When we were wee bitty Dunces growing up in the Bay Area, we idolized our 49ers. This was before we knew (or cared to know) about collective bargaining, steroids, domestic violence and salary caps (or even 'salaries,' for that matter). They were Niners, and they kicked most everyone all over the field, and they were awesome.We knew them all -- even the offensive lineman. We had Joe and Jerry and Roger and John and Harris and Guy and Jesse and Steve (Wallace) and Steve (Young) and Charles and Eric and Ronnie and Keena and Brent and Tom and even Mike Fucking Cofer. The only question was whether we'd beat the Vikings, then the Giants, then later the Cowboys, and finally the Packers, in the NFC Championship Game. Sometimes we would and sometimes we wouldn't, but we'd almost always get close (I vividly remember winning 'only' 10 games and missing the playoffs in 1991). Either way they'd riot in the Mission, which, though only a mile and a half from where I grew up (which wasn't a perfect place, either), might as well have been present-day Juarez for all I knew (though it looked OK from the Laidlaw bus on the way school every morning).
The Niners, good guys that they were, played a charity basketball game in Kezar Pavilion every offseason. This was your chance to see these heroes in the flesh, up close and without all their armor. We were there. With much trepidation I approached John Taylor and asked for an autograph. He asked, "You got 10 bucks?" I said "N-noo" and started retreating to the bleachers. He hollered out something and I turned around and he signed my ticket stub. I still don't know if he was messing with me or actually trying to extort 10 bucks out of an unemployed, half-grown person, but I've since concluded that this was the moment when I realized not all athletes were as great as I'd previously assumed they were.
Years passed and we grew somewhat and saw the Niners in a different light: They were still very good -- not dominant, but very good -- every year. But the cast had changed: Where there had been Joe, there was now Steve. We were OK with that because he, like Joe, tore up defenses without fail, which was nice. We also had Charles and Deion and Richard and Rickey and Ricky and William as new complements to Steve. It was this year -- 1995 -- when I became aware of the concept of 'buying championships.' But we were still the Niners, and kicked everyone's asses, and it was awesome. A precocious tween with no bills, job, nagging wife or serious work ethic, I had all kinds of time to absorb every number on the Chronicle's sports section. And it was decided: Ricky Watters was the new BEST PLAYER EVER. He scored five -- FIVE! -- touchdowns in one playoff game. He could run, catch, spin, high-step...the Man. Like Taylor, he came to the local basketball gym to play a charity game with other Niners, and we all got him to sign stuff and he was the coolest. I think he even threw down a dunk, but maybe not.
But Ricky, like the Niners of the mid-to-late 90s, never achieved greatness, though he was consistently very good, and occasionally spectacular. Then he bolted for Philly and had a couple decent seasons there and places beyond before retiring after, according to the omniscient and infallible Wikipedia, reportedly turning down Cleveland's contract offer out of fear that terrorists would blow up the next plane he boarded (this being the age of 9/11 hysteria, and he being a man not paid for his intellect).
Recently, our thoughts returned to the guy. An extensive Google search followed. His modest personal website indicates he does promotional speaking, helps run football camps and bankrolls a positive-vibe rap label.
But he also proffers up a glimpse into his personal life:
FAVORITE ACTIVITIES
Writing and Producing Music
Martial Arts
Reading poetry and self-help books
Playing Chess
Watching SyFy, Chiller and Kung Fu movies
Traveling
Tennis
Riding his Segway
Eating BBQ Middleswarth Chips
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