Where were you? People ask this question with national and worldwide life-altering events. The JFK assasination. The Beatles on Ed Sullivan. Neil Armstrong’s moon landing. 9/11. For these and other memorable moments, where we were and who we were with are just as ingrained in our consciousness as the events themselves.

Dodger fans who are old enough to remember have vivid memories of the legendary Kirk Gibson home run from Game 1 of the 1988 World Series. Vin Scully’s call – “In the year of the improbable, the impossible has happened!” –  is practically tattooed to our memory banks. Every time I see the replay, as the ball approaches the Right Field Pavilion, even as I still get chills I focus on the distinctive brake lights of a Corvette, whose driver was trying to beat traffic and will forever regret it.

I was about 5 miles east of Dodger Stadium, covering Division III football at Occidental College. A month shy of my 21st birthday, this was my third season covering high school and college football for the Daily News. Still the greatest training ground I ever had.

Sitting next to me was an intern for the Los Angeles Times. A guy by the name of Sam Farmer. I think you may have heard of him, and today he’s the national NFL writer for the paper and even got inducted to the Pro Football Hall of Fame. But back in 1988, we were just two young guys getting our starts in sportswriting, and we’d covered several games together. Even though we were competitors, we had become friends over our shared love of LA sports and wanting to grow in this profession.

We were in the pressbox about 15 minutes to the start of what we and everyone thought was going to be a domination by the A’s over the Dodgers. Sam just casually said to me that he’d been given two tickets to the World Series game by another Times writer, and asked should we go to the game. 

“Are you kidding? We’ll get fired,” I said in full seriousness. I still chuckle at how serious I was in that moment.

I later found out that Sam had given the tickets to family friends who’d let him stay with them for a couple months while he found a place to live. They were huge Dodger fans, so it was going to a good cause. How those people would forever be happy they let this young guy stay with them rent-free.

As the game went along, it looked like it was going to be the A’s in a landslide. Jose Canseco hit a grand slam that dented a TV camera in the second inning, and we both thought the rout was on. We focused on the game we were about to cover, and just listened to the World Series the same way you would as if you were doing dishes. Oh yeah, I didn’t mention that we were listening to the game. This was DIII, no TV in the pressbox. In fact, the radio was just a beefed up transistor. So I didn’t see the replay with Vin’s call until the next day.

Yet the Dodgers scrapped together three runs to keep the game at 4-3. We didn’t pay much attention, because we were really engulfed covering our game. When we recounted that night, Sam said we must have been the only two sports fans in LA who weren’t that into the World Series that night.

The ninth inning coincided with our game going to halftime. It was at this time that we heard the first two players go out easily. The indomitable Dennis Eckersley was on the mound. Surely the end was near. But Mike Davis walked. Really, what else was going to happen?

Then we heard the roar over the radio. Not hearing this in stereo really did not do this justice. It was the crowd acknowledging Kirk Gibson coming up to pinch-hit. We all knew he could barely walk. How was he going to get any kind of hit and make it safely to first. Back in 2008, I interviewed Gibson about that night. He told me that he was hoping to get energy and inspiration from the Dodger fans to see if he could actually meet that moment. That was an understatement.

Sam and I started just casually listening while our game was at halftime, but with every pitch of Gibson’s at-bat I could feel the intensity and interest level growing. The noise from the radio was also going up several decibels. 

When he the infamous 3-2 backdoor slider, what I remember was the loud roar that started in that radio and eventually was heard in the stands because other people had their own radios. I remember incredulity and euphoria I’d never known before. In the pressbox, Sam and I jumped up, screamed and hugged – breaking several rules of sportswriter etiquette in the process. I remember taking a step outside myself and thinking, “We could have been there.” Greatest moment in LA sports history, and we heard it on a beat-up radio.

When we relived that night, Sam said that the only person feeling worse than us for missing the game was that Corvette driver. Just like the person who caught the ball was never found, neither has that driver. 

Every year on the anniversary for the past decade plus, Sam and I exchange emails or DMs reliving that night. We even sat down for a podcast interview in January to talk about this and a variety of subjects. It was really so much fun to catch up, and Sam is a master storyteller. He’s still top of his game, so check out his work at the LA Times. Much as I love his football work, when he dabbles in golf, tennis or the Olympics, he’s pretty incredible. 

I never cheered, high-fived nor hugged anyone in celebration in a pressbox again. I’m happy to keep it as LA’s greatest sports moment being the impetus for our outburst. We really were kids, just cutting our teeth then. Happy to share that memory with someone so revered in NFL circles and in LA. Very happy to still call him a friend. Salud, Sam! No cheering in the press box. And don’t ever leave a World Series game early!

To listen to the interview with Sam Farmer from earlier this year, please click here.