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Progress sports editor Kevin Green
OKLAHOMA CITY — I am no stranger to tornadoes.
I’ve never actually seen one of the beasts with my own eyes, but growing up in southeast Oklahoma City meant living with the constant awareness that one could be just around the corner. Over the years, I’ve had several close encounters, including with some of the more infamous storms.
I remember May 3, 1999. I was 4 years old when the Bridge Creek-Moore F5 carved its way into Oklahoma history while families like mine huddled in shelters and closets, listening and waiting.
Then came May 20, 2013. I was an 18-year-old in my final week of high school at Carl Albert, tucked safely inside my neighbors' shelter as another EF5 devastated Moore before roping out roughly 10 miles to the southwest of my home.
The softball-sized hail lodged into the ground that we saw after finally emerging from our hiding place was a sight as eerie as it was awe-inspiring.
So when phones across the OG&E Coliseum in Oklahoma City suddenly blared Tuesday night during the Class 4A state basketball tournament, it felt like a familiar script was beginning again.
I had arrived just before 6 p.m. to cover the Fort Gibson boys for the Muskogee Phoenix, with plans to stay for Catoosa’s quarterfinal afterward.
But even before tipoff, I could tell there was trouble brewing. The air had that uneasy feeling Oklahoma kids grow up recognizing. The sense that something bigger than sports might soon demand everyone’s attention.
During the first game, every phone in the arena erupted with the unmistakable tornado-warning signal. A tornado had touched down near Mustang, but at that moment, it seemed far enough away from the State Fairgrounds to avoid real concern.
Then the storm crept closer.
With 4:51 remaining, play was halted. Players, fans and coaches were ushered toward safer areas inside the building as the tornadic supercell moved within about 15 minutes of our location.
For the most part, fellow media members and I — along with OSSAA officials — stayed seated on media row, glued to local news coverage on our screens.
We were already underground in a sturdy structure. Logistically and practically, there was little reason to crowd into already packed corridors.
Still, waiting is its own kind of tension.
The stoppage lasted a little more than 30 minutes. Long enough for me to drift back to another spring night in 2013.
On May 31 of that year, the infamous El Reno tornado — rated an EF3 despite being the widest tornado in history at 2.6 miles across while also having the highest wind speeds ever recorded at the time [radar-estimated 313 mph] — formed just as I was supposed to cover an Oklahoma City Barons playoff hockey game for an online magazine called ionOklahoma.
The storm’s path down Interstate 40 seemed to be pointing straight toward downtown. Less than two weeks removed from the Moore EF5 that killed 26 people, the metro was still raw with emotion.
I chose to stay home that night.
I’ll never forget watching news footage of drivers fleeing in desperation, driving eastbound in westbound lanes while simply trying to get out of the path and survive.
Compared to that, Tuesday night was calm.
There was no panic. No frantic rush. Just a brief disruption and a collective understanding that safety comes first.
Eventually, the all-clear came.
The players returned to the court. The game resumed. Basketball once again became the center of attention.
But as people around me joked about not being worried about a tornado, I found myself reflecting on the past, from helping families pick up the pieces after the Moore storm to driving past homes shredded by the EF3 that struck Claremore in 2024.
I know firsthand how quickly normal can turn into unimaginable chaos.
The thought of what might have happened if a tornado had struck the OG&E Coliseum still gives me goosebumps.
Instead, the night ended with basketball. With stories about resilience on the court rather than survival off it.
For that, I am grateful.
Continue reading...
Progress sports editor Kevin Green
OKLAHOMA CITY — I am no stranger to tornadoes.
I’ve never actually seen one of the beasts with my own eyes, but growing up in southeast Oklahoma City meant living with the constant awareness that one could be just around the corner. Over the years, I’ve had several close encounters, including with some of the more infamous storms.
I remember May 3, 1999. I was 4 years old when the Bridge Creek-Moore F5 carved its way into Oklahoma history while families like mine huddled in shelters and closets, listening and waiting.
Then came May 20, 2013. I was an 18-year-old in my final week of high school at Carl Albert, tucked safely inside my neighbors' shelter as another EF5 devastated Moore before roping out roughly 10 miles to the southwest of my home.
The softball-sized hail lodged into the ground that we saw after finally emerging from our hiding place was a sight as eerie as it was awe-inspiring.
So when phones across the OG&E Coliseum in Oklahoma City suddenly blared Tuesday night during the Class 4A state basketball tournament, it felt like a familiar script was beginning again.
I had arrived just before 6 p.m. to cover the Fort Gibson boys for the Muskogee Phoenix, with plans to stay for Catoosa’s quarterfinal afterward.
But even before tipoff, I could tell there was trouble brewing. The air had that uneasy feeling Oklahoma kids grow up recognizing. The sense that something bigger than sports might soon demand everyone’s attention.
During the first game, every phone in the arena erupted with the unmistakable tornado-warning signal. A tornado had touched down near Mustang, but at that moment, it seemed far enough away from the State Fairgrounds to avoid real concern.
Then the storm crept closer.
With 4:51 remaining, play was halted. Players, fans and coaches were ushered toward safer areas inside the building as the tornadic supercell moved within about 15 minutes of our location.
For the most part, fellow media members and I — along with OSSAA officials — stayed seated on media row, glued to local news coverage on our screens.
We were already underground in a sturdy structure. Logistically and practically, there was little reason to crowd into already packed corridors.
Still, waiting is its own kind of tension.
The stoppage lasted a little more than 30 minutes. Long enough for me to drift back to another spring night in 2013.
On May 31 of that year, the infamous El Reno tornado — rated an EF3 despite being the widest tornado in history at 2.6 miles across while also having the highest wind speeds ever recorded at the time [radar-estimated 313 mph] — formed just as I was supposed to cover an Oklahoma City Barons playoff hockey game for an online magazine called ionOklahoma.
The storm’s path down Interstate 40 seemed to be pointing straight toward downtown. Less than two weeks removed from the Moore EF5 that killed 26 people, the metro was still raw with emotion.
I chose to stay home that night.
I’ll never forget watching news footage of drivers fleeing in desperation, driving eastbound in westbound lanes while simply trying to get out of the path and survive.
Compared to that, Tuesday night was calm.
There was no panic. No frantic rush. Just a brief disruption and a collective understanding that safety comes first.
Eventually, the all-clear came.
The players returned to the court. The game resumed. Basketball once again became the center of attention.
But as people around me joked about not being worried about a tornado, I found myself reflecting on the past, from helping families pick up the pieces after the Moore storm to driving past homes shredded by the EF3 that struck Claremore in 2024.
I know firsthand how quickly normal can turn into unimaginable chaos.
The thought of what might have happened if a tornado had struck the OG&E Coliseum still gives me goosebumps.
Instead, the night ended with basketball. With stories about resilience on the court rather than survival off it.
For that, I am grateful.
Continue reading...
