The City and the Quarterback

Sports franchises often are overrated as civic assets: It’s almost comic how cities will cough up millions to land a hockey team, even as they close libraries and lay off cops. Also, to watch pro football on television is to understand that its main purpose is to push light beer and pickup trucks, which makes the almost religious tone of football reportage seem silly.

There. Now that we have dealt with perspective, we turn with clear conscience to the story of Joe Montana, a football god if there ever was one, and the city he saved: San Francisco. It’s coming to an end up here for Montana, and as often happens, the finish is not quite as pretty as the start.

Eleven seasons ago, Montana and the 49ers beat the Dallas Cowboys in a championship game at Candlestick Park. A brilliant run had begun. Montana and Co. would win championships through the 1980s. This afternoon, the 49ers and Cowboys again will meet at Candlestick. This time, Montana will be on the sidelines, a 37-year-old bench warmer. He hurt his elbow two seasons ago and, as he recuperated, was replaced--apparently for good.

Although the new quarterback, Steve Young, was the best in the league this season, most 49er fans ache to see Montana play. They hang out “Joe Is God” banners and root secretly for Young to screw up or even hurt himself, anything to get Montana back in the game. This affection often is attributed to nostalgia, or even fan ignorance. My theory is that it goes deeper than that, and says something about San Francisco.

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It’s important to remember what was happening here when Montana arrived, a skinny kid from Notre Dame with a reputation for implausible comebacks. If a city ever needed a comeback, it was San Francisco at the close of the 1970s. The city was still reeling from Jonestown and a double assassination at City Hall. A mysterious new disease had surfaced, known then only as “gay men’s cancer.” Also, it had become clear that Los Angeles had surpassed The City That Knows How as the West Coast power capital. To live in San Francisco, as I did then, was to feel a little less relevant every day.

Against this current beat Montana and the 49ers. When they made it to the first championship game against America’s Team, as Dallas was called, the Cowboys were contemptuous. We don’t respect San Francisco, a defensive end named Too Tall Jones growled to the press. Early in the game, Montana threw a touchdown pass and sought out Too Tall. “Respect that, m----- f-----,” he shouted, and he could have been speaking for the whole city.

Over the years, the bond between city and quarterback strengthened, transcending the standard level of sports idolatry. It was not unlike the relationship between Fernando Valenzuela and East Los Angeles, except that it lasted longer. No, Montana didn’t cure AIDS or keep the city solvent, just as Fernandomania didn’t silence the guns of East L.A. gangbangers. And no, not everyone in San Francisco became a Montana follower; I’m sure some people here couldn’t care less.

What he did do was this: For a few hours every fall Sunday, at a time when the city needed it badly, Montana gave a whole bunch of San Franciscans a reason to feel good about their city, and therefore themselves. It’s no wonder they hate to see him go. These feelings are what make a city something more than curbs, gutters and cheap politicians. They don’t need to come from a sports team, either. It can be a theater company, or public library, or revitalized town center, lots of things. Just steer clear of hockey.

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These deals can’t last forever. With Montana, the sporting press has soured on him. Last Thursday, at the 49ers practice facility in Santa Clara, I listened to a sports columnist ridicule Montana’s fans. “It doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “The people don’t believe that Joe Montana will ever get old.” He began to mimic them, adopting a vague ethnic accent that might have been Irish or Italian or even Armenian. “‘Oh, Joe,” he groaned. “We love you Joe. My boy, Joe.”’

About 100 reporters and photographers had gathered to question the 49er quarterbacks. Montana stood on a box, surrounded. At the back of the pack it was hard to hear, but I caught the drift: He wasn’t happy not playing, and if the 49ers don’t want him next year, maybe some other team will. I had a bleak vision of Montana at age 40, hurling wobbly passes into the New England wind.

Now he was stepping down. No one had asked my question, and so I had to shout it out from the back: What did you give San Francisco over the years? It stopped him. He did a double take, climbed back on his stand and looked my way. “Entertainment,” he said, flashing a familiar, broad smile, and with that he was gone.

Entertainment. Well, yes. There was that, too.