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But even before the official announcement, I was certain of one thing: there would be no baseball that day. It would be long, slow minutes before we found out about the fires in San Francisco's Marina District and the collapse of the Cypress Structure Freeway in Oakland. There were no cars in the water beneath the Bay Bridge as had been rumored almost instantly after the shaking stopped. When I finally found one, the magnitude of the devastation was beyond what I had imagined.

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It took what seemed like forever to locate a signal from one of the local TV stations. I was armed with a Sony Watchman, a hand-held TV with a screen about half the size of today's smart phones. Within minutes, power was out at the stadium.

Was what you felt a relatively small quake that seemed bigger than it was because it was epicentered just below your feet? Or was it a powerful event that traveled miles to reach you? I wasn't sure. Candlestick Park had taken Mother Nature's kick to the gut and was still standing. And then it stopped.Ī half beat later, the crowd let loose with a hearty cheer. But what? And when? The shaking and jolting went on for what seemed like minutes. Which part of the inelegant cement bowl would fail first? The light towers swayed like tall stalks of corn. We were bouncing to such an extent that it seemed inconceivable that Candlestick Park, the most maligned stadium in sports, could stand the strain. Beginning to panic just a little, I looked out at the second deck beyond center field.

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Now its plate glass windows flexed in and out, reflecting funhouse mirror images as they moved. I had watched dozens of 49ers games from inside those Spartan quarters.

I looked at the football press box, tucked under the canopy of the upper deck on the third-base side of the stadium. No, seriously: This would be a really crummy time for an earthquake. I was seated in the dreaded auxiliary press box, where they put overflow media at big sporting events (in this case Section 1 in the upper deck at Candlestick Park). But this one seemed more insistent and more intense. And even if there was, it wouldn't cause the arrhythmic jostling that was beginning to pitch me back and forth, side to side.

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Now, just minutes before the scheduled start of Game 3 of the 1989 World Series between the A's and Giants, as the subtle vibration began to morph into a gentle bouncing motion, I realized my greatest fear was coming true. The same thought occasionally crossed my mind as I sat in a sold-out stadium or traveled an elevated freeway. I spent a lot of time crossing the Bay Bridge, where traffic sometimes would come to a grinding halt and I would think to myself, This would be a really crummy time for an earthquake.

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Soon, much sooner than I deserved, I was given a column that gave me an entrée to the full menu of Bay Area sports - the Giants, A's, 49ers, Raiders, Warriors, Cal, Stanford. My fondest dream was realized when after high school and four years of college, I was hired as a sportswriter by the Valley Times of Pleasanton, California, a part of the Contra Costa Times group.

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And most frighteningly, I learned that no matter what the building code or what we had learned about engineering over the years, there was nothing man could construct that a sufficiently powerful earthquake couldn't wreck. I learned that the next devastating earthquake to ravage the Bay Area was a question of when - not if. In other words a 2.0 earthquake isn't twice as powerful as a 1.0 earthquake it's 10 times as strong. I learned about the Richter scale, on which every point represents a magnitude order of 10. history, my final assignment as a high school student, was a term paper on earthquakes. My second thought was one I'd had on many occasions over the years: This would be a really crummy time for an earthquake. And briefly - for less time than it takes to articulate that thought - that's what I figured it was: an airplane. It began as a subtle vibration - not unlike those caused by commercial airliners as they would pass over Candlestick Park on their ascent from nearby San Francisco International Airport. Here is an excerpt from Battle of the Bay. In this history, Gary Peterson combines his firsthand observations with meticulous research and new interviews with players, coaches, and broadcasters to offer a fresh perspective of that unforgettable year. But 1989 is remembered as much for the devastating earthquake that struck moments before Game 3 of the World Series as it is for the exploits of Mark McGwire, Will Clark, and other stars. 1989 was a season of both triumph and tragedy for the San Francisco Giants and Oakland Athletics, still marking baseball's only cross-Bay series.