Karl bought a few roasted chestnuts from a street vendor, cracking the warm shells as they strolled.
“You’re treating today like a holiday,” Walther noted.
Karl shrugged. “Why not? Tomorrow, we will negotiate. Today, we enjoy a good meal and a walk through the city.”
Walther didn’t argue. It was rare for them to be in Manhattan without a strict schedule, and while he wasn’t one for leisure, even he could appreciate the change of pace.
They passed into Greenwich Village, where the streets twisted unpredictably, breaking free from the rigid grid of the rest of the city. The architecture changed too—fewer towering office buildings, more brick townhouses, brownstones, and gas-lit storefronts.
Then Karl slowed his pace.
“Look at that,” he murmured, nodding ahead.
A row of carriages lined the curb in front of a large brownstone at #9 Barrow Street. The drivers stood nearby, smoking pipes and chatting idly, waiting for their passengers.
Walther narrowed his eyes. “That’s a lot of money in one place.”
Karl glanced up at the second-floor window as they approached, where shadows moved behind the lace curtains. The glow of gas lamps inside revealed the outlines of men standing, gesturing, and discussing something at length.
Then, the front door swung open.
A man stepped onto the stoop, his face unmistakable.
Timothy McCabe.
Karl tensed. “Damn it.”
McCabe stood for a moment, speaking to a man in a crisp suit who remained in the doorway. The brothers could see him smiling, that familiar smug grin, before tipping his hat and descending the steps.
Walther exhaled sharply. “This isn’t good.”
Karl agreed. Whenever McCabe was involved, it meant power, money, and underhanded deals.
They stopped near a man standing outside the brownstone—a well-dressed gentleman in his fifties, leaning against the iron railing, smoking a cigar. Walther cleared his throat.
“Pardon me, sir,” he said. “What’s going on in there?”
The man glanced at them, taking a long drag from his cigar before answering. “You haven’t heard?” He exhaled smoke. “Some of the most powerful men in business and baseball are inside, talking about the future of the sport.”
Karl and Walther exchanged glances.
“Future of the sport?” Karl asked.
The man smirked. “Word is they’re trying to build a league. Something new.”
“Who is the host?” Walther asked the man, who said it was Alexander P. Madigan’s mansion. The name sounded familiar to Walther.
“And who received an invitation?” Karl asked.
“Everyone who was involved in the National League. Even Nick Young is here,” the man paused, and Karl saw the cigar glow up. “But I doubt he can compete with Mr. Madigan. There is too much money supporting him. Who are you, if I may ask?”
“I’m Walther Boeselager, and this is my brother Karl. We supplied the Philadelphia Athletics during the American Association times.”
“I remember. It’s a shame Mr. Madigan didn’t include Association investors. Especially since Tim McCabe is here.” He shook his head. “Unbearable character. But I will have to go now. Good day!”
Karl clenched his jaw. “Thank you.” He grabbed Walther’s sleeve. “Let’s go.”
In silence, they walked the last few blocks to their guesthouse, Bauman’s Boarding House, the lively hum of Greenwich Village’s evening crowd barely reaching them.
The familiar scent of roasted pork, rye bread, and freshly poured Boeselager Pilsner greeted them inside. They found a quiet table in the corner, ordered two drinks, and sat in deep thought.
“What’s on your mind, Walther?” Karl knew something was troubling him.
“Remember when the National League fell apart? This Madigan was one of the big investors in the league, not of a team but the league itself. When Young began to lose control, Madigan was the second after Kunkelgruber to drop out.” Walther sipped on his beer. “I believe this is going to be big.”
“That’s good for us. Maybe there’ll be a team in Philadelphia, and we can supply our beer.” Walther heard Karl’s excitement but calmed him down.
“Whatever McCabe tried to do in the past years was against us. If he’s in that mansion,” he now pointed at the window, “he will ensure we won’t be part of whatever they decide. We’re out of luck.”
Karl knew his brother too well. He desired a comeback, and Karl secretly admitted that he would love to see the family involved in baseball again. But how? They could only wait and hope that a club with no ties to Tim McCabe would settle in Philadelphia.
The next day, the Boeselager brothers met with their new distributor near Bauman’s Boarding House and signed a contract to significantly help their brewery’s New York branch. With the deal sealed, they had little reason to linger in Manhattan.
As they made their way down to the waterfront, the city was settling into the evening. The gas lamps flickered to life, casting long shadows on the damp cobblestones. They walked silently, each lost in thought until they reached the Cortlandt Street Ferry Terminal.
Karl glanced at the schedule. “Next one leaves in five minutes,” he said.
They boarded with the usual crowd of businessmen, factory managers, and a few well-dressed gamblers. The ferry rocked gently as it pulled away, the cold March air mixing with the thick scent of coal smoke from the city behind them.
As the skyline of Lower Manhattan drifted further into the distance, Karl leaned on the railing, gazing at the darkened towers. “You think we’ll read about it in the papers?”
Walther exhaled. “Most likely. Madigan’s making sure of that.”
A familiar voice cut through the low murmur of the passengers.
“The man wasn’t kidding.”
Walther stiffened. He didn’t need to turn. He already knew.
Timothy McCabe strode toward them from the other side of the ferry, cigar in hand, lighting it with an exaggerated flick of a match. The years had thickened his frame, silver streaking through his black hair. His face carried the confidence of a man who had survived more battles than he lost.
“Ol’ Hieronimus Gabler told me he ran into the Boeselagers. And my former distributor mentioned you were sniffing around for a deal. So?” He took a slow pull from his cigar, watching them through the smoke. “Did you succeed?”
Karl didn’t look at him. “None of your business, Tim.”
McCabe chuckled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Walther, ever the more composed of the two, crossed his arms. “How were the talks at Barrow Street?”
McCabe exhaled a plume of smoke, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. “As expected. Madigan and the others don’t want me setting up shop in New York. Said three teams were enough. Convenient, isn’t it?”
Karl scoffed. “Sounds like they don’t want you around at all.”
McCabe’s smirk thinned. “I can’t say I was the most welcome guest. Plenty of handshakes, plenty of smiles, this fine cigar by Mr. Monroe—but I know when I’m being shut out. Young might not run the league, but he still has friends. And Madigan? That man has enough money to push anyone aside if he doesn’t like them.” He took another drag from his cigar. “They made damn sure I wasn’t getting my team in New York.”
Walther nodded slowly. “So you took Philadelphia.”
McCabe shrugged. “It’s a big market. I already had my franchise slot. I wasn’t about to let them force me out completely.” He paused. “But I don’t want to be there. I had enough of Philadelphia ever since you set up that brothel at third base.”
Karl narrowed his eyes. “Then why take it?”
McCabe chuckled. “Because I knew it’d be useful.” He let the words settle before continuing. “You two have been a thorn in my side for years. Your damn beer still sells in Philadelphia, and worse, it sells in New York. I’ve built something big—breweries, distilleries, taverns. But every time I look at my territory, I see your name in the middle of it.”
Walther raised an eyebrow. “So you want us gone?”
McCabe pulled out an envelope and withdrew a few sheets of paper, which he handed to Walther. “I had my lawyer prepare this. I want that damn brewery. And your distributor.” His eyes gleamed. “You let me have them—fully operational, with the workers intact—and I’ll give you the Philadelphia Base Ball Club. Your club. Your team. Plus…” He let the moment drag, flicking ash from his cigar. “…land on Germantown Avenue. Prime real estate.”
Karl exhaled slowly. “And?”
McCabe’s smirk faltered for the first time.
“And… what?”
“Maybe a ballpark?”
McCabe laughed at Karl’s remark but immediately stopped when no one else joined in.
“Are you out of your mind? I paid $10,000 for the franchise slot. The land is worth at least $100,000! I really—”
Walther cut him off. “No deal. You want us out of New York? You want our brewery? Then you build the stadium. Not just the materials—the whole damn thing. Five thousand seats, minimum.”
McCabe’s jaw clenched around his cigar.
Karl wasn’t done. “And you don’t sell beer in Philadelphia. Not in our ballpark, not in our city.”
McCabe exhaled sharply. “You want me just to walk away from that market?”
“Yes,” Walther said.
McCabe stared at them for a long moment, his fingers tightening around his cigar. Then, finally, he let out a slow, bitter chuckle. “You two sons of bitches drive a hard bargain.”
Walther smiled thinly. “We learned from the best.”
McCabe let out a long sigh, rolling his shoulders. “Fine. I build your stadium. I keep New York. And I don’t sell beer in Philadelphia. You’ll send me a reasonable plan, and I’ll get you the materials. I don’t want to be involved in the construction.”
Karl and Walther exchanged glances. “Excuse us for a minute.”
They found a quieter spot near the railing. The ferry rocked gently beneath them, the Jersey City skyline coming into view ahead. Karl tapped on McCabe’s contract. “Are we really doing this?”
Walther nodded. “It’s a way back into baseball, Karl. The way we always wanted.”
Karl frowned. “And we’re just going to hand over everything we built in New York? The brewery? Now, the new distributor?”
Walther exhaled. “Look, we’ve been fighting McCabe for over a decade. He’s been boxing us in, making sure we don’t expand too much. The New York branch has been stable recently, but it’ll never be more than that—not with him lurking over our shoulder. Philadelphia? That’s our home, Karl. That’s where we belong. Our own ballclub could make the brewery even more successful.”
Karl sighed, running a hand through his hair. “And what about the workers? I don’t want them getting shorted because we struck a deal.”
Walther nodded. “We make sure they’re taken care of. No pay cuts, no layoffs. And we bring our two brewmasters with us.”
Karl stared at the water for a long moment. The idea of leaving New York—walking away from something they had fought to make successful—didn’t sit well with him. But he thought of Philadelphia. Of a Boeselager Stadium. Of baseball.
Finally, he exhaled and nodded. “Fine. But I don’t trust McCabe. Not one bit.”
Walther smirked. “Neither do I. But for once, I think we just outplayed him. Maybe we even made peace.”
Karl let out a breath of laughter. “Let’s hope you’re right.”
They returned to McCabe, whose cigar glowed once more before he tossed it overboard. Karl nodded. “We’ll have a deal with one more final condition: you will fire none of the workers, and they will earn the same salary for the rest of the year. Oh, and the two brewmasters come with us.”
“How long do you need to pack up?”
“You can start your operation on May 1,” Walther responded. “We’ll talk to our attorney tomorrow, and then we’ll get everything we have in our storage to Philadelphia.” Walther pulled out a pen, scribbled down a few phrases on the two drafts, signed, and handed them to Karl. He then read the amendments briefly, nodded, signed, and passed the sheets on to McCabe.
The liquor mogul carefully read the new terms, his lips tightening as his eyes flicked over the hastily scribbled amendments. The ferry rocked gently beneath them, the hum of conversation and the distant horns of passing steamships filling the air.
Finally, he let out a sharp breath through his nose and nodded. “Fine.” He pulled a pen from his coat pocket and signed both copies. “You two just sold me a headache, but I’ll make it work.”
He handed one signed copy back to Walther, who carefully folded and tucked them into his coat. “Our lawyers will finalize the official paperwork in the coming weeks. You’ll receive our first installment plan by the end of the month.”
McCabe smirked. “And you’ll hand over the keys to your brewery by May 1.”
Walther met his gaze. “That was the deal.”
McCabe exhaled, rolling his shoulders as the ferry neared the dock. “Then I’ll see you in Philadelphia soon enough.” He tipped his hat in mock courtesy before stepping away, blending into the departing passengers as the ferry came to a slow halt at the Jersey City pier.
Karl and Walther stepped off the planks connecting the ferry to the pier. “It slowly sinks in that we’re owners of a baseball club now, Walther.” Karl stopped. I know exactly who our first player will be.”
Walther smiled. “Michael would love seeing Leo play for us.”
They walked toward Exchange Place Station, where their train to Philadelphia waited. As they boarded, Karl cast one last look toward the skyline of New York, the city that had been their battleground for over a decade.
“It’s done,” he muttered as they settled into their seats.
Walther leaned back, adjusting his coat as the train lurched forward. “New York’s behind us now. But in Philadelphia? We’re just getting started.”
Karl smiled, resting his head against the window, watching the city fade into the distance. Their brewery in New York was gone—but baseball in Philadelphia had just been reborn.
“What about a name for the team?” Walther wondered.
“Oh, that’s easy. The Brewers.”