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When Joe Montana took the field for the second half of the 49ers’ final
regular-season game in 1992 after missing nearly two years because of injury, the radio
broadcaster for the game actually described the scene by saying, "The field is soggy
and slick, but amazingly, when Montana came on the field, the mud puddle parted."
With Steve Young’s career now very much in jeopardy because of recurring
concussions, with the 49ers’ empire reduced to rubble by a monumental collapse caused
more by Young’s absence from the lineup than anything else, now seems an appropriate
time to reflect on his career. And any such reflection has to include Montana and his
legend, which for so long sat on Young’s shoulders like an 800-pound gorilla wearing
a suit of armor and juggling 50-pound dumbbells.
To fully appreciate all that Young has accomplished — the astonishing number of
seasons with a passer rating over 100.0, the repeated trips to the Pro Bowl, the multiple
NFL Player of the Year honors — one must marvel at his mental toughness.
After all, Young was following in Montana’s shadow. It was a shadow so vast, so
relentless, so chilling, that Young seemingly went years without feeling the heat of the
sun warm his skin. I’ve long suspected that Montana was not born. Instead, he stepped
straight out of Greek mythology to tear up the NFL. Montana is the stuff of whispered
legend in the aftermath of mythic achievements such as "the Catch," four Super
Bowl wins and more ice-water-in-the-veins performances than any mere mortal has a right to
actually be a part of.
Not surprisingly, the public put Montana on a pedestal a mile high (and remember, this
was San Francisco, not Denver).
When Montana coughed, the public swore the sound he made was that from the Mormon
Tabernacle Choir. When Montana tripped, the public saw the Bolshoi Ballet. When Montana
rang a doorbell, the public heard Beethoven’s "Moonlight Sonata." When
Montana burped, the public heard Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. When Montana
scribbled his name on a piece of paper, the public saw the beautiful brush strokes of
Monet.
For goodness’ sake, if the guy had ever got caught littering by the TV cameras,
people would probably have marveled at the glorious spiral of his Styrofoam cup as it made
its descent to the ground. When Montana got the hiccups, the tremors threatened the San
Andreas Fault.
For anyone else, following in Montana’s footsteps would have been like being the
poor schlemiel pushing a broom the morning after Mardi Gras has ended. Funny thing,
though: Young wasn’t content to just push the broom and sweep the confetti that had
been thrown to celebrate Montana as, in many people’s eyes, the greatest quarterback
to ever play the game. Somehow, some way, Young found his way onto a Mardi Gras float of
his own.
Truly amazing. For my money, the fact that Young emerged from Montana’s shadow to
carve out a career that should someday land him in the Hall of Fame just might be the
greatest accomplishment in pro football history.
Initially, Young was the carpetbagger who had the audacity to threaten Montana’s
job.
When Young would throw three TD passes in a game, people would all but yawn and say,
"Yeah, but Joe would have also saved a baby from a burning building at
halftime." When Young would throw for 300 yards in an afternoon, an unimpressed
public would say, "Yeah, but Joe would have thrown for 400 yards. With
pneumonia." To hear the reverence given Montana’s achievements, you would have
thought he had found a cure for cancer.
After the 49ers lost to the Cowboys in the NFC championship game in January 1993 with
Young in the lineup and Montana on the bench, the letters to the editor in the local
papers sizzled with anger.
"When the best quarterback (Montana) who ever played the game sits on the bench
while the team loses, it proves there should be drug testing in the NFL for owners and
coaches," wrote one reader.
A Young basher wrote, "The 49ers can win the Super Bowl next year if they appoint
Jennifer Montana (Joe’s wife) the quarterback coach. She alone will name the starter
each week."
Tony Dungy, the Vikings’ defensive coordinator at the time, said, "Until
(Young) leads them to the Super Bowl, I don’t think they’re ever going to accept
that he’s not Joe Montana."
Eventually a choice had to be made. Montana had far more past than future, so off he
went to Kansas City. Young and his critics remained in San Francisco.
Local sentiment was that nobody ever did it better than Montana, and the public and
press were sure to remind Young of this every time the 49ers came up just short at the end
of a season.
It must have felt like having Bill Gates as your big brother.
"Until you go through the wringer in San Francisco and try to play in Joe’s
stead, until you’ve experienced that, you can’t say you’ve experienced
anything," Young said earlier this decade. "In some towns, you lead the league
as a passer, and they’ll remember that for 20 years. Here, it’s an
afterthought."
Young kept marching up the steep mountain with gritty determination. He did so
repeatedly, doggedly, heroically. And every time a giant boulder would come rumbling down
the mountain and flatten him, Young would pick himself up, dust himself off and defiantly
attack every obstacle in his way.
Finally, in Super Bowl XXIX, Young scaled the mountaintop. The 49ers walloped the
Chargers 49-26 behind what probably was Young’s greatest game performance. He
completed 24-of-36 passes for 325 yards and — count ’em — six touchdowns.
He also led all rushers with 49 yards on five carries. He was unanimously voted the
game’s MVP.
Toward game’s end, Young walked up to teammate Gary Plummer and said, "Can
you take this monkey off my back?"
Plummer said, "Are you kidding me? That gorilla is already gone."
Indeed, that day, Joe Montana couldn’t have done it any better.
When it comes to replacing a legend, nobody ever did it better than Steve Young. Every
time a quarterback tries to follow in the footsteps of an all-time great, he will have
Young’s legend to contend with. The man who played for so many years in someone
else’s massive shadow now casts his own.
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