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In the normal course of athletic affairs, 92 yards is nothing. It's a nine-second dash for some sprinters, and a mere one-minute stroll even for those of us nursing old sports injuries. But when the San Francisco 49ers stepped onto the field at Joe Robbie Stadium in Super Bowl XXIII, it must have looked like a mile. They had three minutes and 10 seconds to traverse the distance, and most spectators thought time had, for all intents and purposes, run out.
What stood in the 49ers' way were eleven massive and lightning-quick Cincinnati Bengals, one of the best defensive squads in the nfl, sitting on a 16-13 lead a mere 200 seconds from their first Super Bowl ring. They were prowling like lions, in no mood to give any ground. They'd heard the hype about the anointed Joe Montana (who already had two Super Bowl rings), but it was clear that he and the 12-6 49ers were past their prime.
But Randy Cross, who spent his Sunday afternoons that year hiking the ball to Montana, didn't hear the fat lady even warming up. Before the 49ers trotted on to the field for the last time, their center walked up and down the sidelines telling—make that screaming at—anybody he could find. "You gotta believe! You gotta believe!"
The mood in the huddle was businesslike—except for Montana, who wasn't nicknamed Joe Cool for nothing. As the players gathered in the huddle, Montana turned to tackle Harris Barton. "Hey, Harris," he said. "Check it out. There's John Candy."
The drive began with a couple of short passes and runs—Montana was, as usual, taking what the defense gave him, faithful in little. It wasn't much, and with 1:49 left, the 49ers had managed only to cross midfield. Another pass put them on the Cincinnati 35, but the next pass fell incomplete, followed by a penalty: Cross was downfield on a pass. Now it was second and 20 on the Cincinnati 45, with only 1:17 left.
"The crowd was so loud that I had to scream every word," Montana remembers. "And the excitement was just overwhelming. I couldn't catch my breath. I was dizzy. I should have called timeout, but it kind of faded away. All I could do was throw the ball out of bounds."
Joe Cool, fighting Bengals without and demons within, caught his breath, then threw to Jerry Rice for 27 yards, and Roger Craig for another eight. The 49ers were 10 yards from the end zone, with 39 seconds left on the clock.
"When we got to the 10, we were going to score a touchdown," Cross said, "even if we had to throw Joe through the air 10 yards to do it."
With the defense smothering Rice, Montana looked for his secondary receiver, John Taylor, in the back of the end zone. "I knew he was open when I threw it," Montana said, "but I got hit when the ball was halfway there and couldn't see what happened."
When the crowd of 75,000 roared, Joe Cool knew he'd triumphed, completing what is now known as The Drive.1
Meanwhile, this 49er fan sat in his living room, staring at his tv through misty eyes, repeating the mantra, "I don't believe it."
Joe, we believe. Help thou our unbelief.
As a culture, we give time, space, and money to sports in ways unparalleled in history. We wear our athletic heroes' jerseys, our moods fluctuate with the fate of our team, and sports stadiums dominate the skyline of many modern cities, architecturally signaling our highest devotion.
Annually, the 256 National League Football games draw an average of some 67,000 fans per game. On a per-game basis, only one other sport comes close, at some 56,000 fans per match: Europe's Six Nation Championships of rugby. For total annual attendance, nothing even approaches Major League Baseball, which draws some 72 million fans. ncaa Division I football and basketball come in for a respectable second and third at 30 and 25 million respectively.2
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