49ers Clubhouse

San Francisco Chronicle

Raiders close to Jerry's home, far from familiar

June 05, 2001

Gwen Knapp
JERRY RICE is becoming a Raider because he wants to stay close to home. He quickly will discover that he has moved to a different universe.
On his last day as a 49er, Rice watched Bill Walsh take over the show. The 49ers' general manager emeritus attended Rice's charity golf tournament yesterday and announced that the receiver would be going to Oakland.
Rice and his agent, Jim Steiner, wanted to keep the suspense going, insisting that Seattle was still in pursuit. But Walsh being Walsh -- omnipresent and camera-friendly -- he all but slapped a Raiders cap on his old protege's head, draped a black jersey over his chest and drove him across the Bay Bridge. If he had just typed up the press release, Walsh could have given the Raiders' public-relations staff the rest of the week off.
Once he gets to Oakland, Rice will find a significant variation on the control-freak theme. Al Davis operates as covertly as Walsh does overtly. The two of them share a coach's need to master all he surveys and an uncanny ability to maintain the same hairstyle -- but not much else -- for decades.
Walsh is Stanford-smooth, with a shiny Porsche in the parking lot. Davis is Brooklyn-raw, with synthetic sweat suits in the closet. Walsh plays tennis. Davis runs sprints after his team's practice.
For Rice, the differences might mean nothing. One giant hovering figure is the same as another, even if one is more visible and glib in semiretirement than the other is on active duty.
The real culture shock will come from other corners. As soon as he walks into the Raiders' locker room, Rice will be invading Tim Brown's turf. For the past five years, Rice has been contending with Terrell Owens and J.J. Stokes, young insurgents. Brown is different, a peer in Rice's path, not an ambitious apprentice.
The chief obstacle for these two is not their differences. It's their similarities. They are both meticulous, prolific, bound for the Hall of Fame and understandably wary of the central law of football physics: The ball should not occupy two sets of hands simultaneously.
Brown will turn 35 this summer, and he might not want to turn his twilight years into a campfire sing-along with good ol' Jerry. The two undoubtedly respect each other, a sentiment that will be very conspicuous whenever one speaks of the other. Still, their partnership will require a diplomacy as carefully crafted as any play they've ever run.
Most of the crafting will have to come from Rice. He is the interloper, the man who was polishing Super Bowl rings while Brown was enduring the dreariest stretch in Raiders history. Rice has put up with a lot the past few years, but he didn't pay any Joe Bugel dues.
Rice did, however, hone his performance as a role player, as sage rather than superstar. He didn't perfect the act, as indicated by recent complaints about how he was used in Steve Mariucci's offense. But all in all, Rice became far more gracious as a teammate in the past two years.
He avoided sideline rants after the September 1998 meltdown in Washington, where he lashed out at Mariucci for not setting him up for more receptions. When his last home game as a 49er yielded a record 20-catch day for Owens, Rice seethed internally but put on a brave front. He passed the torch to Owens grudgingly, but he did it without starting a conflagration.
A lot of people believe that Rice's refusal to retire, to go out as a 38- year-old and a 49er, means that his ego rages as vehemently as ever. They underestimate his love of the game, something only other players can appreciate.
That passion quickly can endear him to Brown. Rice, devoted to details, always has been a tenacious blocker. On at least one play last year, Andre Rison released a block too soon, and Brown took a crushing hit from the freed defender. Rice is unlikely to make the same thing happen, and should he spring Brown for extra yardage, the former 49er might be seen as more than a pair of greedy hands.
The mediator in this relationship, head coach Jon Gruden, will be vital. He and Rice just might be soul mates, both so hard-headed that if their skulls banged together, they wouldn't feel a thing. Or, more likely, they'd feel plenty and like it anyway.
"Jon doesn't want to play golf with me because he knows I'd destroy him," Rice said yesterday before he went off for 18 holes with his 49ers coaches and teammates, his last fling in the Old World.

Gwen Knapp

JERRY RICE is becoming a Raider because he wants to stay close to home. He quickly will discover that he has moved to a different universe.

On his last day as a 49er, Rice watched Bill Walsh take over the show. The 49ers' general manager emeritus attended Rice's charity golf tournament yesterday and announced that the receiver would be going to Oakland.

Rice and his agent, Jim Steiner, wanted to keep the suspense going, insisting that Seattle was still in pursuit. But Walsh being Walsh -- omnipresent and camera-friendly -- he all but slapped a Raiders cap on his old protege's head, draped a black jersey over his chest and drove him across the Bay Bridge. If he had just typed up the press release, Walsh could have given the Raiders' public-relations staff the rest of the week off.

Once he gets to Oakland, Rice will find a significant variation on the control-freak theme. Al Davis operates as covertly as Walsh does overtly. The two of them share a coach's need to master all he surveys and an uncanny ability to maintain the same hairstyle -- but not much else -- for decades.

Walsh is Stanford-smooth, with a shiny Porsche in the parking lot. Davis is Brooklyn-raw, with synthetic sweat suits in the closet. Walsh plays tennis. Davis runs sprints after his team's practice.

For Rice, the differences might mean nothing. One giant hovering figure is the same as another, even if one is more visible and glib in semiretirement than the other is on active duty.

The real culture shock will come from other corners. As soon as he walks into the Raiders' locker room, Rice will be invading Tim Brown's turf. For the past five years, Rice has been contending with Terrell Owens and J.J. Stokes, young insurgents. Brown is different, a peer in Rice's path, not an ambitious apprentice.

The chief obstacle for these two is not their differences. It's their similarities. They are both meticulous, prolific, bound for the Hall of Fame and understandably wary of the central law of football physics: The ball should not occupy two sets of hands simultaneously.

Brown will turn 35 this summer, and he might not want to turn his twilight years into a campfire sing-along with good ol' Jerry. The two undoubtedly respect each other, a sentiment that will be very conspicuous whenever one speaks of the other. Still, their partnership will require a diplomacy as carefully crafted as any play they've ever run.

Most of the crafting will have to come from Rice. He is the interloper, the man who was polishing Super Bowl rings while Brown was enduring the dreariest stretch in Raiders history. Rice has put up with a lot the past few years, but he didn't pay any Joe Bugel dues.

Rice did, however, hone his performance as a role player, as sage rather than superstar. He didn't perfect the act, as indicated by recent complaints about how he was used in Steve Mariucci's offense. But all in all, Rice became far more gracious as a teammate in the past two years.

He avoided sideline rants after the September 1998 meltdown in Washington, where he lashed out at Mariucci for not setting him up for more receptions. When his last home game as a 49er yielded a record 20-catch day for Owens, Rice seethed internally but put on a brave front. He passed the torch to Owens grudgingly, but he did it without starting a conflagration.

A lot of people believe that Rice's refusal to retire, to go out as a 38- year-old and a 49er, means that his ego rages as vehemently as ever. They underestimate his love of the game, something only other players can appreciate.

That passion quickly can endear him to Brown. Rice, devoted to details, always has been a tenacious blocker. On at least one play last year, Andre Rison released a block too soon, and Brown took a crushing hit from the freed defender. Rice is unlikely to make the same thing happen, and should he spring Brown for extra yardage, the former 49er might be seen as more than a pair of greedy hands.

The mediator in this relationship, head coach Jon Gruden, will be vital. He and Rice just might be soul mates, both so hard-headed that if their skulls banged together, they wouldn't feel a thing. Or, more likely, they'd feel plenty and like it anyway.

"Jon doesn't want to play golf with me because he knows I'd destroy him," Rice said yesterday before he went off for 18 holes with his 49ers coaches and teammates, his last fling in the Old World.