Dreading the Sunday when football ends

I’m addicted to football. That means that after this weekend, I am

actually going to have to find something to do on Sundays.

Given the choice of being outside on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon or

being cooped up in my apartment watching the NFL battle of the week, I

would choose the game, or games as it usually happens. Actually, it’s not

even a choice with addiction. It’s a requirement.

That’s why I am dreading the Super Bowl this Sunday. Not because my

favorite team, the San Francisco 49ers, was forced out in the first week

of the playoffs, but because it’s the last time I’ll be able to watch

real football for another six months.

The end of Monday Night Football was hard enough -- to me, MNF has

always represented an extension of the weekend, an incentive to finish

work early (deadlines notwithstanding of course) and get home to hear the

witty repartee of Al Michaels, Dan Fouts and Dennis Miller.

I’m still not sure why I am so drawn to football -- to me, the brutal

physicality of the sport is counteracted by a breathtaking elegance when

wide receivers leap high in the air to catch long passes, cornerbacks

come out of hiding to make sudden interceptions or special team players

weave back and forth running catches back for touchdowns.

But I do know who to blame for this obsession. None other than the

greatest quarterback to ever play the game -- Joe Montana.

Growing up in the Bay Area, I remember never ceasing to be amazed by

his signature fourth-quarter comebacks, leading his team down the field

with his characteristic coolness.

I remember thinking at first that all quarterbacks were as good as

Montana and being relieved when I found out they were not.

Yes, we were spoiled in the Bay Area watching him work his magic over

and over again.

As if we weren’t lucky enough to witness such a legendary quarterback,

we also were blessed with wide receiver Jerry Rice, whose devotion and

spirit added a superhuman aura to the team.

I truly thought my obsession with America’s greatest sport would

subside upon moving to an area with no professional football team.

Instead, a move during the off-season only conspired to feed my

addiction, increasing the number of teams I had to watch from one to two

with the switch of Jerry Rice from the 49ers to the Oakland Raiders.

I knew it would be a challenge trying to find 49er games on local

television here, but I was consoled knowing that at least I would be able

to see a fair share of Raiders games, since Los Angeles had the privilege

of Al Davis’ acquaintance for a few years at least.

As I was not able to see as many 49er games as in the past, I began to

rely on my dad to give me a play-by-play account of the waning minutes so

I could enjoy the games vicariously. This worked for the first few games

of the season, until I called home one Sunday and my mom answered the

phone instead. It got a little confusing as my mom tried to figure out

which team was the 49ers while doing the play-by-play. I’m still trying

to sort that one out.

As the clock ticks down to the final minutes of the Super Bowl, I will

have a brief period of mourning for the end of the season, and then start

counting down the days until the preseason. Then I may even go outside

and see what I’ve been missing.

* Deirdre Newman covers education. She may be reached at (949)

574-4221 or by e-mail at o7 deirdre.newman@latimes.comf7 .