"Donny" Showed Up

Last Thursday, a friend and I went to a Milwaukee Brewers game. It was fun, and the guys brought home a win, which made the day even better. But that’s not why I mention it. The reason I bring it up is what happened after the game, and a childhood memory that bubbled up to the surface after so many years.

After the game, my friend and I (let’s call my friend Ken, since that’s his name), did what millions of folks have done after games through the ages: waited in an unmoving line of traffic, impatiently waiting to exit the parking lot.

By the time we got to our car, hundreds of vehicles were already jockeying for position,

pointing every which way, everyone with their own agenda and strategy for how to “leapfrog” the line. Occasionally, a horn would honk, and now and again, we’d inch forward, all knowing we needed to take turns getting in line, yet no one really wanting to give away any precious real estate that could spring them to freedom.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity (it was probably 20 minutes), things began to open up, like someone had pulled a bunch of hair out of the shower drain. (Sorry if that visual activated your gag reflex; full disclosure, I just threw up in my mouth a little.) Soon, we were operating at full freeway speed, and all was good.

After I got home, I started to think about our post-game, parking lot traffic jam, and it took me back to a day when I was about 10 or 11, and my uncle invited my dad and me to a game.

We didn’t go to a lot of Brewer games when I was a kid. For us, it was special thing. Most days, I’d just listen to my favorite team on a small AM/FM radio while I sat on the front porch, or more likely, as I threw a small orange rubber ball against our garage.

So, when we had the rare chance to attend a game at what was then County Stadium (it’s now American Family Field), we grabbed it. The details of the game, and even who was all part of it that day, are foggy. But a couple of things still stick in my head: walking from the concourse into the seating area and seeing that beautiful, perfectly groomed field open up before my eyes; the smells and sounds of the stadium and using my own money to buy a cheap, plastic replica of a Houston Astros batting helmet. It was $2.50, and I’ll challenge you to find ANYTHING at a major-league ballpark you can buy for $2.50 today.

To answer I question you might be asking: No, I was NOT an Astros fan, but my cousins and I liked to collect helmets from other teams, and that day, the blue star with the white “H” sitting on that bright orange helmet just spoke to me.

But one memory still burns brighter and hotter than any other that day: my dad directing traffic in the parking lot after the game.

Before I go on, you should know a couple of things about Don Haznaw. First, he wasn’t a huge sports fan, but he did like events of any kind, especially those where beer was served.

 \And if you’ve been to a major sporting event since prohibition was lifted, you know beer is served at ball games.

The second thing you should know about my dad is that he had two sides: “Don,” a quiet, sardonic character who mostly kept to himself, and “Donny,” a guy who could suddenly flip a switch and command a situation.

That day, “Don” and I (along with our cohorts) enjoyed everything about the game and the stadium: the sights, sounds and smells; the food, the people and of course, the game itself. I was in baseball heaven, wearing my new,  bright orange Houston Astros helmet and hoping to catch a foul ball.

After the game, we filed out like lemmings into the vast parking lot to find our car. Luckily, our driver (my uncle) had a good memory for things like, “Where did we park the car?” and soon we were sitting in gridlock, much like my experience from last week.

After 10 minutes or so, my dad turned around and said, “Davey, gimme your helmet.” I was confused at first, but suddenly, I realized it wasn’t “Don” talking, it was “Donny.” Before we knew it, my dad was out of the car, cigarette hanging out of his mouth like he was Steve McQueen in Bullitt, wearing my blaze-orange toy batting helmet, and directing traffic like a New York City cop.

Within seconds, cars were moving, taking turns based on his hand motions, stopping when he put up the “Halt!” sign, and in general, doing anything and everything he instructed them to do. No honking, no “Hey buddy, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” He had the situation completely under control. It was amazing, especially when you consider my dad stood 5-foot, 5 inches (and that’s being generous) and weighed 145 pounds (with the helmet). Not exactly General Patton … or even Steve McQueen.

But that day, “Donny” stepped up to the plate and put on a show that rivaled that of any major-leaguers I saw on the field. As the cars moved forward (and ours with it), Dad walked alongside, making sure traffic was moving in an orderly fashion without losing contact with his own ride home.

And when he felt he’d done his job, he hopped back into the car, handed me my helmet, and soon we were flying down the highway, on our way home to tell stories of our day at the ballpark.

No, my dad wasn’t an athlete or a big sports fan. And he didn’t teach me any of the skills I acquired in baseball, basketball or football. But often, I learned things from him, as both Don and Donny, that would stick with me forever.

And that day, even as a kid, I would have been proud to say to anyone who asked, “That little guy with the cigarette and the orange batting helmet directing traffic? That’s my dad.”

© 2026 David R. Haznaw