On Monday, OnMilwaukee.com Publisher Andy Tarnoff posted a blog asking, "Where were you in ‘82?" The simple question brought back a vivid childhood memory.

I clearly remember watching the game with my mom -- who wasn’t usually a baseball fan -- and my sister, in our cozy Shorewood bungalow. My dad was at the game with a friend.

When Robin Yount made the final out, my mom jumped up and said, "Let’s go!" I wasn’t sure what she meant, but I liked her enthusiasm, and before I knew it, the three of us piled into our Ford Escort.

My mother zipped down Oakland Avenue -- driving well over the speed limit -- and honked the horn until it was a continuous drone. My sister and I cheered and giggled in the back seat. We wouldn’t act this reckless in a vehicle again for another seven or eight years.

My mom drove Downtown, only to lodge our Escort in a major traffic jam with scads of other honking and screaming fans. After a few minutes of Wisconsin Avenue mayhem, the horn went from an obnoxiously loud blaring sound to a sick goat bleat to absolute silence.

It took a good six months for my dad to have the horn fixed. Normally, my dad is the type of person who would have been right on it, but like a lot of baseball fans, he has a nostalgic side. My theory is that he left the broken horn just so he could relive the glory every time someone cut him off.