On September 20, 1994, I added a new word to my vocabulary - downsize. It's an interesting, if feeble, way of trying to disguise being fired. Suddenly, my 19-year career as the Director of Public Relations for the Milwaukee Brewers baseball team was over. What had become an important element in my mind - my identity - was taken from me.   It had pleased me to tell people that I was paid to do what most people have to buy a ticket to do - watch baseball!

A lifetime fan, I live and breathe sports. I love the competition. Although not a good athlete, I lettered in baseball and football in high school. After that, my lack of physical talent caught up with my avid desire and I turned to coaching.  First an adult amateur baseball team, then later, once I became a father, I had new chances to coach baseball, basketball and football while helping kids develop their skills.

I was only 26 when the opportunity arrived for me to head up the public relations department for a major-league baseball team - and my hometown team, at that! It was the team I'd cheered for as a kid - I was thrilled!  I felt like the luckiest person in the world.  I'd watched the Brewers grow from a floundering bunch of misfits in the early '70's to a powerful home run hitting team nicknamed Bambi's Bombers in the late '70's. Finally, the only team in club history to win the American League Championship arrived in 1982 - Harvey's  Wallbangers, the most powerful home run hitting team in baseball history at the time. 

Now, after nearly two decades of watching a team develop, of helping to craft its market penetration and sculpt its image nationally, the brusque end walloped me. My days of working with local and national media, of making time for devoted fans and young people who hoped to break into the business and, yes, watching baseball with a unique, intimate advantage were over.

The culprit? The baseball strike of 1994! My boss, Allan H "Bud" Selig, the owner of the Brewers and then-acting commissioner of baseball, felt he had to make a point. The MLB owners had canceled the season on September 14.  Six days later, my job was one of the losses, but not the worst one. For the first time in history, there would be no World Series. Two world wars hadn't caused us to scratch this icon of American culture, but a war of dollars between millionaire owners and millionaire players had done it.

The next day as I was clearing out of my office, a letter arrived. I didn't recognize the name of the sender, who had delicately handwritten my name and address and the following message:

"Dear Mr. Skibosh:

You won't remember me, but I will never forget you and how you treated me a long time ago.  I am very sorry about what happened to you and think it was extremely unfair.

I was a student at Carroll College (a local university) years ago when I called you to set up an interview to talk with you about the possibility of becoming a sportswriter (a field that was very difficult for a female to break into back then). Your enthusiasm over the phone was contagious and I was floored that you immediately set up an interview for later in the week. I will never forget when I got there, the receptionist explained that the Brewers had called a major emergency press conference concerning Robin Yount (our star player). I figured that took care of my interview, but the lady told me you had alerted her that I would be here and I should just 'sit tight!'

A half an hour went by, when suddenly you burst through the door and apologized for being late! YOU APOLOGIZED FOR BEING LATE! I couldn't believe you even took the time to see me under the circumstances, yet there you were, apologizing to me because you were late! I was floored! You spent over an hour with me that day, encouraging me to take up sportswriting if that was my dream.

Unfortunately, because of the money, I ended up becoming a physical therapist, but remembering your enthusiasm, I am still a sports fan. While on the job, I also became good friends with one of the doctors' daughters, who also was a sports fan. She also wanted to be a sportswriter and I encouraged her and told her about my wonderful experience with you. We have been good friends for years and we still correspond. You see, even though I never had the chance to fulfill my dream to become a sportswriter, I can now live out my dream through my friend because she now works in the sports department with the New York Times.

Mr. Skibosh, under the circumstances, I felt you might be feeling a little down right now and I wanted you to know the influence you had over two young girls and how your enthusiasm and kindness affected our lives. And I wanted to thank you again and wish you the best of luck in whatever you decide to do."

I had to read the last few lines of the letter through tears. The warmth and generosity of the letter put everything into prospective for me. I might no longer be Tom Skibosh, Public Relations Director of the Milwaukee Brewers, but I was still Tom Skibosh.

It's liberating and uplifting to see through the eyes of another that being yourself is the important thing. I may have helped a young lady from Carroll College years ago, somewhat inadvertently, just going about a job I loved and trying to do it well.  More than a decade later, through her letter she had more than returned the favor at a time I needed it most.