Nov. 29, 1999
Nov. 29, 1999

Table of Contents
Nov. 29, 1999

20th Century Celebration
Sports Illustrated 20th Century Sports Awards


My little sister barged into the den shrieking, convinced there
had been an earthquake. My mother, having been banished as a
bad-luck charm, dared not leave her bedroom. As San Francisco
49ers wide receiver Dwight Clark soared to make the catch we
never saw coming, knotting the 1981 NFC Championship Game at 27
with 51 seconds to go, my father and I hugged and danced and
screamed with abandon, releasing years of pent-up frustration
from crushed hopes and bad luck.

This is an article from the Nov. 29, 1999 issue

Then my dad and I went back to our respective posts on the
beat-up couch and waited for the Niners to blow the extra point.
Three hundred fifty miles to the north, in Candlestick Park,
60,525 disbelieving fans knew exactly how we felt.

The Catch has been called the most meaningful play in modern NFL
history. It essentially ended the Dallas Cowboys' long run of
excellence and launched a 17-year stretch of 49ers greatness.
But to understand what that game meant to a true Niners fan, you
had to be at the 'Stick--or in the den of our house in West Los
Angeles. While living in Northern California during my infancy,
my dad had fallen hard for the 49ers, an exciting but
perpetually maddening team that reflected San Francisco's
uproarious, unbounded spirit. I was thus born into a life of
torment, including three heartbreaking playoff defeats from 1970
through '72, all to the Cowboys, the first two in NFC title games.

Now, after an amazing emergence under courtly coach Bill Walsh,
supremely confident quarterback Joe Montana and rowdy rookie
cornerback Ronnie Lott, the 49ers had set me up for another
emotional mudslide. San Francisco had walloped the Cowboys 45-14
during the regular season, but a true Niners fan knew that
didn't count for anything now. Any minute, reality would rear
its ugly head.

The game unfolded just as we feared it might: Dallas seized a
27-21 fourth-quarter lead, then Montana threw his third
interception, San Francisco's sixth turnover of the game. When
the 49ers got the ball back at their own 11 with just under five
minutes left, an Eagle Scout couldn't have tied a knot any
tighter than the one my stomach was in. I looked to my dad for
hope; he offered only pity. He surely felt guilty for having
dragged me into this abyss. But wait, the Niners were driving!
Inside the 20...third-and-three from the 6....

Montana rolled right for what seemed like forever, chased by Too
Tall Jones and two other Cowboys. Finally he released the pass,
and for a split second I felt relief. One more down; the dream
lives. Suddenly a red blur that shouldn't have been there
appeared on screen, and then Clark was spiking the ball. My dad
gave me the purest, most joyful embrace I'd ever experienced. I
was 16--same age as the Super Bowl, same as Montana's uniform
number. I wasn't looking for a dynasty, just one miracle
victory, one Monday of parading around my high school wearing my
way-too-tight, mighty-mite 49ers jersey.

On TV we saw the Candlestick zanies screeching and gyrating in a
way only first-time winners can. Around the Bay Area, on block
after block, people opened doors, ran into the streets and
yelled their lungs out. None of us thought it was close to
over--but on the extra point Ray Wersching squeezed the ball
between the uprights.

Then after the ensuing kickoff, Dallas wideout Drew Pearson
caught a pass over the middle, swept past Lott and was
gone--until rookie corner Eric Wright got hold of his jersey and
yanked him down. Ball on the San Francisco 44, less than 40
seconds to go. This can't be happening! My dad and I held
hands--psychically--with everyone in the stadium.

Short breaths, then the most beautiful play ever: Danny White
back to pass, pummeled by Lawrence Pillers. My dad and I were so
elated we didn't even see the fumble. Seconds later we were
laughing through tears as Jim Stuckey trudged to the Niners'
sideline with the ball aloft. Soon after, Montana raised his
index fingers to the heavens, and fans streamed onto the field.

By the end of the century I would see the Niners play in person
more than 100 times. But I would trade all those games to have
been there with my dad that day at Candlestick.

COLOR ILLUSTRATION: ILLUSTRATION BY ANITA KUNZ For long-suffering 49ers fans, Clark's fingertip grab was nothing short of a football miracle.