On Monday, OnMilwaukee.com Publisher Andy Tarnoff posted a blog asking, "Where were you in â€˜82?" The simple question brought back a vivid childhood memory.
I clearly remember watching the game with my mom -- who wasnâ€™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, "Letâ€™s go!" I wasnâ€™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 wouldnâ€™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.
That was a very cute story.
I actually knew a girl in high school who had a '81 Escort with a horn that varied on it's ability to work on demand but work when it wasn't required. Neither did the emergency brake though either.
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