The structure resonates permanence. Wide pillars and stonework cover the facade of the 15,000-square-foot house. A foundation sunk deep into the earth makes room for a seven-car garage, a gymnasium, a game room and a wine cellar.
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Last week workers planted tiny jasmine along the long driveway, plants that will one day twist and bloom over the stucco walls. Carpenters screwed in doorknobs that will grow smooth under a procession of hands. They hung mirrors that will reflect the faces of future generations.
Jerry Rice’s palatial house is a few details away from completion. Work began in June 1998, as Rice was rehabilitating from his second knee operation and was intent on making a glorious return to the 49ers.
Three years later, it is almost complete. In the coming days, Rice will move into the home where he and his wife, Jackie, expect to watch their three children become adults, their grandchildren play. There is an elevator to help them get around the expansive three stories in their old age.
This they expect is their final move. And it comes just as Rice makes the first move of his football career.
Someday soon, as he carefully places trophies on the shelves of his new office, as the meticulous Rice lines up his shoes along the rows and rows of shelves in his enormous closet, the phone will ring. And he will know. He’ll no longer be a 49er.
“I never thought I would leave the 49ers,” Rice said. “Maybe I fell prey. Maybe I was in denial.”
The act once considered sacrilegious could become official. The 49ers can release Rice with a minimum of salary-cap consequences. The team has said that it will accommodate Rice and keep him on the roster until a deal is reached with another team. He declined a million-dollar retirement bonus.
It may be days. It may be weeks. But the delay won’t change the outcome. Rice will be moving on.
But only for football. Not for life.
“This,” he said, “is home.”
Sixteen years ago, few would have predicted that Jerry Lee Rice would have embraced the Bay Area, claimed it as his own, sunk his own foundations down deep. He was a shy country boy from tiny Crawford, Miss., who had never traveled farther than the 770 miles to Washington, D.C.
He was as unpolished as the rough red bricks he used to catch, when his father, the bricklayer, would toss them to him on a job. He was a kid who ran four miles on a dirt road to school every day. His was a town where the city hall, fire department and library were housed in one trailer. He was overwhelmed by the Bay Area, by its pace, its scrutiny.
“You go into a shell and get very protective,” he said. “I was lonesome.”
Rice never felt comfortable until 1990, until he had two Super Bowl rings, a locker full of NFL records and had established himself as the best receiver to ever play the game.
There seemed to be no limitations for Rice in his career. His arrival crowned a golden age for the 49ers. He defined their excellence, during transitions between coaches and quarterbacks.
He set standards for perfection. Many regard him as the greatest football player ever.
But today there are limitations. First his knee betrayed him. He faces the deadly combination of salary cap, age and expendability.
“You hear people say that players have no loyalty to a team,” Rice said. “But now I see why. You have to look out for yourself. Just say it’s a business. Don’t try to hide behind a shield.”