I was debating whether or not to write about it.
I was debating whether or not to write about it. It’s a side of me that only a few know. As I was hemming and hawing, I went downstairs to make a cup of tea and found that there was only one clean cup available: my 49er helmet mug with the plastic face mask handle. It was a sign.
I’ll admit it. One of the perks for taking this job was the idea that I might actually find myself producing some show involving Jeff Garcia. The chances were significantly higher anyway. I’m sure most people in Gilroy are “over it,” but for this Bay Area native and football addict, the possibility was exciting.
I distinctly remember the moment I became a Niner fan. I was 10 years old, hanging out in my kitchen one Sunday afternoon. My dad walked into the room with a shocked look on his face. I mean, he was pale. I asked him what was wrong. He responded, dumfounded, “The Niners are beating Dallas.” Even at 10, I knew the tremendous weight of that statement. “The FORTY Niners?” I asked him. He nodded, and I ran to the TV. From thence forth, my Sundays had new meaning.
At first it was innocent enough. I would hang with my dad and watch games, learning the lingo, memorizing my favorite players‚ numbers. I wooed at Ronnie Lott’s talent, Montana’s confidence, and Wershcing’s superstitious routine before slamming the ball between the uprights. Hacksaw Reynolds and Hicks were my new heroes. At this point, I was contained. It was all innocent and fun.
Gradually my affliction became more problematic, AND I got my mom hooked. We would set up camp in the family room by the pregame show, complete with chips, dip, and really obnoxious 49er leg-warmers. Wait, let me clarify ˆ my MOM was wearing the leg warmers. I had on the red and gold slippers shaped like footballs. Any respectable faithful would wear those. She graduated to the Niner earrings and a Rice jersey, while I sported number 36 on Sundays and screamed “MERT!!!” at the TV. Yeah, we were hooked.
In the mid ’80s when my sister got her license, we would make our way from the burbs to downtown SF after Superbowl victories and watch all the crazies with their faces painted red and gold, screaming out their car windows and blowing their horns. Eventually we became one of the crazies, losing our voices at the end of night. Good times.
By the early ’90s, my mom finally kicked me out during games for, and I quote, “getting too emotional,” i.e., screaming so loud she was going deaf. On Sundays, my boyfriend and I would find ourselves joining the Bud-guzzling jocks screaming “Stubbie!!” at the TV in unison. In ’94, at the height of my affliction, I and my other crazed friends ran through San Francisco’s Broadway tunnel after the Superbowl, high-fiving fans hanging out of idling cars. We practically became asphyxiated by the fumes, but what the hell. Our boys won, and it was worth it.
So now you know, and can understand my exuberance when CMAP was asked to produce a public service announcement for The Jeff Garcia Open Annual Golf Tournament fundraiser coming up in April. My programming manager and I sat down to brainstorm and write copy for the spot earlier last week. There I was, typing the script into the computer: “Wanna play? Hi, I’m Jeff Garcia of the San Francisco Forty-Niners, and” … Wow. Ma would have been proud.
Jeff was a real sport about it all. Despite my giddy floor manager who was making Jeff laugh, we managed to produce a pretty cool spot for the event. We even got him to do a channel ID for public access. Viewers will be able to catch the spots on Channel 20 in between shows.
So as I sit here sipping tea out of a 49er helmet mug, counting the days until preseason, I salute the team that brought me great joy throughout my childhood, and thank Jeff for putting up with the overzealous faithful like myself. That channel ID is going to get a lot of air play, buddy!
