Editor's note: Today's edition of Today in Brewer History covers one of the defining moments of the 1987 team, and as such we've invited a special guest to cover it. Rob Peterson covers the 1987 Brewers for PastKast , Brewers1987.com and @TweetsFrom1987.

My high school football coach had one of those classic Midwestern faces that at one point in his life probably looked as if it were chiseled out of granite. He once had a full head of hair. I'm sure someone other than his mother or another relative thought he was handsome.

That time had long since passed. He now had jowls. He had lost most of his hair, which retreated on his head like a naughty puppy hiding under a couch.

But his voice was probably with him his whole life and it was distinctive. He had a voice like a tornado siren with a lisp. If you watched him speak, his tongue slid back from under his top teeth like a magician trying to yank a table cloth from underneath a setting of fine china. He was Sylvester the Cat with a whistle. We only listened to him because he was our coach.

Now, on this August morning in 1987 we were screwing up in practice. He was about to blow his top and knowing him as well as we knew any adult, he planned to impart a life lesson at the same time.

"You take care of your teammates," coach roared.

We rolled our eyes.

"You rely on your teammates," coach continued. "Did you see what Paul Molitor did last night?"

Follow the jump for the rest.

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