There are enough Bob Maynard stories to last forever – and we will tell them all.
In 1989, there was an earthquake. We were in the old, brick Tribune Tower downtown. The tower shook, but it didn’t fall. Plaster dust and silence filled the newsroom. Journalists, usually talkative, crawled out from under their desks and moved through the yellow air like an army of Zombies, making their way to the stairs. I raced through the newsroom, making sure everyone was out. I took one last look at the empty room. The phone rang. I reached out for it. A hand appeared on my shoulder, stopping me, and I heard that deep, warm, beautiful voice.