by | Oct 18, 1989 | Detroit Free Press | 0 comments

SAN FRANCISCO — I am writing this column in the most frightening position I have ever been in, some 200 feet above the ground in Candlestick Park, which just moments ago was shaking as if the entire stadium were on a wagon being wheeled over cobblestone. An earthquake, they call it out here, with some regularity, and even as I type these words, the stadium occasionally rolls — aftershocks — with the concrete, the steel supports, everything shaking, as if suddenly there is no such thing as sturdy, not anymore.

There are people running across the field, players heading for the exits, grabbing their wives and their families, the festive atmosphere of this World Series Game 3 suddenly ripped apart. And yet, such is the nature of sports that when the initial quake hit, at 5:04 p.m. Tuesday, rumbling the stadium and swaying the field, some fans roared, they raised their fists, they made jokes. “It’s God. He’s a Giants fan!”

What do you do when the very ground beneath you begins to tremble, when you are in the upper bowl of a mammoth stadium with no hope of an exit — and suddenly there are reports of cracks in the concrete? I was on the phone with an editor in my office, discussing the night’s work, when the roller coaster feeling hit.

“Tom,” I said, “the stadium is . . . moving.”


Suddenly the TV screens went out. The phones were gone. The rumbling continued for 15 seconds, and, in an instant, every little tidbit of earthquake advice came splashing back. Find an open space. Get away from overhead. Avoid doorways.

Stay alive. It happens elsewhere, right? Brett Butler was running sprints on the outfield when the earth began to quiver. “I felt like I was drunk or something,” he says now, holding onto a member of his family. “Then I looked up in the stands for my wife. My mother. I was screaming for them, to get out on the field. I still don’t have everybody.”

Suddenly there are no players here, no fans, no reporters; there are just people, and many of them are streaming down the ramps, leaping over the walls. Some are bare-chested, raising their beer cups and screaming “WOOH!” Others are crying, running to people with transistor radios, asking, no doubt, about the homes of their loved ones.

I have a little television plugged in my ear and the first pictures are coming across. They are, for someone who does not live with the daily threat of earthquakes, terrifying. The Bay Bridge is missing a chunk; it is dangling in the water. The Nimitz Highway that runs along the Oakland side of the bay is split in crooked lines, with cars stacked up. There are fires blazing and reports of buildings collapsing and they are now saying it is the worst earthquake since the big one of 1906.

On a local radio station, people are calling in, reporting the damage, defining the breadth of this disaster with every call.

“This is Sue from Oakland. We really felt it bad here. Our cable TV just blew out.”

“This is Sam from Napa. I have a 55-gallon fish tank in my living room, and this quake just sent 20 gallons of water splashing all over my dang floor.”

It is the kind of thing you hear about, but never envision yourself involved in. It happens elsewhere, right? You have a cousin or an aunt who told you about “the time I was in an earthquake.” But it was usually a rumble of the bed, a little shake. Not a stadium rocking. . Buildings don’t fall down, do they? Players pointing to the sky Out on the field now, the players are collecting their loved ones, counting heads, streaming for the exits. “I’ve never been involved in anything like this,” says Pat Sheridan, the Giants outfielder, who once played in the friendlier confines of Tiger Stadium.
“Butler said to me, ‘You never been in an earthquake. You’re in one now.’ “

The lights went out. The network broadcast was lost. Players such as Jose Canseco and Carney Lansford were pointing to the sky, as if the rumble had come from the heavens, and others such as Giants manager Roger Craig and his pitcher Mike Krukow were heading for the safest ground, centerfield.

I can only describe the feeling as the noise of a jet plane, combined with the shaking of a bumpy bus ride. That is the outside feeling. What you feel inside depends, I suppose, on your level of courage.


And that is where I am now. The game has been postponed. The World Series will wait. Suddenly the story that was the only story on the front pages this week will have to move over. This is far more important. There are cars hanging from bridges and walls collapsed and there were lives lost and baseball just doesn’t seem that important anymore.

“What are they saying?” people yell. “How big? How bad?”

“Did you feel that, man?”

“I am never coming back here. Jesus. Get out of here. This whole thing could collapse.”

Years from now, I am sure, people will talk about where they were during this earthquake. It will become a war story, a badge of courage in the sports world, a yarn that may grow larger and more horrible with each retelling. It is hard to imagine that now. The realization is that something harsh and terrible has just happened here, smack in the center of the nation’s biggest game. I am sitting in an upper deck that is moving, and we may never look at the World Series the same way. God, how can we?


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Mitch Albom writes about running an orphanage in impoverished Port-au-Prince, Haiti, his kids, their hardships, laughs and challenges, and the life lessons he’s learned there every day.

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