For San Francisco 49ers Fans, Pessimism Dies Hard

Clearly the best football-related mystery of the week is, "Where’s Ray Gricar?" One way or the other he’s gone underground. You just hope he ran away and now sketches native women in Tahiti.

But probably not. 

The other great mystery is how this 12-step program called the 49ers beat the New York Football Giants.  

FYI: I’m a fan but I’m still back sipping Chardonnay with Bill Walsh, and humming "This Is It" on the way to the Upper Reserved section. 

It was all about reassurance in those days. You remember John Madden’s tribute to Montana, which went something like this: "He knows he’s going to score, you know he’s going to score, he knows you know he’s going to score and then he does…"

Not quite the same with Steve Young. With him it was more like Joseph Smith reaching Zion. It was heavenly luck and grit. With Montana it was the smiling eyes of Jesus.

Whatever it was, it was all King Arthurville and then 40 days and 40 nights and 17 years. Look in the mirror and maybe you’re wondering if that was the last time you really felt good about yourself and about this country.

Yesterday, ever the loyal fan, I just assumed New York would win. They would take Gore out of the game, although not as far he actually went, and they would make Alexander-The-Not-Great perform, and that would be the end of it. 

Just didn’t seem like Smith was going to get it done.  Maybe he could win against the Lions — which maybe wasn’t such a feat. And the same with the Eagles. And meanwhile you figure Cruz is going to run wild, and you think Rogers is just not going to be able to keep up, and Manning is going to score late. Just like he did last week against the Patriots, albeit against a secondary filled with undrafted types. 

And the game starts and it’s six all, and here’s where the doubt sets in. Coming up on five minutes left in the first half and Crabtree gets called for offensive pass interference. A nuisance, but also a sign. You’ll come back to that later, I thought. And then Gore got stuffed. And I said to anybody who’d listen,  “You see, there it goes, there’s the rest of the season down the drain.”

And then a long ball to Edwards and Akers gets it from 52. The color guys are talking like it’s the second coming and I’m thinking, “Great, but did you ever hear the name Ray Wersching?”

Why go through it all? But there was one more doubt moment. When Ted Ginn got hit in the head and put the ball up for the int. “Ted, get a grip,” I said.

Then cardiac time and suddenly it’s over. By God, they did it, and for one shining moment there’s just the feeling—how long has it been, that in Bay Woebegone maybe all the women are gorgeous and all the teenagers aren’t dolts and life really is above average?

In sum, it felt not like luck but like a sure thing, like the old days, when winning was expected. The thrill was always how close the other team could make it, and the closer it was the more rabbits got pulled out of a hat. 

A few hours later, however, the victory wore off. I had a relapse. I decided they’ll see the New York football Giants in January and they’ll be one-and-done, and this was all in my head.