DURING THE ANNUAL NFL league meetings in the spring of 2022, Kyle Shanahan ran into Sean McVay. It was the first time the two men -- buddies, competitors, and former co-workers, two people who have set out on a journey to master their craft -- had talked since McVay won Super Bowl LVI. McVay, of course, didn't just win a championship. He won it partly at Shanahan's expense, by undoing a 10-point fourth-quarter deficit against the San Francisco 49ers in the NFC Championship Game.
There was a little bit of casual awkwardness, not only because McVay had accomplished what has eluded Shanahan, not only because the 49ers had dropped what could have been a potential game-ending interception against the Los Angeles Rams, but because, well, it was Kyle.
He has no poker face. He sometimes tries to hide feelings -- rage, pain, disdain, contempt -- but he can't fake it for long.
Which version of Shanahan would McVay get? Petulant? Gracious? Edgy? Endearing?
Sure enough, Shanahan was still raw. At first, he said he didn't watch the Super Bowl. That he couldn't watch it. Then he fessed up that he watched a half. "That was f---ing hard to watch you guys win."
The two chatted for a bit, a rare moment when they don't want to slay each other. "He is a special coach," McVay says. "And he knows how much I respect the way he does it."
It was another reminder not only of what Shanahan hasn't accomplished, but that time is passing. He and his peers from last decade's Washington teams are no longer precocious, no longer dealing with a blank canvas, no longer just getting started. Legacies are beginning to harden. Another year had passed with Kyle Shanahan -- the alpha of his dad's tree, one of the NFL's premier artists, the one with the football upbringing that left no options except great -- alone with all the dark places he would go, searching for answers.
FOR A MOMENT, let's assume that Super Bowl LVIII won't be a blowout. Assume that it's close. The entire game for Kyle Shanahan, the entire season -- maybe his adult life -- is a prelude to the final moments. Late in the fourth quarter, the camera will pan to Shanahan, calling plays under a flat brim pulled low, in a situation he's been in before and has famously failed to close, and all of us will wonder: What will be different this time?
Shanahan is 44 years old now, with salt in his beard. By now, he's a fixed asset. We know that he can draw up a jazzy offense, regardless of personnel. We know he can hire well and diverse; in fact, owners have complained to the league office about the sheer number of compensatory picks the 49ers have received for serving as a pipeline for coaches and executives of color. But there's always been something missing from his teams. A kind of toughness. Not the move-the-pile-forward kind. The kind that comes from having been broken. From the fear of unreached potential. For all his acumen and confidence and expertise, Shanahan has been gashed and has bled on the biggest stages: 28-3; blown 10-point fourth-quarter leads against the Kansas City Chiefs in Super Bowl LIV and the Rams in the 2021 NFC Championship Game; losing Brock Purdy with 53 minutes left in last season's conference title game.
And yet, he's found a way back.
When the camera closes on him with a championship on the line, that in itself might matter as much as anything.
YOU HEAR A lot about the Shanahan Offense. Nearly half the league runs some version of it, this potent expression of power and space and math. So many teams try to mine and steal from Shanahan's brain that it's one of the reasons the 49ers picked Trey Lance in 2021, figuring that a dual-threat quarterback could help them stay a few steps ahead of the league. At this year's Senior Bowl, colleagues of 49ers general manager John Lynch congratulated him on reaching another Super Bowl -- and asked him about Shanahan, hoping he might spill a secret. The Shanahan Offense is so mysterious that we sometimes don't know which Shanahan is responsible for it: Kyle or his father, Mike? After all, Kyle entered the league with more inherent football knowledge than anyone since Bill Belichick in 1975. He's led a privileged life and has rewarded blessings with hard work.
Last year I spent an afternoon with Mike Shanahan at his Denver steakhouse, where upon entrance you are greeted by his three Lombardi Trophies (two as coach of the Broncos, one as OC for the 49ers). Mike sees a toughness in his son that comes from entering an arena with expectations of greatness, without the blessing of flying under the radar. Early in his time at suburban Denver's Cherry Creek High, Kyle was a quarterback. That alone is revealing: that the son of Mike Shanahan would not only play football but choose the one position with every eye on him. He wanted it all, even as a teenager. The problem was ability. Kyle took pride in his throwing mechanics, but his dad reached a ruthless conclusion: "You're not a natural thrower."
Mike suggested that his son move to receiver, where his lankiness could be an asset. Kyle switched positions, but he never lost the quarterback mentality, the blind confidence to go at it alone. He would run routes against Broncos defensive backs, learning tricks and trying to be great. A coach from Duke stopped by the Broncos facility and saw him and asked Mike, who's that? "So that's why he got a scholarship to Duke," Mike says.
But here's the thing: There is no Shanahan Offense. It would be so much easier if there were, if it was as simple as a playbook. Fact is, it's all Kyle. The form it takes is whatever he conjures up on a weekly basis, his ingenuity, energy and vision, the way mercurial conductors hear music a certain way in their heads and have to find a way to translate the sound so others can appreciate it.
Shanahan's creative process can be dark and volatile. His former assistants have trauma-bonded over having to endure it, even if he does make them leave the office on Friday afternoons, unlike many coaches, so they can spend time with family. One leaves for a better job elsewhere; another steps up, eager to learn, eager for the career opportunity waiting on the other side. If you work for Shanahan you accept and consent that there's a discrepancy in stature between himself and everyone else. He is, after all, not just a Shanahan in football. He's also not just an offensive coach. He's a total head coach, versed in defense and special teams. That was intentional. When Kyle decided to enter this insane profession, Mike told him two things. Well, more than two. But two stood out. One was that Kyle needed to work with someone other than his dad, proving himself without the nepotism stigma, and so Kyle went to Jon Gruden's Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Two was that he needed to know the entire game if he wanted to be a good head coach.
"The job of the head coach is to look at the personnel that you do have and evaluate what gives you the best chance to win, on offense and defense," Mike says. "He knew that for him to be a great head coach he was going to have to understand how to coach every position on the football team."
When 49ers CEO Jed York hired Shanahan and Lynch in 2017, the word on Kyle was that he was brilliant and brittle and had little patience for anyone or anything unrelated to winning football games. Early in their tenure, the two leaders held an all-hands meeting for 49ers employees. Shanahan had already made clear that he was all-ball by sending a companywide email to staff explaining that if he failed to acknowledge someone in the hallway to not take it personally; he gets lost in his own head. Part of Lynch's job was to be a steward for the team, to be the front-facing voice for aspects that Shanahan wanted no part of. This type of meeting was exactly what Shanahan saw as a waste of time.
"Man, this is awkward," he told Lynch. "You take this one."
"No," Lynch said. "They need to hear from you."
"This isn't my element," Shanahan said. "My element is talking to the guys with film."
"So bring film."
Shanahan brought film, and he pulled it off. He has that ability, to be cocky yet endearing. But the building had no idea how much he would change during the season. Shanahan tends to start the week before a game in a pessimistic place, out of ideas, whining and venting. "Until Friday it can be miserable," Lynch says. Assistant coaches are "getting their asses chewed." Nobody is safe. Shanahan himself says that he's "kind of OCD" about game-planning. "Because I torture myself like that," he says, "I feel like I should torture these guys, too." Lynch is usually the nuclear reactor for Kyle's moods. His job is already unique, relative to other general managers and executives. He doesn't just help pick talent. He isn't just one of Shanahan's best friends; a few years ago at a packed hotel bar at the league meetings in Orlando, Shanahan and Lynch howled "You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin" to their wives, "Top Gun" style. Lynch also has to "to pick people up," he says, after Shanahan has unloaded on them.
But by Friday, Shanahan has found a way to believe. A way forward. "The opponent's offense or defense seems insurmountable, until he finds something," York says. On Friday afternoons Shanahan holds the one meeting that has become Lynch's favorite. He gathers the offense to go over the game plan, mostly focusing on run plays. It's here where Shanahan gives a staggering glimpse into his preparation, how he has redefined the art of playcalling. Players watch him up there, explaining how the 49ers will not only win but knock out the opponent. His game plans begin with a simple premise: Most run and pass plays look the same. From there, he toys. He moves players around: Deebo Samuel to running back or Christian McCaffrey to receiver. All plays are set up sequentially, intended to build upon one another, stretching the defense horizontally, each a prelude to something else, something that not only makes players believe but excites them. "It makes sense," Lynch says.
Those Friday meetings were so insightful, so inspiring, that Lynch suggested that Shanahan hold similar ones for the defense. So he started doing that on Saturdays. Then game day rolls around, and few teams have found answers for San Francisco -- at least until the highest-leverage moments. Shanahan has orchestrated a strange career, given that he is one of the most feared minds in the game and didn't have a winning career record until November 2022. An underappreciated glimpse of Shanahan's coaching took place in the 2019 playoffs, the last time the 49ers reached the Super Bowl.
In the age of passing, when the mantra is that you throw the ball in the first half to get a lead and run in the second to keep it, the 49ers dominated the Vikings and Packers almost exclusively with the running game. The 49ers ran on 42 of 51 plays against Aaron Rodgers and the Packers in the NFC Championship Game. It was pure Shanahan, executing something nobody else would have the nerve to try, much less the chops to pull off. And it worked brilliantly, until the 49ers had to close out the Chiefs in the Super Bowl. Andy Reid, who had faced questions for two decades about whether he could be his best when it mattered most, dialed up calls that opened space for receivers, and Patrick Mahomes hit them, changing lives and legacies and perceptions. Shanahan, meanwhile, also dialed up calls that opened space for receivers, and Jimmy Garoppolo missed them. Four years later, Reid's Chiefs are on the verge of a dynasty. Shanahan's 49ers have all they can ask for: another chance.
IT'S NOT FAIR, of course. Shanahan has never had a Mahomes. You think his offenses are hot now? Imagine what he'd do with someone like him, if he was now in his seventh season with the same guy, same scheme, speaking a language of two. It's partly Shanahan's own fault. The 49ers drafted Stanford defensive end Solomon Thomas rather than Mahomes in 2017. They made Garoppolo the league's highest-paid player in 2018. Shanahan passed on Tom Brady after the 2019 season. In 2020, Shanahan soured on Garoppolo and told the staff he thought he could win a Super Bowl with Nick Mullens. And in 2021, after missing out on the Matthew Stafford sweepstakes and unable to trade for Rodgers, Shanahan -- seared with memories of his dad competing with good quarterbacks but not winning a Super Bowl without John Elway -- traded three first-round picks and a third to move up nine draft slots, picking Lance. It's proved to be one of the worst trades in sports history.
But Shanahan survived it, not only because of his talent and ethic, and not only because of the way he fosters unity -- every fall before the first game he throws a party at his house for the entire team; this year 2 Chainz played -- but because of something others around the league weren't convinced that he possessed: resolve. Go back to Oct. 3, 2022, 49ers against the defending champion Rams. The 49ers were not only 1-2, but they were a bad 1-2, not because of losing games but because of the direction of the franchise. Lance had broken his ankle in the second game of the season, ending any hope that he would develop quickly. Shanahan was back with Garoppolo, a relationship forged out of necessity, not trust. Shanahan was in a bad place, his mood so dark it was atmospheric in the building. His dad's message to him was clear: "It's really your attitude as a head coach. You have to be positive. You've gotta lead. They're looking for a leader."
The 49ers dismantled the Rams and won 13 of their next 15 games. When Garoppolo went down in December, the 49ers had built the type of team that could withstand it. Purdy, of course, stepped into the job with the intent of never relinquishing it. On the Saturday night before a 2022 game, Purdy wanted to talk to Shanahan. Purdy had been on the team long enough to see how mental mistakes from quarterbacks angered the head coach. He wanted to apologize for missing a few assignments during the game.
"I've never been more comfortable with a rookie quarterback," Shanahan told him.
Shanahan had gotten lucky, and he knew what to do with that luck. The 49ers blew out the Seahawks and bested the Cowboys in the playoffs, and they entered the NFC Championship Game against the Eagles believing that they'd win. It was a different Shanahan team and a different Shanahan, tougher and more weathered. And then Eagles linebacker Haason Reddick hit Purdy's elbow with seven minutes left in the first quarter, tearing the quarterback's ulnar collateral ligament. The game was over with almost three hours to go. What followed was a different kind of devastation, unfolding slow and suspenseless, dragging on like a preseason game. After the game, Shanahan teared up when he addressed the team, the pain of not only inevitability thwarted but of not having a chance to show how good he and his team could be.
LAST WEEK, BEFORE the 49ers left for Las Vegas, Shanahan asked Steve Young to speak to the team. Young, of course, endured years of anxiety and rage and scars -- years of plateauing at the highest level, like Shanahan -- before leading the 49ers to a championship. Shanahan showed the team highlights of Young's Hall of Fame career, then turned over the room to him. Young told a story about struggling to find his place after being traded to the 49ers, who were loaded with future Hall of Famers. He felt alone. He was alone. Then one day Ronnie Lott grabbed him by the jersey and looked him in the eye and told him, "I got your back." It was the most important exchange during Young's 49ers career, and he saw parallels with the current iteration of the team, fostered from two playoff comebacks against the Packers and Lions, when the team didn't play its best but had had each other's backs.
Shanahan is now where Young was in the early '90s, having accomplished everything except what matters most. He talks about scars more often from behind the lectern, acknowledging them without explanation. But Shanahan has also referenced something else: that he has a team that figures it out, regardless of situation and circumstance. It wasn't always that way: Prior to their current postseason run, Shanahan's 49ers teams were 0-30 when trailing by seven or more points in the fourth quarter. It was not only a startling statistic with a big sample size, it was one that seemed to reveal something essential about Shanahan. What was it about his teams -- about him -- that lacked the fortitude to win from behind? After the Packers playoff game that statistic is 1-30; the comeback against Detroit all done in the third quarter, adding even more confidence. Shanahan has started talking about something else, not scars or slights, but how a game like that "hardens" a team and "prepares you for any situation," fully aware of what remains with one situation left to go.
JOE MONTANA WAS in the York family suite for the NFC Championship Game. When the 49ers trailed Detroit 24-7 at halftime, it was tense and dispirited. Lynch left his suite and went to the locker room, which he never had done, just wanting to be closer to the team. The Yorks had given Montana a special game ball for being an honorary captain, and then everyone looked at Joe to say something. Montana is not only accustomed to everyone looking at him at in tense situations, but he's accustomed to thriving in them. What would Montana say? He decided to reference two games, neither of which were among his four Super Bowl wins: The Cotton Bowl in 1979 and The Catch in the 1982 NFC Championship Game, the two comebacks that etched his legend.
"Two of my worst games," he said.
People laughed, but Montana wasn't trying to be funny. He was trying to explain something bigger than all of them. He reminded everyone that most people don't remember those games that way. They remember them as two of his best performances, prime examples of why he retired as the greatest ever. He had a gift: He knew how to believe. He knew how to engineer those remarkable moments in sports when we watch a team and a coach and a quarterback transform in real time, shedding both myth and truth, and entering a new realm. Montana told the room that the NFC Championship Game wasn't over, that sometimes the worst games end up with the best finishes.
"That's what Brock is gonna do today," Montana said.
Nobody knew it at the time, but down in the 49ers' locker room, Shanahan was saying something similar, speaking in the language of grit and resilience. That was new. Usually 49ers halftimes are more intellectual: adjustments and strategy, appealing to the mind more than the heart. This time, Shanahan wasn't standing before his players talking design or scheme. He was straight Lombardi: "It's only 17 points. We're not going out like this." Coaches say stuff like that all the time, of course. But the 49ers bought it. They could see the earnestness in his eyes, the belief, something visceral, not only because Shanahan believed and not only because he has no poker face. He wanted this, and maybe for the first time, he hoped the wanting was enough.