I was in my first month of my first full-time job, living at home with my parents until an apartment opened up, commuting 55 miles each way (after sending out last page at 1 a.m.)
So, when I rolled out of bed every day at noon, I was not exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. I joined my mom and dad at the family room table for coffee (dad worked midnight shift at HIS paper, and he rarely got up much before 10-11 himself).
We were watching CNN, which was showing the launch live. Since I had been a major space maven in the 1960s, through Apollo, I was still the closest thing we had to an "expert commentator."
The shuttle lifted off. Nothing appeared unusual at the moment (although if you watch the tapes now, you can see signs of why what happened happened), and it continued to climb throught the "go at throttle-up" command.
When the fireball erupted on screen, I just blurted out, "HOLY ****!!"
My parents had heard me swear plenty before, but rarely over morning coffee. My mother said, "What's wrong? What happened?"
"They're dead," I said. The guy CNN had commentating on the liftoff was babbling stuff about "maybe they can glide to a landing," "I think I see a parachute," yadda yadda, but I knew how the shuttle was (and still is) designed.
If anything goes wrong before those SRB's jettison, you're done. There is no escape system.
"You better call your M.E.," I told my dad. He was wire editor at his paper. "You're gonna have a big night ahead of you." He was already on the phone. He ended up working about a 14-hour shift that night.
As did I. My dinky daily pulled me off my sports-editor duties to help put together a couple of pages on the shuttle.