So much of what happened is as foggy in the memory today as the gray veil that shrouds the Golden Gate Bridge at some point most every afternoon in San Francisco.
Yet, there are those moments that are as sharp and clear in the mind as a digital photograph.
Those moments, the ones that stay with you, are the ones most associated with some prevalent emotion: shock, fear, confusion, sadness, relief, fear again … and again … and again.
Twenty-five years ago Friday, the 86th World Series, known up until that day as the Bay Bridge World Series, was rocked off its moorings by a massive earthquake that remarkably killed only 63, injured almost 4,000 and did an estimated $6 billion in property damage.
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Measured at a magnitude 6.9, it was the largest earthquake on the San Andreas Fault since the catastrophic San Francisco earthquake of 1906.
San Francisco’s Marina District was in flames, a 50-foot section of the Bay Bridge’s upper deck collapsed, sending cars plummeting and, most deadly of all, the Cypress Street Viaduct section, 1 1/4 miles long, of the Nimitz Freeway in Oakland, pancaked, crushing cars and their drivers and passengers below.
The Loma Prieta quake, as it was officially named, also did something that no natural disaster had ever done before: It brought a World Series to a screeching stop, and it would remain that way for 10 long days as San Francisco and the Bay Area picked up the pieces, counted the dead and injured and tried to resume life again.
For the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, it was an unusually impactful national event. For the first and only time in the newspaper’s history, it had dispatched four sportswriters to the World Series. It would turn out to be as fortuitous a decision as it was out of the norm, because few newspapers outside of California were more prepared to cover the disaster.
The four Star-Telegram sportswriters on the scene, plus two others who were there on vacation, quickly moved from covering baseball to reporting on the much more serious consequences of the earthquake and the devastation and heartbreak that ensued.
As per tradition, the paper’s Rangers’ beat writer, Tony DeMarco, had our only seat in an actual press box, the football box that was suspended above the upper deck down the third-base line. The others on assignment, myself as columnist, feature writer Steve Campbell and backup baseball writer T.R. Sullivan, were all stationed in the auxiliary press box in Candlestick’s upper deck behind home plate.
Two others from the newspaper, feature writer Jennifer Briggs French — now Jennifer Briggs Gerst — and her then-husband, copy editor Bryan French, had tickets to the game and were just entering the stadium when the quake hit.
It was 5:04 p.m., Oct. 17, 1989, and all hell was about to break loose.
Here are our eyewitness stories.
Tony DeMarco covered the Rangers and major league baseball for the Star-Telegram from 1987-1994 before stints as an MLB beat writer/columnist at the Denver Post (1994-2001) and NBC Sports.com (2001-13).
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I remember what a beautiful day it was. Sunny, unseasonably warm for the Bay Area in mid-October, temperature in the 80s.
I remember thinking that as far as locations go, it was hard to beat my first World Series as a Star-Telegram baseball writer — the 1988 Dodgers-A’s classic — but that we had done so. This World Series was a baseball writer’s dream — no in-series travel involved, and in the picturesque Bay Area, no less.
I already had been ensconced at the Berkeley Marriott Hotel and Marina for four days, as Games 1 and 2 went to the A’s in their ballpark — 5-0 and 5-1. Truth is, it didn’t appear as if it would be much of a series. The A’s were on a mission after being upset as huge favorites the previous year. Not that I was complaining.
Somebody — I’m pretty sure it was one of the USA Today writers — hatched the brilliant plan of chartering a boat across the bay to Candlestick Park (a distance of about 10 miles) for Game 3, and when I was asked by the late Rod Beaton if I wanted in, of course I was on board.
It was a good-sized tour/fishing boat, and I think there were 15-20 writers along for the 1 1/2-to-2-hour ride. I remember taking off my shirt and catching a few rays as I looked at the postcard-like surroundings from a unique perspective. I’m sure the perks of my job crossed my mind at some point. Nobody could imagine what was in store just a few hours later.
I did the normal World Series pregame routine before Game 3 — news conferences and some milling around crowded dugouts and foul-territory areas during batting practice — and made my way back up to my seat in the Candlestick Park football press box. And I do mean up, as it was located at the top of the upper deck along the third-base line — maybe 150 or so feet off the ground.
I made my usual pregame phone call to my wife, and it wasn’t more than 10 minutes later that everything began to shake uncontrollably. I had experienced one other earthquake — sitting in a hotel room in Anaheim while there to cover a Rangers-Angels series. But that was a minor one, and I was amused by the experience.
This one elicited a different emotion. I moved quickly to the back of the press box, and as it continued to violently rattle, I couldn’t help but be afraid that it would topple off the upper deck and crash to the ground. What actually was about 15 seconds of elapsed time seemed like five minutes.
Two distinct memories remain etched: Phil Rogers, then of the Dallas Times-Herald, who had a seat near me, frantically running across the top of the press box work counter, stepping around computers and everything else, looking for a safe spot that didn’t really exist. And the light towers beyond the right-field fence (this was before the stadium was entirely enclosed for football), swaying 20-30 feet to the left and right, but never toppling over.
And then it stopped. My first thought was that the game might still be played that night. The stadium appeared to suffer only minor damage, things seemed to calm down a bit.
As writers made their way down to the field, you couldn’t help but see the shaken-but-relieved emotions of virtually everyone. Players and team officials were reuniting with loved ones who had been in the stands. Nobody really knew what to do next. An hour or so passed, and power wasn’t restored in the area around the ballpark, the game finally was postponed, and now it was getting dark.
As sporadic radio and television reports about massive power outages, fires and collapsing freeways surfaced, thoughts turned from baseball to the surrounding chaos. It was time to turn into a news reporter. Those of us who boated to the ballpark had arranged for car rides back to the hotel. Rogers and I hitched a ride with a local radio producer.
We knew that the Bay Bridge between San Francisco and Oakland was closed, so we had to head south. Traffic was brutally slow-moving, turning what normally would be a 40-45-minute ride into a 2-hour-plus journey.
Fortunately, the San Mateo Bridge to Hayward was open — cars bumper-to-bumper and barely moving — and we eventually made our way to the Oakland airport to rent a car for a short trip to report and write about the collapsed Nimitz Freeway. There was little power anywhere, and by now it was pitch-black outside.
Surface roads got me as close as I could get to a section of the collapsed highway. I can’t say that I saw any bodies that had been crushed as sections of the top level of the two-tiered structure collapsed onto the level below. But I did see a few cars that were mangled. I also saw motorists stranded atop the elevated structure, looking for a way down or off a freeway that no longer was passable by car.
Filing the story was another mission. Phone use was extremely limited — mostly just busy signals — and nobody had cellphones back then. I remember writing in the lobby of the hotel, lit only by candlelight, with a handful of other writers. I’m not certain if I was able to file by phone transmission, or had to dictate the entire story to a copy editor back at the Star-Telegram. I think it was the latter. Somehow, it got done.
I returned a week later for the completion of the Series, and parts of the Bay Area still were devastated. Roads were closed. Traffic was terrible. You couldn’t help but feel for all those affected. I could come and go, but they were stuck, and facing massive rebuilding.
I’m sure the series was cathartic for many, but it felt anticlimactic to me. Ten days had passed since the earthquake. There were two more easy victories for the A’s, and the only World Series title for those powerhouse Tony La Russa-Bash Brothers teams. I was glad to see it end in a four-game sweep. I just wanted to get out of there.
In subsequent years as a baseball writer, I returned to Candlestick many more times. But I never did go back up to that football press box. If and when the wrecking ball strikes that place, I can’t say that I’ll be disappointed to see it go.
T.R. Sullivan, who covers the Rangers for MLB.com, spent 21 years (1985-2006) covering high schools and then major league baseball for the Star-Telegram . In 1989, he was covering his first World Series.
I spent four years at the University of San Francisco so I had been in about five minor earthquakes. The biggest was one summer when I was working in an office/warehouse south of Market. There had been a loud rumble and vibration but no real shaking.
Jennifer (Briggs Gerst) called me a few days before we left for San Francisco looking for tourist tips, since she planned to be in the city on vacation. Before we finished talking, she asked me about earthquakes. I said they were no big deal, just a little noise and rumbling and vibrations, nothing to worry about.
I remember sitting in the upper deck in the auxiliary press box behind home plate next to Jim Reeves. The earthquake started off as a loud rumble and vibration. The Giants had promised their crowd would be loud and I thought, “Wow, they are really getting into it already.”
Then I realized what was going on.
“Earthquake!” I said.
Then it happened, a sight I will never forget. Candlestick Park was violently shaking like I had never seen anything shake before. A 60,000-seat stadium, filled to capacity, was rocking violently back and forth.
I was shocked. The image of Candlestick Park rocking violently is something I will never forget.
I knew this was no ordinary earthquake. I remember smoke rising above center field in the distance (I-880) and knew something was amiss.
Revo had a battery-operated hand-held TV on and began giving out details as they came. Then he said something I will never, ever, ever, ever forget.
“The Bay Bridge has collapsed.”
That blew me away. I have never been more shocked at a statement in my life.
The aftershocks were worse than the real earthquake because our nerves were on fire.
I remember walking through the Marina District the next day with (Chicago baseball writers) Carrie Muskat and Alan Solomon. It was like a street carnival with so many gawkers wandering around looking at stuff. I remember two 20-something guys sitting on a second-floor patio in a million-dollar home that had suffered serious foundation damage. We asked if they were scared and they said, “No, we’re fine.”
One thing that I do remember is walking around San Francisco the day after and looking at all the buildings to see if they had been damaged. That day gave me a love for architecture and old buildings that has never abated. I don’t know anything about it, but I love old buildings.
In fact, someone said that the city had been brought to its knees and I couldn’t disagree more. I thought I’d never seen it so beautiful.
Let me explain.
The 1989 World Series was the first one that I covered. I was the fourth man on a four-man team from the newspaper, but it was still fun because I had gone to the University of San Francisco, loved the city and loved Candlestick Park. The first major league game I ever saw was when my dad took me to Game 1 of the 1971 NLCS between the Giants and the Pirates.
I remember walking through the portal and into Candlestick Park for the first time in my life. I thought the place was incredibly beautiful, like walking into the Emerald City in the Land of Oz. From that moment on, Candlestick Park was always a very special place to me.
No matter what anybody else says, I loved Candestick Park. I had season tickets to the 49ers when I was in college and, yes, students back then could afford them, unlike today. I loved going to Giants games in college, even on nights when it was incredibly cold and windy.
So it was a tremendous privilege to be back at Candlestick for the World Series. I was in heaven.
Going to school in San Francisco was an incredible experience, but I never really saw the city like I did the day after the earthquake. As I was walking around the city, I was looking for signs of damage. Instead, for the first time, I was taking a really good look at a city I loved. I remember looking at the Southern Pacific building on Market Street. I had never noticed it before, but I found it awesome.
It was like that all day, wandering around the city and really looking at San Francisco like I never had before, and falling in love with it all over again. Now I do that with all cities, and I am proud of the fact that I love going to places like Detroit and Cleveland that everybody else puts down.
The day after the earthquake, I learned to look at cities and understand them and appreciate them like I never have before.
It is the same way with Candlestick Park. I loved that ballpark. .
So what the San Francisco earthquake did more than anything was give me an incredible love and appreciation for a city that I had lived in for four years during college but never really looked at closely until the earthquake.
Jennifer Briggs Gerst
Jennifer Briggs Gerst, the Rangers’ first ball girl, began her newspaper career at the Star-Telegram in 1981 and spent 13 years there with stints in sports, features and news. She is a freelance writer with regular contributions to Publishers Weekly .
I was going to the World Series for recreational purposes. I had a deathly fear of earthquakes, though I had never been in one. That one thought permeated my vacation plans. But we (that would include Bryan, my ex) had tickets to every game of the Series.
I called T.R. Sullivan about something right before we all left for the Series. I knew he had lived out there and I asked about earthquakes. He replied, “Don’t worry about earthquakes. It is one of the coolest things you will ever feel.”
I didn’t buy that, but he really meant it.
The day of the earthquake I had this awful feeling of foreboding. It happens sometimes and I get deathly nauseated because of it. I thought seriously about not going to the game, just staying at the hotel.
I ducked into a pharmacy to get some medicine for my stomach. As I scanned the aisle, I overheard the pharmacist up in her pharmacy cubicle and a customer making small talk as the waiting lady’s prescription got filled. The pharmacist mentioned in passing how unusually warm the weather was. The lady waiting on her “scrip” casually stated, “Yeah, earthquake weather.”
By the time we arrived at the stadium on the bus, I was weak with anxiety.
You know those gates that roll and go across at every sports venue? They are just standard cyclone fences with a latch or hook. They open them wide on steel rollers before a game is over to let people out en masse.
Standing about a foot from that gate, I looked up and noticed the latch was clanking ever so slightly (for no reason because no one was touching it), and then it clanked just a tiny bit more. I thought, “Earthquake.”
I turned to my right to see the parking lot and sidewalk rolling in waves. The parking lot light standards were swaying like Johnson grass in a gentle breeze. Stadium light standards were (it seemed like) bowing. I thought of grabbing someone near me just to stay standing. Everyone just froze.
The escalator just past the entrance came to a jolting halt, causing passengers to stumble and fall. I don’t remember much between walking up the escalator and being in the stands by the auxiliary press seating. T.R. had just come up from the field area. He was really shaken.
A mushroom cloud of smoke rose up beyond the outfield wall. Word went around that it was the Berkeley Library. Other stories made the rounds — some true, some not.
I remember ballplayers pulling spouses and children from the stands and taking them away. We made the choice to head for the exits and start reporting.
Anyone with a cellphone — and there weren’t many back then — couldn’t get a line out. Regular phones did not work. No electricity anywhere. The mushroom cloud still acting as our backdrop, we headed outside. Darkness would be falling in a while.
I remember trying to find people to interview, people from Texas for local angles. No one seemed to know when or how they would get out of the stadium. We didn’t know if the buses could get back to get us. We had no idea what had happened to various roads. There was this feeling of empty isolation, isolation that was inconsolable.
My big worry was to get through to the paper to let them know we were on this thing. That just wasn’t happening.
Tom Grieve (then the Rangers’ GM) was sitting on a curb. He looked as dumbfounded and grim as the rest of us. When I saw Tom, I was just so glad to see someone from home. I plopped down on the curb next to him. Someone had given me a notepad and I pulled it out and started taking notes.
I would have just been happy sitting there waiting for a bus with Tom, but I knew I needed more quotes. I walked around a bit. It was a very orderly chaos, partly because everyone seemed a little dazed. I saw Bobby Valentine (the Rangers manager) on a curb. I got some quotes from him. Again, it was good to see someone from home.
Finally, a bus going back into town appeared. Our hotel was a quaint place on a busy street not far from the Marina District. Night came as we slowly made our way into town. An aftershock tilted the buses in our now-tilted lives.
There wasn’t a light on in the city. We marched into the darkness. A blackout in a known city was disorienting enough. A blackout in a strange city was, well, scary. We reached the street of the little courtyard hotel and never went to the room. I just walked straight down the block of residences and restaurants and boutiques and began interviewing people.
Many had taken everything out of their freezers, had fired up grills and were cooking all they had there on the sidewalk. They were giving it away — brats, burgers and the only light you could see. It was grills and flashlights, and I remember this feeling of wanting to just drive somewhere where it was light. Just get in the rental and drive until a city had light.
I pictured some small town, a few hundred miles away, unaffected, and I wanted (in my mind) to curl up there for the night, where it was dark, but they at least had light.
I finally made my way down to the Marina District. I think a correspondent from Newsweek and I were the first on the scene.
The Marina area, where, two days before, I had watched seals while eating lunch, was now in crumbles, like a big hand had just folded up a wad of graham crackers and gently set them back down where they laid in layers, one apartment on top of another,
There was a bar open. I slinked in past those getting free warm beer and tried the pay phone. After about the 27th time, I got a ringing noise instead of a busy signal. “Thank you, God,” was all I could think. When the voice on the other end answered with “Star-Telegram,” it was like falling backward into a big, comfortable chair.
I told them we were all OK, we were all out reporting, and to tell everyone’s families we were all OK, and then I began dictating by candlelight off the notes in my pad.
Next stop, the car and then onto the airport hotel where Revo (Jim Reeves) was staying, at least for the night. The staff was very accommodating as we sat in the lobby eating their apples and trail mix and drinking more warm Diet Coke. It was somehow agreed upon that we would sleep in Revo’s bed for a few hours while he went out to report, and then we would head to Santa Cruz in the morning. The damage there was supposed to be heavy.
The hotel rocked and swayed through the wee hours. It was disconcerting, but that sleep was as precious as the daylight that followed it.
The light brought a new set of realities; a better view of the damage; the uneasy acquaintance with aftershocks. And the news delivered by the fuel gauge — E. No electricity anywhere, so no gas.
We would go as far as we could, actually finally making it to Santa Cruz where the damage was heavy and a barista was buried under a pile of reddish brown bricks as tall as a small building. Her friends waited tearfully as rescuers peeled back each layer.
I went around town taking notes. There was a guy in a grocery store parking lot that was selling pricey ice out of the back of his beat-up Ford Falcon. I took notes on all the messages posted on doorsteps, behind crime scene tape.
The most frustrating thing was being denied food at a Red Cross center because I was “with the media,” even though I hadn’t eaten anything since the quake besides an apple and some trail mix.
I just wanted to come in and get some food. Keep in mind, no electricity and everything is closed and most of the food in town was behind two big bouncers at the Red Cross center door.
To this day, when my mother gets donation requests from the Red Cross, she gets out a red Crayola and scrawls across the form, “You would not feed my daughter when she was hungry,” and mails it back.
In the moments that turned into days from the second the gate latch started clanking and the parking lot began rolling at Candlestick, to a week later when it was wheels up and home from San Jose, there were times when I got nervous — about running out of gas in the middle of nowhere,about finding hydration in areas where the water was not running or not potable.
In those times, I developed an anti-anxiety survival tactic. Field of Dreams also happened in 1989, and James Earl Jones’ soliloquy about the game was printed in full in the souvenir program.
When I found myself in tense moments, I just pulled out the program and each time tried to memorize one more section, until I had it all memorized by the time the wheels were back on the ground at DFW. It is a precious scene for many baseball fans, but so entrenched in my memory, every sequence a reminder of that week when baseball and nature collided.
Jim Reeves spent 40 years writing sports for the Star-Telegram , 25 as a columnist, before his retirement in 2009. He still writes freelance pieces regularly for the newspaper. In 1989, he was also executive sports editor.
It was a sunny, hot Tuesday afternoon, Oct. 17, 1989, when a handful of baseball writers and columnists got a wild hair and decided to charter a cabin cruiser to take us to Candlestick Park and Game 3 of the Battle of the Bay World Series between San Francisco and Oakland.
It seemed like a lot cooler way to get to the game than fighting freeway traffic from the Berkeley Marina Marriott.
Instead, we munched smoked chicken, sipped cold drinks and motored easily across the glassily calm Bay, remarking on how warm it was for mid-October.
“Yeah,” our charter captain muttered. “Earthquake weather.”
We chuckled and glanced uneasily above us as we cruised directly under the Bay Bridge en route to Candlestick.
When we saw it again a few hours later, on TV, a 50-foot section had collapsed and several cars had plunged into the gap.
I’d experienced a couple of minor earthquakes in previous trips to California, once in LA and another time in San Francisco on a Cowboys trip. This was entirely different.
The stadium seemed to ripple, as if someone was rolling huge logs underneath it. It lasted about 15 seconds.
The stands were about half full at the time, 31 minutes before the scheduled first pitch. A lot of folks were still tailgating in the parking lots, still arriving. Those fans already in the stadium cheered when the rumble ended, as if to say, “OK, now we’re ready. Let’s play ball San Francisco-style.”
I felt a surge of relief. Heck, if they weren’t worried, why should I be? But I switched on a battery-operated, hand-held TV I’d brought with me for the first time ever, and found a local news station.
As the damage reports started to come in, and smoke began to rise in the distance, we began to realize how serious the situation was. When I relayed the news that a section of the Bay Bridge had collapsed. T.R. Sullivan’s face turned chalky white. He’d gone to college in San Francisco. It was his favorite city in the world. Now it was in mortal pain.
By that time we knew that the game had been postponed. We’d seen the players racing onto the field and pulling their families out of the stands to be with them. When we heard that there were reports of chunks of concrete falling at Candlestick, it was time to pack up and go. I looked behind me and advised Blackie Sherrod that we needed to get out of the stadium.
I told T.R., who knew the city better than any of us, to try to get to his car and get back to his hotel near the airport. We’d make that our headquarters if we could get there. We knew the chances of getting back to our hotel in Berkeley were zero.
Steve Campbell and I made our way to the main press box, hoping to find Tony DeMarco, but the box was empty. Security was evacuating the stadium. I found a phone in the back of the press box that was getting an intermittent signal. I managed to get a call through to the office in Fort Worth, telling them that we were all OK, as far as I knew, and to let our families know that we were safe.
The rest is the stuff of nightmares.
• Campbell and me sitting in the gathering darkness in his rental car in the broken glass-littered parking lot, writing on our laptop computers by the dome light.
• Hearing reports on the radio that there were roaming gangs in the Candlestick Parking lot.
• Stumbling through the darkness back to the stadium, where I slipped a man $20 to let me take his place in the pay phone line to call the office again and let them know we were going to try to get to the Airport Marriott in hopes of filing our stories.
• Spending an interminable 20 minutes lost in the dark parking lot, trying to find Campbell’s car.
• The pulsing blue lights of police cruisers and the voices over their speakers, pleading for people to leave. “We cannot protect you here,” they blared, a chilling reminder of how dire the situation might become.
Happy to leave, we cautiously joined the line of cars slowly exiting the stadium into the darkened neighborhoods.
When we arrived at the hotel, I’d hoped to be able to get us a room. The sight of hundreds of people sitting and even lying on the floor in the lobby dimmed that hope.
Yet, when I asked if by any chance they had a room available, I was handed a key.
Why, I wondered aloud, were all the people gathered in the lobby?
“They have rooms,” the clerk answered, “but they’re afraid to go up to them because of the aftershocks.”
The only light came from emergency lighting in the hallways, but the phones were working so we filed our stories by the light of the hand-held TV set.
At 3 in the morning, unable to sleep, Campbell and I drove to the site of the freeway collapse in Oakland, trying to gather fresh copy for the afternoon paper.
Actual rescue work had slowed to a standstill as workers used timbers to reinforce the structure and prevent collapse. The freeway itself looked like a tumbled mess of Tinkertoys, swatted down by an angry child. In some places the upper deck was just inches from the lower deck, and we knew there were cars and people somewhere in there.
Forty-two died there, a remarkably low number, compared to what was initially feared. Some credit the Series for lighter traffic that day, thanks to people leaving work early, or staying later for TV-watching parties.
The next few days went by in a blur, marked by vivid memories, including a somber walk through the Cypress Viaduct, where workers and emergency crews wore surgical masks to fend off the stench of the dead.
Twenty-five years ago, a handful of Texas sportswriters were yanked out of our comfortable roles as chroniclers of fun and games, covering what until then had been a dull but harmless World Series. An even bigger stage had been set, and we were thrust, kicking and screaming, into the world of real news coverage, where the stakes were so much higher.
San Francisco and Oakland still bear the scars of those 15 seconds of violence and mayhem.
So, I suspect, do we.
Leave a message for Jim Reeves at 817-390-7697.
1989 earthquake at a glance
• Quake measured 6.9 on the Richter Scale.
• Centered in the Santa Cruz Mountains, 60 miles south of San Francisco and 10 miles north of Santa Cruz.
• Officially named Loma Prieta Earthquake after the tallest peak in the Santa Cruz Mountains.
• Deaths: 63. Injuries: 3,757, 40 serious.
• The collapse of the Cypress Viaduct on the Nimitz Freeway (I-880) in Oakland killed 42.
• 50-foot upper section of the Bay Bridge collapsed onto the lower level, killing a 23-year-old woman.
• 12,000 homes and 2,600 business were damaged.
• 1.4 million lost power but it was restored to all but 12,000 within 2 days.
• $6 billion in estimated property damage.
• It was the largest quake on the San Andreas Fault since the 1906 San Francisco Earthquake, which measured 7.8 and destroyed 80 percent of the city, mostly because of fires.
• 51 aftershocks registering more than 3.0 occurred in the first 24 hours after the quake; another 30 on the second day.
• One man, 57-year-old Buck Helm, spent 90 hours trapped in the collapsed Nimitz Freeway. He was on life support for 29 days before succumbing to respiratory failure.
• It took 11 years to rebuild the freeway but just a month to repair and reopen the Bay Bridge’s upper level.
• The quake hit at 5:04 p.m., 31 minutes before the first pitch of Game 3 of the World Series.
• San Francisco Mayor Art Agnos wanted the Series delayed for a month, but baseball commissioner Fay Vincent put Wrigley Field, Comiskey Park, Seattle’s Kingdome, the Astrodome, Yankee Stadium and Shea Stadium on standby in case the Series had to be moved from the Bay Area.
• The 10 days between Game 2 and Game 3 constituted the longest delay in Series history.
— Jim Reeves