At Game 3, Nature Took Terrible Swing

God put the World Series in perspective here in San Francisco Tuesday night.

He shook the ballpark, like a dog would a rag, just minutes before the start of Game 3.

A baseball game is about as trivial a pursuit as you can imagine when nature is in a rage. The earth growled, heaved and, suddenly, a World Series that had been as deadly dull as a chess game in a firehouse became more wildly exciting than you would want.

It was the worst earthquake I had ever been in. And I’ve been in them since January, 1944. It was as if the earth first shrugged, then went into a violent spasm of hatred. I remember leaning over to my colleague, Ross Newhan, and murmuring hopefully, “They never last more than a minute.”

If you have ever been in one, you know a minute can seem an eternity. An earthquake disorients you. It is a world gone crazy. I kept watching the center field stands in horror, expecting to see them come tumbling down in a mountain of rubble any minute. The monstrous malevolence of an earthquake is impossible to overstate.

When it finally stopped, there was relief, then uneasiness, and then mild panic in the ballpark. But it soon gave way to a kind of festive atmosphere.

“When the aftershocks come,” I reminded myself, “they are rarely the intensity of the initial shock.”

Then rumors began to surface:

“The Bay Bridge collapsed!” was the first.

“San Francisco is burning!” was the next.

A few, fueled by beer, were undaunted. “Play ball!” they screamed.

But there was no ball to be played this night. The teams were out on the field. The police cars emerged out of nowhere. The PA system, before it burned out, reminded people to go onto the field or head for the exits. It suddenly, soberingly, occurred to people that a disaster had struck. Fatalities had been totted up to maybe 200.

San Francisco is a black hole in the firmament of American cities tonight.

They do not know when and if the World Series will resume. The important thing is to get San Francisco to resume. It is a city living with an unpredictable sociopath. It may go years, even decades, living as normal as a postal clerk. Then it goes into maniacal rages.

The ballparks, the bridges, even the highways and electrical circuits are at its mercy. A World Series is the least of its victims.