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MILWAUKEE - What does a moment sound like? It sounds like this: a crowd of 40,000 plus, standing on its feet, hooting and hollering and screaming and yelling and banging together two inflatable plastic cylinders, the brainchild of some sadistic marketing rep, winding and whipping and pounding and transforming a normally congenial baseball crowd into a legion of rhythmically challenged bass-drummers. But that's not it - that's not the moment. No, the moment is in the silence that follows, after the crack of the bat, and the thwack of the glove, when the pounding suddenly ceases, and 40,000 hearts get their last beat of baseball season, and the entire building is overcome in a deathly pall, so silent that you can almost hear the cleats clacking up the steps of the visitors' dugout and spilling out onto the field like the bench has just caught fire.

"There is nothing,'' Jimmy Rollins will say later, "like silence on the road.''

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