The 'Pretty Big' One

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Does it seem strange to be writing about the anniversary of perhaps the most notorious earthquake to strike the North American continent in the last 50 years — on a sports blog?

Well, I guess it is — but that is how I remember that event.

It was a Tuesday night, just after 7 p.m. in north Texas. I was enrolled in graduate school, and those classes almost always met at night, but I didn't have a class that night. My brother was at my apartment, and we were settling in to watch Game 3 of the World Series between the San Francisco Giants and the Oakland A's.

Because the teams were in twin cities — separated only by the bay and linked by the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge — it was dubbed a "subway series." To accommodate viewers in the large Eastern media markets, the World Series games were scheduled to start around 5:30 p.m. California time; apparently, in the Bay Area, many people either left work early (to attend the games or attend watch parties) or stayed late for office watch parties. Consequently, the result was that the typical rush hour was not nearly as heavy as it would have under typical circumstances.

That meant that fewer people were on the bridge when the earthquake struck at 5:04 local time. If it had been a normal day, we were told later, the casualties would have been virtually incomprehensible.

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What could be seen on the TV screen was bad enough.

And I became very concerned about the safety of my friends, Mike and Jane, who had been living there for about a year or so. I tried to call them whenever I could, but I kept getting the same recorded message that my call could not be completed.

Finally, three days later, I got a call from Jane. It was the first opportunity she had had to contact friends and family to let them know she and Mike were all right.

She told me that she typically commuted across that bridge — and, on an ordinary day, she would have been right in the middle of the bridge when the earthquake struck. Because of the World Series, though, she told me she had already been off the bridge for five or 10 minutes when the earthquake happened.

I was really glad I didn't know her usual routine at the time of the earthquake. I would have been worried sick.

Mike, as it turned out, was home when the earthquake hit. They were living in a solid house — it survived the infamous 1906 earthquake with its 7.9 magnitude so the 7.1–magnitude "Lomo Prieta earthquake" (so named for the location of its epicenter) was no match for it. Mike said all that really happened was a few pictures were shaken from the wall.

Initially, there were reports that casualties numbered in the hundreds — but it turned out that only 63 people died. That is still 63 too many, but it was better than originally feared.

Action in the World Series was suspended for 10 days while the Bay Area cleaned up and started trying to return to normal. I was two time zones away, but I followed developments via TV. It was inspiring to see so many members of both baseball teams helping out in any way they could, shoulder to shoulder with many of their fans.

Of course, there are always those who look for ways to make money off other people's misfortune, and Mike and Jane told me that some enterprising folks printed up T–shirts that read, "I Survived the Pretty Big One."

I wouldn't have wanted to buy one of them and contribute to the guy who printed them — but I would have liked to have seen one. I've searched the internet, too, by the way, but I haven't found a photo of one yet.

Maybe it wasn't as much of a thriving cottage industry as Mike and Jane thought it was. Maybe their impression was fueled by seeing those shirts from time to time — and mistaking that for all the time. I don't know.

I just know I was glad to know my friends hadn't been hurt.

Kirk Gibson's Walk-off Home Run

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I'm a Los Angeles Dodgers fan. Always have been. I don't really know why. I've never lived in Los Angeles. In fact, I've only been there twice in my life.

I grew up in central Arkansas, which was kind of an extension of St. Louis Cardinals territory. There was a minor league team in Little Rock that was affiliated with the Cardinals for a long time, and, when I was a child, I could always get Cardinals games on my radio. When folks in my hometown went on a summer vacation, nine times out of 10 they went to St. Louis to see a game or two. Heck, even my family did that a couple of times — and no one in my family could be called a Cardinals fan.

It would have been so easy to do as most of my friends did and take the Cardinals as my team. But I guess I wanted to assert my individuality so I picked the Dodgers.

And I have been loyal to the Dodgers ever since.

They haven't always made it easy. Many times, they haven't come close to being in the playoffs. Then, when they have been in the playoffs, they've often found some way to blow it.

They're in the playoffs again this yearm currently facing the St. Louis Cardinals for the National League championship. The Cardinals won the first two games during the weekend, but the Dodgers won Game 3 last night and are hoping to even the series tonight.

I discovered it was a small club, too. that list of Dodger loyalists. I didn't know any other Dodger fans when I was growing up. I met one or two in college, and I met one or two after I finished work on my bachelor's degree so I know that Dodger fans did exist in Arkansas when I lived there. They were just few and far between.

The last time the Dodgers were in the World Series, 25 years ago, I was certain they were going to lose it. They had had a spectacular run that year, beating the favored New York Mets for the National League title, and pitcher Orel Hershiser had had a remarkable year, setting a record for consecutive scoreless innings pitched in the waning weeks of the regular season.

But the foe in the World Series would be the Oakland A's, an intimidating team that had rolled through their American League competition behind the exploits of the so–called "Bash Brothers," Jose Canseco and Mark McGwire. Oakland swept the Boston Red Sox in the AL playoffs that year.

The A's won four more games that season than the Mets did. Their 104–victory total was greater than any American League team except one in nearly 20 years — the 1984 Detroit Tigers, who also won 104 games.

I just felt like the Dodgers couldn't compete with the A's. Neither did most sports observers.

In those days, I was working on the sports staff of a modestly sized afternoon newspaper in north Texas. Game 1 of the World Series was on a Saturday night, the one day of the week that a morning edition was prepared — for delivery on Sunday morning. Everyone on the staff was at work from about 3 in the afternoon until midnight.

The game began around 7 that night, and I timed my dinner break so I could run home and start my VCR with the first pitch. That way, I knew I could watch the game later.

As it was being played, though, I tried to monitor it from my desk, which was in view of the newsroom TV (there was no commercial internet to consult in 1988 — I had access to the sports wire, of course, and it provided score updates, but details were sketchy until game accounts began to move). From time to time, people came in from the backshop to ask about the score, and, for much of the evening, it seemed things were going to play out about as expected.

Things weren't going well for the Dodgers. They took a 2–0 lead in the first inning but immediately surrendered it to Oakland when the A's scored four runs in the top of the second.

The Dodgers added a run in the sixth but trailed, 4–3, in the bottom of the ninth.

Kirk Gibson had been the offensive star of the season for the Dodgers, but he was hobbled by injuries to both legs and had not started the game that night. However, in the ninth inning, he decided to make himself available for pinch–hitting duty and came to bat with one on and two out.

What followed was so implausible, so dramatic that no novelist or screen writer could have gotten away with writing it.

Oakland's ace reliever, Dennis Eckersley, was on the mound. No other reliever in the majors had as many saves as Eckersley did that year. Oakland fans regarded him as automatic — and rightfully so.

The count was full, there was a runner at second, and Eckersley threw a slider. Gibson swung, connected and drilled it over the fence.

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Most people, when asked what they remember about that moment, will tell you they remember Gibson pumping his right arm in jubilation as he circled the bases.

And I remember that, too. (It was the crowning touch on a moment in baseball history that has truly become iconic in the last quarter of a century. It is always shown in baseball's postseason, along with the clip that is arguably the Dodgers' lowest moment as a team — the Giants' Bobby Thomson's walk–off homer in the deciding game of the National League playoffs against the Dodgers in 1951.)

But what I remember most about that moment is watching Gibson's painful run around the bases. And I use the word run generously here. It wasn't really a run. It was more of a walk that was intended to be a run, but it just didn't work out. Sometimes it was a limp.

Kind of gave a new meaning to the term walk–off. Gibson's spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak.

But, when you hit a home run, you don't get extra points — or credit — for running around the bases at a record clip. All you've got to do is touch each base — especially the last one.

And that's what Gibson did. The fact that it took him longer than usual to do it simply meant Dodger fans had more time to savor the moment — and A's fans had to suffer through it longer.

By the way, Gibson played for the '84 Tigers.

The First Impossible Dream

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These are heady days to be a Dodger fan. I know. I've been a Dodger fan since I was a kid.

Last night, the Dodgers and the St. Louis Cardinals went 13 innings in Game 1 of the National League Championship Series. It was a tough loss for the Dodgers, 3–2, but Dodger fans are encouraged by the knowledge that their ace, Clayton Kershaw, is scheduled to pitch Game 2 tonight.

I'm not worried. This championship series has begun in much the same way the one in 1988 did.

The Dodgers haven't always lived up to my expectations — but, I will admit, my expectations are always high. I always expect them to compete for a berth in the World Series, and I have usually been disappointed. In my memory, the Dodgers have only played in a handful of World Series — and they've only won two.

The first time they won it all was marred by a strike that wiped out about one–third of the season and forced the major leagues to go to an unconventional playoff arrangement.

The second one came 25 years ago this month, and the victory that wrapped up the National League pennant came on this day in 1988 when the Dodgers won the seventh and final playoff game with the New York Mets.

When the National League Championship Series began, most observers thought it was a foregone conclusion that the Mets would win. They dominated the Dodgers during the regular season — and I do mean dominated. As I recall, the Dodgers only beat the Mets once that season.

But as they wrapped up the regular season, pitcher Orel Hershiser set a record for most consecutive scoreless innings pitched, and the Dodgers seemed to be gathering momentum.

Still, just about every baseball expert spoke of the N.L. crown as being destined for New York. Practically no one gave the Dodgers much of a chance of winning.

At first, it seemed they were right. After facing Hershiser for eight scoreless innings, the Mets rallied from a 2–0 deficit with a three–run ninth against reliever Jay Howell in the opener and took a 1–0 lead in the best–of–seven series. I remember watching that game. That ninth inning gave me such a bad case of heartburn I thought I would never get any sleep that night.

But the Dodgers won the second game the next night to even things up as the series moved to New York for the weekend.

New York won that third game, which was postponed by rain, then the Dodgers evened things up in the fourth game. At the time, I was making one of my whirlwind trips to Little Rock on my days off. The time would come when I couldn't do that anymore, but in October 1988, I still made trips back from Texas to visit my friends — and, when I did, I often stayed with my friend Steve.

He wasn't working that Monday, which may have been the reason why I chose those two days off for a trip. I really don't remember now. Anyway, the Dodgers and Mets were scheduled to play that Monday afternoon. The winner would go back to Los Angeles with a 3–2 lead needing only one more win to advance to the World Series.

Steve and I cheered as the Dodgers rolled to a 7–4 win — Steve was a Cardinals fan and, consequently, a devoted hater of the Mets — and I drove back to Texas that afternoon sorry (as always) to be leaving my friends but eager for the next night's game.

Unfortunately, the Dodgers lost that sixth game to the Mets, setting up a winner–take–all showdown 25 years ago tonight.

Hershiser was on the mound for L.A. and he went the distance, characteristically shutting out the Mets in a 6–0 triumph.

When the final out was in the books and the Dodgers had officially won the National League pennant, Hershiser did something I will never forget. He took a step, maybe two, and knelt for a moment of silent meditation before being swarmed by his jubilant teammates.

I made a video tape of that game, and I watched parts of it over and over again. But I probably watched those few seconds of Hershiser immediately after Game Seven ended more than anything else.

It summed up how I felt on that occasion.

It was an impossible dream that came true.

But beating the Mets was only the first impossible dream for the Dodgers. The next was, perhaps, even more formidable. It would require them to beat the mighty Oakland A's.