Twenty-five years ago today, an earthquake interrupted Game 3 of the 1989 World Series between San Francisco and Oakland. I was there as a reporter for USA TODAY, and here's what I remember:
The day of the game, a group of reporters chartered a boat from the Berkeley Marriott for an hour ride on the bay to Candlestick Park.
It was a spectacular afternoon. We ate sandwiches and enjoyed great views of San Francisco on one side, Oakland on the other. We rode underneath the Bay Bridge, not knowing the catastrophe that was heading our way. Locals had told us that the extra warm temperature was ideal for an earthquake, but we didn't pay much attention.
The boat docked near Candlestick Park. Our driver had a ticket to the game and he said he'd wait for a couple of hours afterward for the return.
Pregame reporting activities for Game 3 were the usual. Twenty-five minutes before the first pitch, that all changed.
I was sitting next to colleague Rod Beaton in the press box, looking out at the Athletics in their gray road uniforms, stretching and throwing down the right field line.
At 5:04 p.m., Pacific time, the earthquake hit. It was my first. I saw the grass in the outfield field roll and buckle. There was a huge rumbling, a jolt and a loud boom. We thought it was military flyover in a pregame ceremony.
The press box shook and shook some more. For a second, it seemed like it was going to tumble from the top deck, almost like a roller coaster ride.
Candlestick's towering light poles were swaying. A TV fell off a stand in the back. California reporters told everyone it was just an earthquake and symbolic that one hit during an all-California World Series.
The shaking went for a half-minute. When it was done, the fans in the stands cheered out of relief. Some hollered, "Play ball."
No one at the ballpark thought it was serious, but it was deadly. The quake measured 6.9 on the Richter Scale, the worst earthquake in San Francisco since the 8.3 quake registered in 1906. Reports were coming in about death, fires and destruction.
As the news filtered into Candlestick, so did confusion. The public address announcer said there would be no game and that the 63,000 fans were to file out of the ballpark as soon as possible. It was relaxed, but tense.
There was also an eerie silence and fear as the ballpark got darker. Power couldn't be restored. There were ambulances and police vehicles on the field.
Beaton was on the phone to the office, and somehow, the connection didn't go dead. So he stayed on the phone while other reporters went after stories. (The paper's home office in Arlington, Va., called our families to tell them we were all right.)
I ran to the tunnel behind the A's dugout. The security officer told me, as well as other reporters, to go at my own risk.
People were in disbelief and some were crying, but there was an orderly exit from the stadium, even though chunks of concrete were falling and there was fear that the stadium could crumble. I remember the A's Jose Canseco, in full uniform and spikes, walking through the parking lot, looking for his car. I remember A's pitcher Storm Davis, holding a little baby as he stood on the field. Mark McGwire, a native of California, sensed it was a horrible quake.
Given the clubhouse had only emergency lighting, the A's players were given garbage bags and told to pack their stuff. They boarded buses wearing their uniforms.
There were no Internet or cell phones, so we had to run our stories back to the box to dictate over the phone. A reporter at the office wrote the story.
Like everyone else, we left quickly.
We didn't know how we were going to get back to our hotel. Traffic was gridlocked. Horns were honking. Sirens were blaring. Roads were closed. It was like there was no way out.
We walked back to the dock and found our boat guy. We couldn't believe that he waited for us.
We loaded up and got back on the bay, this time frightened, although no one would admit it. How close had we come to being killed, considering that Candlestick wasn't deemed safe to withstand an earthquake?
I'll never forget the surreal scene on the bay. A full moon reflected on the still water. There were fires on both sides of the bay.
When we got to the Bay Bridge, we could barely see the collapsed portion. The bridge, usually lit up majestically with lights, was dark and we could see the silhouette of the cables rising into the night sky. That was the most memorable image of that night.
A police boat ushered us under the bridge. Our hotel wasn't damaged, but it lost power, so considering everything, that was good news.
We covered news stories in the next two weeks and dealt with the uncertainty of aftershocks.
There was debate about whether games should be played or not. A portion of the Nimitz Freeway, a major transportation artery, collapsed and officials said fans at the World Series actually saved lives because they weren't driving in rush hour.
Giants first baseman Will Clark was touched when he visited victims, and one fan who had lost everything told him, "Just win the Series."
The A's won the first two games 5-0 and 5-1. The stadium was considered structurally safe, but there were jokes about renaming Candlestick "Wiggly Field."
When the series resumed 12 days later, there was a moment of silence before Game 3 at 5:04 p.m. First responders were involved in first pitch ceremonies, but the buzz of a postseason was missing. Fans almost felt guilty for enjoying, as if to say, "Is this really important?"
Oakland won slugfests in the final two games, 13-7 and 9-6, to finish a sweep. Pitchers Dave Stewart and Mike Moore started and won two games apiece. Stewart was the MVP. Dave Henderson hit two home runs. Terry Steinbach had seven RBIs.
The A's didn't have a champagne-spraying party in front of TV cameras out of respect for the tragedy. They had been to three World Series from 1988-90, winning only versus the Giants.
History will not remember how good that 99-win A's team was. That's because the story of the 1989 World Series was a deadly earthquake.
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