Once again, we'd gotten off to a dubious start.
During last year's draft, you might recall, Trent Baalke theatrically narrowed his board to the select few prospects who'd earned "gold stars"—who'd been able to meet his restrictive criteria. "Not just the physical traits," he emphasized, "but more importantly the intangibles. Were they football guys? Were they clean guys off the field? Were they going to be family men first?"
And so it was that Baalke opened this year's free-agent frenzy with two particularly notable signings. One was a wide receiver with a virtual mountain of off-field dirt. (Meanwhile, on the field, he plays only when he wants to play.) The other was a corner who denied having sex with a woman who, by all accounts, was unconscious—having such sex, he rightly said, would've been "some sick shit"—yet somehow he'd gotten the woman pregnant. (And somehow, despite having impregnated an unconscious woman, he isn't sitting in prison today.) For these and various other reasons, last year neither played in the league. Yet Baalke quickly snapped 'em up.
What, me worry? Not this year. In Trent I trust.
And things indeed took a turn for the better. We retained Carlos Rogers, who seemed virtually gone, and we signed Mario Manningham, an upgrade over Josh Morgan, whom the Redskins overpaid. True, Ted Ginn was vainly holding out hope that he'd find a team foolish enough to give him a job as a wide receiver; but presumably he'd soon be crawling back home.
Everything seemed to be going as planned. Except for one, peculiar thing.
Alex Smith was still unsigned.
Though I knew that Jim Harbaugh was a certifiable genius, I never dreamed what he'd make of Smith. After six years of cartoonish buffoonery, Smith, at last, emerged. Did he justify the "elite" label that Harbaugh bestowed? No; he didn't carry enough weight. But at least he became a legitimate starter, a good QB who's occasionally great. And that was even before those frantic last-moments against the Saints, in his first-ever playoff start. Occasional greatness has never been greater.
In light of his draft status, it's easy to think of Smith in zero-sum terms. He's either elite or he's simply a bust. But that's unrealistic, as well as unfair. Smith might never be truly great, but there's nothing wrong with steadily good; half the league's coaches would kill for that. And with a real off-season and better weapons? True greatness wouldn't be out of the question.
So, of course, we made him an offer.
Here's the thing, though. This is still a quarterback's league, and until you've got greatness, you hedge your bets. So Baalke's offer was short and cheap: three years, $24 million, a mere $8 million guaranteed. It was way beneath the market for passers in general—Ryan Fitzpatrick got six years and $59 million for virtually nothing—but Baalke knew that it matched the market for Smith himself. Smith's success was deemed leaguewide as a product only of Harbaugh's genius; without Harbaugh, no one would pay big money for Smith.
Yet Smith wanted a stronger commitment. He didn't sign.
And then all hell broke loose.
Make no mistake: Peyton Manning was fraught with risk. Never mind his advanced age; his stats had been steadily dropping for years, even before his creaky neck—now surgically treated on four occasions—cost him all of 2011. It was doubtful that he could still be great; after all, even when he was great, he was just perhaps a touch overrated. Though no one could question his robotic proficiency, he never seemed to exhibit that magic the label of greatness so often demands. That transcendent power to raise one's game when it matters most. We've seen it in Montana, Elway, and Favre. We've even seen it in Manning's brother. But in Manning himself? It just never appeared.
And despite all this, he expected to be paid like the best player alive.
Yet when the news broke that Harbaugh had secretly met with Manning—that we were perhaps the leading contender—the excitement was huge. With our defense and special teams, the addition of even a limited Manning would make us clearly the Super Bowl faves. But there was something else too. Despite Smith's emergence, the endless debate about his ceiling—still unknown, seven years in—was an anvil of doubt, a weight this team was struggling to bear. The Niners know that Smith is good, but they don't know whether he's good enough. Sure, he was good when the O had its training wheels on, and he was mostly good (and sometimes much more) on the rare occasions when those wheels came off. But would he succeed, for a full season, in a big-boy O? The Niners don't know, and for a team that's ready to win, now, that uncertainty is disconcerting.
That's why Baalke and Harbaugh—despite the latter's florid expressions of love and support—have never stopped looking for someone better, someone who could moot the debate. It's why, last year, they went after Hasselbeck. And it's why, this year, they went after Manning.
Hasselbeck chose Tennessee. Manning chose Denver. And the Niners, once more, had to settle for Smith, and the doubt they just can't seem to escape.
When Smith re-signed—Baalke had added a guaranteed million, just so Smith could save some face—he indicated no hard feelings. (And none, of course, were warranted; the Niners had no obligation to offer more than Smith's market rate, and they had every right to go after Manning, especially after Smith wouldn't sign.) But certainly he'd gotten the message. Though his emergence was astonishing, it wasn't enough. To earn a serious commitment, in years or dollars, he'll have to take it up a notch. And if he can't, the search for his replacement will start yet again. And this time, dammit, the search will succeed.
Put another way, the message was this. Welcome back, Alex. You deserve this chance, to expand your redemption. If you do—and we hope you do—we'll give you the commitment you seek.
But if you don't, you will be gone.
Welcome back, Alex. Now get to work.
