Then we looked beyond the regular season. At 10-7 or 11-6 we see the 49ers squeaking into the playoffs and perhaps winning their first game but then being eliminated. Same scenario as last season, which was a pretty good season but not a hell of a season.

If next season turns out this way – and we didn’t even factor in injuries – what would we do with John Lynch and Kyle Shanahan? That’s if we owned the team. Of course, we don’t own it or want to own it. This was just pretend.

We agreed we would let Lynch go. If the 49ers get eliminated early in the playoffs, we’d say he’s had his run, not a bad run, but he has gotten the team as far as he can. The team would need a new general manager more steeped in personnel, someone who doesn’t appear to be a mouthpiece for the head coach. We would bring in a new GM who would have more power than coach Kyle Shanahan and would be in charge of the draft and free agency and constructing the roster.

If Kyle doesn’t like that he can leave. Grant and I agreed we might give Kyle one season with a new GM to see how that works out. Or we might not. I feel sure Eddie D would have fired Kyle a long time ago, certainly after he appeared not to know the overtime rules in the Super Bowl. Eddie cut ties with George Seifert who won two Super Bowls and as we all know Kyle has won no Super Bowls and won’t win one in the upcoming season.

This all comes down to Jed York and his parents. Do they burn to win the Super Bowl? Do they have the passion Eddie had and has? Or are they content to be almost good enough, almost special, almost champs? The Yorks’ tenure has been about the eternal almost.

Dawn graduated from O’Dowd in 1964. Iggy graduated from O’Dowd in 2006. When we arrived at O’Dowd, we were met by my grandson and Iggy’s nephew, Sam, who will graduate from O’Dowd class of 2028. So, there were three generations of O’Dowd students, three generations of our family, although Dawn was not actually with us. I take deep meaning from those three generations, from the continuity and stability they represent, and I am proud of Iggy and Sam and Sam’s father, Brian. Iggy and Brian are Dawn’s sons and when I study their faces I see Dawn, her coloring, her cheekbones, her Italian nose which reminds me of David’s nose in the famous statue.

Sam, Iggy and I were at O’Dowd to look at photos, specifically class photos. On the walls of the clean, varnished, quiet halls O’Dowd has placed group photos of every graduating class, and Dawn is in one of those photos. We climbed a flight of stairs and walked down a long hallway and found Class of 1964. I searched through pictures of all those young people dressed so neatly and found my future wife smiling at the camera. Her hair was permed and it looked voluminous in the style, I imagine, of 1964. She was pretty but not yet the beautiful, eye-stopping woman she would become.

I stared at her. I stared along with her son and grandson, the three of them linked by that school, by those photos. I wanted to walk into the group picture and take 18-year-old Dawn by the hand and lead her to the sunny O’Dowd lawn where students were reading and talking and working on their laptops. I wanted to sit her down and introduce myself. I wanted to tell her, “Be patient. We will meet 15 years from your graduation, from this photo, and we will marry and I will make you happy.” I wanted to tell her, “You will have two beautiful sons.”

I lost myself in this daydream. And then I thought, “What would 18-year-old Dawn make of a bald, 80-year-old man telling her about marriage and children and invoking the 15-year rule? She would have thought I was nuts or a deviant and I would have scared her. So, I didn’t enter the photo. I stayed where I was and thought, “Let life come. Let us find each other. The 15 years will help me earn her.”

We left Dawn’s class photo and found Iggy’s taken 20 years ago. He was so young and he wore a bowtie. Bowties were required for all male graduates in the photo. Very formal. Very proper. Very correct. Sam, Iggy and I walked across campus to my car. Me quiet. Me feeling I had visited Dawn. Me feeling she was present in her absence. And I felt glad.

I first met him one weekday evening after the 49ers had finished practicing at their dinky little wonderful facility in Redwood City. That was before the NFL went all Cecil B. DeMille and became an impersonal extravaganza. I had walked to my car in the parking lot and out of nowhere, it seemed to me, emerged this giant man, this handsome man. He raised his arms like Moses on the mountain and said he wanted to convert me to Christianity. I mentioned I was Jewish and wasn’t looking to be converted. He said he knew I was Jewish and he knew he couldn’t convert me, but I should listen anyway because he liked giving his spiel. So, I listened and his speech was an all-timer about Jesus and the afterlife and stuff I can’t remember.

When he was done, he said, “How did I do?” I said he did fine. He smiled. He thanked me for listening. After that, Charle and I would spend time in the dark of the parking lot. I loved listening to him because he had an enormous personality that was funny, generous, full of life. Charle loved life, the sheer spectacle of it, the beauty in the ordinary and I felt honored that he wanted to convert me.

After the 1982 season, it became apparent the 49ers would phase out Charle for Russ Francis, another larger-than-life personality. Charle and I were at training camp in Rocklin and Charle asked me to take a walk with him. Can you imagine a current player asking a writer to take a walk with him? That old world is over and done with.

Charle led me to a little stream, and we sat on the rocks and he said the 49ers would regret moving on from him. I listened. I noticed a crawfish walking on a rock near us and I said, “Charle, there’s a crawfish.” I did not expect this to be a controversial topic. Charle said, “It’s not a crawfish, it’s a lobster.” I said, “Lobsters are saltwater creatures and this is a crawfish.” Charle insisted it was a lobster. When we left the stream Charle said it was a lobster.

Years later we met somewhere and the first thing he said was, “It was a crawfish. I was just pulling your leg.” I asked him why. He said he felt like it. He laughed his big laugh.

After the 49ers, he played for Seattle and settled up there. When I would cover a 49ers-Seahawks game, Charle would be in the pressbox but he wouldn’t chat with me until I had filed my story. He knew how journalism worked. And then he would sit next to me, and we would talk and talk. He would ask questions about me and my life – so rare for a professional athlete. And Charle meant it. He was interested in me.

At the Dwight Clark Memorial Service at Grace Cathedral Charle sat next to Ira Miller and me. He was there with Renaldo Nehemiah, two older players, two lovely men. Charle told me I was a great writer. I blushed and turned toward Ira. Charle said, “Don’t look at Ira. I’m talking to you.”

If I weren’t a sports writer, I could have been friends with Charle, and he would have enriched my life as he enriched so many lives. I also could have been friends with Russ Francis and Brent Jones because tight ends, a hybrid between wide receivers and offensive linemen, are the most fascinating men on any football team. They are individualists and they are intellectuals and they understand life is absurd.

I am so sad Charle died. But I write this not in sadness but in joy. I got to spend time with Charle Young even if he didn’t know the difference between a lobster and a crawfish. And I loved every minute.

Most of the Giants are unwatachable. Here are some of the unwatchables.

Patrick Bailey: Unwatchable

Rafael Devers: Unwatchable

Willy Adames: Unwatchable

Matt Chapman: Unwatchable as a hitter

Jung Hoo Lee: Barely watchable but irrelevant

Heliot Ramos: Unwatchable (terrible fielder, below average OPS, a strikeout specialist. If he’s one of your best players, you’re in trouble)

Logan Webb: Unwatchable (lately)

Ryan Walker: Unwatchable

Ryan Borucki: Unwatchable

As a team the Giants are: Unwatchable

And lest I forget,

Buster Posey: Unspeakable

As you probably know, he asked John Lynch, the 49ers general manager or whatever he is, if he reached making some of his draft picks. He wondered why Lynch reached for some draftees given Lynch’s draft history which is not stellar.

You with me so far?

Lynch didn’t like the question and answered in a snotty way. But he didn’t defend his draft except to say he likes it and people in the 49ers organization like it. It’s just that most people who rate drafts put the 49ers at or near the bottom of the pack. If Lynch had a good draft record you could say he goes against the grain and picks players too early, players other teams don’t rate highly because he’s a genius and perceives what mere mortals can’t see. But when a guy like him goes against the grain you get worried.

Since the draft some people have said Grant had no business asking his question. Some national commentators have praised him. Many people have tried to define the word “reach.” Which means Grant defined the national conversation about the 49ers draft. That makes me proud.

In the weeks leading up to the draft, I felt Lynch was entirely too comfortable, especially for a GM associated with a team that can’t compete with the Seahawks. He treated news conferences like a day at the beach, or maybe a backyard barbecue. You get the idea.

Grant’s question made him uncomfortable. There is no law that says a GM who presided over many questionable drafts has a right to feel comfortable or coddled by the media. Lynch is a grownup and should expect questions that ask him to defend his work. If he can’t defend his work, he should get out of the GM business. Because he could not defend his work, Kyle Shanahan had to go on TV and explain his reasoning for making some of the picks.

Two points about that. One, Shanahan had to speak up because Lynch didn’t know how to. Two, it sure seems like Kyle and not John makes the picks. So, what does John actually do?

A journalist is not there to make friends with the people he covers. (See Dianna Russini for further elucidation on this topic.) A journalist is there to cover a team and its main people and to ask forthright and necessary questions. I always felt that way. Remember, I’m the one who asked Jed York why he didn’t fire himself after the Chip Kelly silly season. Jed also had hired Mike Singletary and Jim Tomsula, two bad head coaches, and had much to answer for. At that time, he did not deserve to feel comfortable.

My old sports columnist friends got together this week. Ira Miller told me he would have asked Lynch a question similar to Grant’s. And Mark Purdy said, “Tell Iggy I’m proud of him.” Ira and Mark are giants of our industry.

So, I am not defending my son. Far from it. I’m applauding him. I’ll tell you what I’m defending. I’m defending good journalism because it needs defending.

Ira and I are two New York Jews and we know from deli. What could Santa Rosa have to offer?

Well, just about the best deli I’ve had in years.

Ira ordered corned beef on rye, and I ordered a corned-beef Reuben on rye and both of us were in heaven. I could have been on Avenue M in Brooklyn in the 1950s going to the local deli and then walking over to the Elm Bakery and buying a seeded rye sliced for 20 cents and eating half of it on the walk home because it was warm from the oven and smelled so good.

When the sandwiches came there was a big slice of pickle on each of our plates. A real pickle. I thought Ira would levitate. “Look at that pickle,” he said, looking at the pickle. After a while, my hands drenched with Reuben, I said, “Where’s your pickle,” because I couldn’t see his pickle. Ira said, “What do you mean where’s my pickle? I ate it.”

The sandwiches were the Platonic ideal of corned beef on rye and Reuben. I had decided to eat only half of my Reuben because I’m on a diet, but come on, I ate the whole thing and felt great although bloated. After that we went wine tasting at Kendall Jackson, a lovely experience. We wondered if anyone there would recognize us, but no one did. We reminded ourselves that we are the former Ira Miller and the former Lowell Cohn.

After that I drove home to Oakland and took a nap.

Does this make sense to you?

What it feels like to me is Vrabel, who is a good coach but a clown as a human being, is publicly trying to show what a wonderful man he is. He is pulling for the sob slob vote, showing (pretending?) his family is more important to him than his team or his alleged philandering. He said he’s had hard conversations and he’s said he is apologizing.

Of course, Vrabel is refusing to say what he’s apologizing for. But he’s apologizing anyway. Maybe he forgot to feed the dog. As far as I can tell Vrabel will not lose his job. He’s just losing a little dignity, if he had any to begin with. Russini lost her job.

Wait, I’m just about to cry for poor Mike Vrabel. Insert one large liquid tear right here.

The Times is an up-and-down paper, not the quality I read when I grew up in Brooklyn and was required to get a daily subscription at Midwood High School. It has awful op-ed columnists except for the magnificent Bret Stephens, but I’ll return to the article about A River Runs Through It, a slim 104-page story that is so intelligent, so beautifully written it can compete with The Great Gatsby and is better than anything Hemingway wrote because Maclean is more gifted and smarter than macho Ernest.

The Times article explains how Maclean couldn’t get his little book published until the University of Chicago Press, God love them, stepped in and printed 5,000 copies. After that – after people actually read the book – it took off and has been a model of sharp, vivid American prose ever since. I have read it at least a dozen times and each time I get something more out of it.

I take issue – just a small issue – with one sentence in the Times article. “The book’s fishing sequences intertwine with its many themes: masculinity, family, faith, nature and addiction.”

Forget how bad the word “intertwine” is. I am so tired of writers telling us about “themes” in literature, as if you can reduce a 104-page work into bullet points. What in the world does the writer mean by masculinity? Would someone get away with using that word in a Freshman English class? I hope not.

A story or a book or a play is never about a theme. It is about itself. It is about a story. Fiction writers – good writers – don’t think in themes. They think about characters and where the characters take them and what conflicts the characters face and what the characters do and what they wear and what they feel. The characters, I guarantee you, are not thinking about masculinity or whatever. Writers who begin with themes are dead from the start.

So, what is A River Runs Through It about?

It is a story about telling a story.

It is a male narrator recalling his past life, trying to put it into words.

It is about a narrator missing his dead brother.

It is about a narrator missing his dead wife.

It is about water.

It is about rocks.

It is about a good cold beer.

It is about a battered, beat-up old suitcase.

It is about two sunburned bare asses.

It is about God or the not God, I think but don’t really care.

It is about gurgling, rippling sounds. Calming pleasant sounds.

It is about fly fishing.

It is about standing in rivers with the sun on your back.

It is about the battle between you and a fish.

It is about wanting to help someone.

It is about the helplessness of being unable to help someone.

It is about words so luscious you want to read every paragraph out loud.

It is about putting the book down and wanting to weep from joy and grief.

It keeps calling to me. It calls.

Ron’s retirement party was scheduled for Thursday, but on Wednesday we had lunch and he said, “Do you want to come by campus after lunch. Spike Lee is teaching my class.”

Do I want to?

I could meet Spike Lee?

Are you kidding me?

You bet I went.

Spike taught in a regular classroom with those movable desks that have those arms where you can write on them. Spike told the students, who filled every inch of the room, to turn off their phones and he said no one could film the class. It was totally off the record. Which means I will not quote anything Spike said, but I will tell you how he was, which was wonderful.

It was a question-and-answer session. Students would raise their hands, and Spike would call on them one by one. Before someone asked a question, Spike told him to stand, state his major and tell where he or she was from. Spike listened to every question with utmost seriousness and gave answers from the heart. He made every student feel special. He was a great teacher and, I must say, director. Because he was directing every student in the class to give his or her best.

When the 2-hour class ended, Ron went to the front of the room and said he wanted to introduce a dear friend – me. He said I was a Bay Area sports columnist and grew up in Brooklyn. This interested Spike because he grew up in Brooklyn. Spike asked me to stand up. He came over. We shook hands.

Afterward, when the class was breaking up, student photographers wanted to take photos of Spike with the class. I walked away and stood in the corner. I wasn’t part of the program, and I was the only white person in the room. I didn’t belong in the photo. Spike didn’t see it that way. He called me over, made me stand next to him and put his arm around my shoulder for the entire photo shoot. When they stopped taking photos, I said to Spike, “These young people with remember this afternoon the rest of their lives.” At which point Spike Lee gave me a hug.

I, too, will remember that afternoon the rest of my life.

Spike Lee did the right thing.

I was in Atlanta the past few days and flew home late last night. The reason I was in Atlanta is that Ron Thomas, whom many of you know, was retiring from head of the journalism department at Morehouse College and asked me to attend the farewell dinner the school held in his honor. Ron covered the Warriors when we both were at the Chronicle, and he covered the 49ers with Ira Miller and me.

I told Ron about this event for Dave, whom Ron knew and admired, and I said I wanted to read a poem in Dave’s honor. Not give a speech. Read a poem. But I had a problem. The poem I kept coming back to is called Funeral Blues by the British poet W.H. Auden, a great poem in which Auden says goodbye to his gay lover.

Well, Dave wasn’t gay and I’m not gay and we weren’t lovers. So, the poem didn’t seem to fit. Not so fast, Ron said. Obviously, this poem means something to you. Pick a line that speaks to you and read it out loud and explain how you came to it. Ron is way smarter than I am. Here is one line from the poem Funeral Blues:

He was my North, my South, my East and West.

That’s it. A simple declarative sentence that resonates in my bones. It’s written the way Dave wrote, basic American journalistic prose without flourish, but it doesn’t need flourish because it comes straight from the heart, the way Dave’s writing came straight from his joyous heart.

The last time I saw Dave, actually was with him, was Wednesday, February 25. We have a group of old columnists and assorted others who meet at the home of Art and Liz Spander. We call ourselves the Hacks. We talk about old times and tell harmless lies about ourselves and we love being with each other. Dave was there, sitting at a table in the Spander’s living room and we were all eating sandwiches. Dave had a breathing apparatus because he had trouble breathing and from time to time, he applied a mouthpiece to his lips and took a deep breath. When we expressed concern for his health, he told us not to worry, he was fine. He clearly didn’t want to spoil the day, and he didn’t want to be the center of attention. He never wanted to be the center of attention.

We laughed a lot and Dave laughed his low-throat chuckle because he was in love with life, with the spectacle of life, and we were part of that spectacle. Many of us are old and have suffered tragedies. It comes with the territory. Dave suffered more than his share, but he never laid his burden at our feet. And he didn’t do it that day. I didn’t know that would be the last time I would ever see him. He was the best of us.

A few days later, he phoned me for quotes on an article he was writing for a website. Dave was long retired, but he couldn’t stop writing. Dave understood life by putting words on a screen. The topic was the proposed fight between Floyd Mayweather and Manny Pacquiao. He wanted to know my thoughts, and I gave them and he also called Barry Tompkins. And when Dave called, we answered. Dave loved giving us ideas for our columns. This is unusual among sports columnists, this generosity. So many times, he phoned me and said, “Lowell, I have an idea that’s perfect for you.” We were competitors and he was looking out for me.

When we got ready to hang up, Dave said, “Let’s have lunch at Crogan’s.” It was something we did a lot, meet for lunch at Crogan’s, but before we could have that lunch he died.

Along with Art Spander and Ira Miller and Glenn Schwarz and so many others in this room, Dave represents the last generation of great newspaper sports journalism. Something important died with him. And so, I come back to the line from the poem by W.H. Auden and I say, “Dave, you were our North, our South, our East and West.”

And that covers just about everything.

The reason I couldn’t help noticing the beef is because it’s all over the internet, sharing time with the war in Iran. Really?

Geno’s team had just lost, and afterward he snapped at Staley that she didn’t shake his hand in a timely manner before the game. I mean, who gives a shit? Your team loses and you’re focused on handshakes? Give it a rest.

Afterward he also complained that Staley yelled obscenities, I guess, at officials during the game. Surely, that’s something he should take up with the officials, asking just how much is too much.

The next day he apologized to the South Carolina staff for his tantrum, but never actually apologized to Staley by name. Which makes his apology a non-apology and makes him small-minded and a crummy model for college athletes who learn from coaches how to act in the world, especially after hard losses.

All of which makes me want to cancel Geno, at least for a day. Sore loser.

In May I am meeting friends in Manhattan to celebrate our 60^th anniversary graduating from Lafayette College. My friend Bob Kaye is coming from New Jersey with his wife Audrey. My friend John Vaccaro is coming from Connecticut with his wife Cindy. My friend Eric Kimmel is coming from Oregon, and there’s me. Both Eric and I lost our wives so there will be six people in all.

When we graduated from Lafayette it was an all-men’s school – thank God they now admit women, although it was too late for us. Our reunion will be a joyous event at a restaurant I know and like, and we will eat good food and drink great wine and tell stories and lies about when we were young and very very innocent, especially about women.

Except that Eric Kimmel just phoned and said he may not make it to the reunion. A dear friend of his in Oregon is dying of cancer and has asked Eric to be with him at the end. Of course, Eric must be with his dying friend instead of attending the reunion. It’s what a friend does.

After Eric told me about his friend, I said, “Eric, the Angel of Death is hovering over both of us. I can hear his wings.”

And Eric said, “I have coffee with him every morning.”

I knew Dave from when I became a columnist in 1979. He was always generous to me, lovely I’d say, and he was hardworking and in love with writing and sports. I associate him with the Oakland Tribune although he wrote for other places. He always wrote on the right topic, and he knew everyone and did great interviews. We competed against each other, but we cared for each other, and for the past decade or so we have (had) been in the same retired columnist group which meets periodically at Art Spander’s house.

The members are Dave, Mark Purdy, Art, Scott Ostler (not retired but we grandfathered him in), Joan Ryan, Barry Tompkins, Bud Geracie, Ira Miller when he’s in town, Mitch Juricich, Mark Ibanez and me. God, I hope I haven’t left anyone out.

Just the other day, Dave phoned me for a column he was writing for an online outlet about the upcoming silly fight between Mayweather and Pacquiao. His column was terrific and I told him I’d call and we’d make a date to have lunch at Crogan’s in Montclair Village Oakland. I waited too long to call.

What a lovely man. My eyes are filled with tears.

And remember, defense wins. Offense entertains.

I truly believe signing Mike Evans as a starting wide receiver is over-rated and may prove foolish. An old offense just got older. But overall the 49ers have improved their team and that’s what free agency is about. So, good for them.dre

Pardon me for laughing my tush off, but the 49ers, who need to get younger and faster on offense just signed Mike Evans who will be 33 next season and missed nine games last season, and he’s not that fast. The 49ers did exactly the opposite of what they should do. It’s kind of amazing, not to mention marvelous in its own way.

Evans is the presumptive replacement for Jauan Jennings. But he’s not. Jennings runs short and intermediate routes, and Evans runs long routes, trying to beat the coverage. He and Jennings play different games. Quarterback Brock Purdy loved Jennings because Jennings’ short routes suited Purdy’s ability to throw accurate short and intermediate passes. Purdy isn’t so good at long routes – so I wonder how he and Evans will hook up.

Bill Walsh preferred to sign players on the upswing. Evans is on the downside of his career. This deal makes no sense to me.

Signed,

A Puzzled Onlooker

Cop asks sovereign driver to roll down window, meaning all the way. Sovereign rolls it down a crack, just enough to pass documents back and forth. I’ll get back to the documents in a minute.

Cop asks sovereign to roll down window all the way. Sovereign says no. Cop gets pissed. Cop asks sovereign for driver’s license. Sovereign says got no driver’s license. Cop says driver’s license required. Sovereign says driver’s license not required in sovereign world. Cop gets more pissed. Sovereign offers passport. Cop says passport isn’t a driver’s license.

Impasse City.

Sovereign has bunch of papers explaining sovereign legal position which I guess come from the internet and offers to push them through the window crack so cop can get educated. Cop refuses to get educated. Sovereign gets pissed because, and I believe this is true, sovereigns genuinely believe they have a valid legal point. Sovereign asks what’s the reason for the traffic stop. Cop explains. It could be speeding, making an illegal turn, having no license plates – big with sovereigns – or window tint too dark. Etc. Etc. Sovereign says, and I swear this is true, “I’m traveling.” This is supposed to mean something and maybe it does. If you understand please explain it to me. Cop’s rejoinder often is, “Sure you’re traveling, straight to jail.” Sovereign not amused.

Sovereign asks, “What law did I break and who is the victim?” Cop threatens to charge sovereign with obstruction and resisting. Sovereign gets more pissed. Asks to speak to cop’s “superior.” Asks to speak to a sheriff, another point I don’t comprehend. Cops call superior but almost never call sheriff.

More Impasse City.

Superior arrives. Tells sovereign to exit car. Sovereign says not required. Superior says sovereign should look up Pennsylvania vs. Mimms, a Supreme Court decision which says drivers required to exit vehicle if cop demands it at traffic stop. Sovereign couldn’t care less about Pennsylvania, not to mention Mimms or the Supreme Court.

Serious Impasse City.

Superior threatens to break driver’s side window. Sovereign thinks superior bluffing. Superior breaks window, reaches in, unlocks car, and two or three cops pull sovereign out of car, throw sovereign to the ground and apply handcuffs. Sovereign complains it’s illegal. Cops don’t even listen.

Cops arrest sovereign. Cops take sovereign to jail.

Impasse over.

Sovereigns never win using these tactics at traffic stops. Ask Sergeant Curtis.

If I were a sovereign citizen I’d carry a valid driver’s license, proof of insurance and car registration.

Why?

Because jail ain’t no fun, although the videos are.

I’m trying to remember when I was 16. I had just gotten rid of my braces and that biteplate, thank God. I was thinking whom I would take to a dance and if I actually knew how to dance, and if anyone would want me for a date. I thought about breaking 24 seconds in the 220-yard-dash. I worried about getting into a good college. I hated reading the books my teachers assigned me, and I resented my English teacher for making us read Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar.

The last thing I thought about was politics even though my high school made me (us) buy the New York Times and I pretended to read it – crummy sports section.

So, I humbly disagree with Harris on this one. Leave the 16-year-olds alone to be just what they are – children. Let them vote when they are more mature.

Why would Harris want kids to vote? I haven’t asked her, but my guess is kids are idealistic and would vote for ideals people like Harris espouse. Don’t ask me to name those ideals. This would mean more votes for Democrats. Maybe I’m being cynical thinking Harris is cynical.

Anyway, I’m against kids voting. What do you think? And please be kind to me?

I lived the entire era and maybe I don’t want to relive it. That feels true but it also feels weak. You can sense my indecision.

But there’s something more important and this troubles me. My son, Grant, watched the whole thing and learned stuff. I asked about the series, and he said Tom Brady produced it and often appears in it.

Tom Freakin’ Brady?

Sure, he’s from the Peninsula but what in the world does he have to do with the rise of the Niners? Shouldn’t he be doing a series on the rise of the Patriots, and shouldn’t he be focusing on Belichick instead of Bill Walsh? Or am I being parochial?

But there’s something even more important. Grant told me whom the docuseries interviewed for perspective on Walsh and what he brought to the team. Interviews are very important. But I noticed the series failed to interview key people, like:

George Seifert

Mike Holmgren

Ray Rhodes

Fred vonAppen

These people are still around, and they were with Bill from the beginning or almost the beginning. Fred, in particular, won two Super Bowl rings with Bill and the 49ers and was Bill’s defensive coordinator when Bill went back to Stanford. I sure think Fred would have insight into what made Bill Bill and what he was like away from the cameras.

How did Brady whiff on those people?

And how did he miss on Ira Miller who covered all five Super Bowl seasons and while covering them was the best football writer in America? And please excuse this self-reference, but I’m still around and I covered all five Super Bowl seasons and wrote a book on Bill Walsh. I kind of know what he was like. And remember, along with Ira, I broke the story that Bill was dying because Bill asked us to.

So, I think the docuseries missed important voices and is, maybe, half-assed.

Did you watch it? Should I?

I saw the new Wuthering Heights at the Mostly British Film Festival which concluded on Thursday – I am on the board of directors, if you can imagine that. It is a great festival. I am so proud to be part of it. I am glad we included the new Wuthering Heights. I seriously am, even though I found the movie unfaithful to the book. When you get a new Wuthering Heights you must see it, especially as it was directed by Emerald Fennell, a director of some acclaim. The festival scored a coup by showing the film a day before its general release. We have clout.

But all that sex in the movie, come on. In addition to the masturbation, Cathie and Heathcliff (Jacob Elordi) watch another couple engage in sex with a horse bridal – I’m not sure how the couple maneuvered that one. And there are Cathie and Heathcliff screwing in horse-drawn carriages, on the moors, screwing all over the place. I don’t remember much screwing, or any screwing for that matter in the book, which although presenting insane characters never has them making the beast with two backs. (Quiz: where is that line from?)

You get the point. Instead of presenting Cathie and Heathcliff as two enormous natural forces who are drawn to each other and eventually destroy each other, this film is a sexathon which completely ignores the second half of the novel. Should you pay to see it? Why not. It is beautifully filmed, and it sure is a unique interpretation, and it may make you reread the book which you probably haven’t read since high school. I sure hadn’t.

On the other hand, rush out to see I Swear, the closing night film. I won’t tell you what it’s about, but it is a great movie, both heartbreaking and laugh-out-loud funny. The audience loved it.

Next year, I hope you come to the festival at the Vogue Theater in SF where we present new films and old classics, where we take chances on directors who themselves take chances and will make you laugh and cry and feel thrilled with their sheer brilliance. I’ll be the old guy quietly eating popcorn and drinking a Coke near the back of the auditorium. I’ll tell you one thing I won’t be doing. Well, I’m too much of a prude to mention it.