Growing up in a small rural town in Northern California, there were Sundays when we could not even get the 49ers on TV.

Yes, I remember a time when not every NFL game could be easily accessed. And, in those days, the 49ers were less accessible – far less relevant – than most teams.

That changed in 1981.

Everything changed in 1981.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the past while everybody’s best friend, Dwight, courageously dealt with the ravages of a disease he knew would kill him.

I have retraced the steps and wondered, “How much of what we now take for granted would even be possible without Dwight?”

It was the play, of course. But, also, it was imperative that the men who orchestrated the play had to live up to a certain level.

Joe. Dwight. Their first names were all you ever needed to identify them.

Joe was among the biggest sports stars in America, and he had a certain element of mystery associated with him. Dwight was the extrovert. A reporter colleague once described him as “uncommonly handsome.” He was also uncommonly warm and engaging. Joe and Dwight. They were the perfect pairing at the perfect time.

Not long before, the 49ers were laughingstocks of the NFL. The organization underwent a complete image transformation in the time it took Dwight to clamp his fingertips around the football and land safely inbounds.

The effects of that game, that season, were profound.

I was a sports fanatic. My older brothers were the first I can remember who wore replica jerseys that year. One had 16. The other, of course, wore 87.

A young boy from Richfield, a community so small it is difficult to even find on a map, discovered anything is possible. Hold it, the 49ers can win the Super Bowl? Don’t tell me the Giants might actually win a World Series some day. I’m not good enough to play in the majors? Well, maybe I can still experience an inside view of the highest level of sports – and even make a career out of it.

Anything is possible.

Through a little bit of work but mostly happenstance, good luck and surrounding myself with great people, I started covering the 49ers on a full-time, year-round basis as a newspaper reporter in 1995.

Probably the first time I had to approach Dwight, then the 49ers’ de facto general manager, I was apprehensive. Believe me, I felt completely out of place during my first training camp in Rocklin. After all, there was Dwight.

Within no time, he knew my name, gave me his personal number and promised to help me anyway he could. He also told me, “I might not be able to tell you everything, but I will never lie to you.” He never did.

There is no question in my mind that I was able to keep my head above water in a competitive market against some truly outstanding reporters at bigger newspapers because of Dwight. He kept me in the loop. He picked up the phone when I called. He routinely steered me in the right direction. His cooperation with me is the big reason I was somewhat competent as a young reporter.

More than 36 years after he made that play there are new generations still benefitting from what he and his teammates accomplished.

Most of us have traded newspaper subscriptions for web clicks. The origin of the 49ers’ global interest can be traced back to the 1981 season. Any morsel of information about the current 49ers takes on greater significance because of the path this organization has taken and the lives that were changed – directly or indirectly – because of that one play.

Few things gave Dwight as much joy as learning about other people. Several times through the years he mentioned to me that he wished he could get the word out for fans to send in letters about the impact that play, that season, had on their lives.

When he mentioned it again to me earlier this year, I said, “Let’s do it!” Dwight and his wife, Kelly, were getting set to move to Montana. I promised Dwight I would gather the letters and ship them off to his new address. He talked about his desire to publish the letters for a book – one that would help raise money for the Golden Heart Fund, his charity of choice.

The letters poured in. Two weeks before Dwight passed away, I was invited to visit him in Whitefish, Montana. I brought with me the stack of letters I originally promised to mail to him. I could not believe that I would actually have an opportunity to deliver the letters directly to him.

That day, Dwight was not feeling well enough to join us downtown for lunch, as was the original plan. Instead, we were told to grab a bite to eat among ourselves and come to his house in the early afternoon.

Over lunch, I passed out letters to Ronnie Lott, Keena Turner, former 49ers executive and all-around great guy Lal Heneghan and KNBR’s Brian Murphy, who, like me, grew up a fan of the team and bonded with Dwight in his role as a reporter. Each person put aside three or four letters that struck a personal chord.

Dwight was not having a good day when we arrived. He was not able to get out of bed. He had difficulty speaking and breathing. But he worked hard to show the same spirit, smile and warmth for which he will always be remembered. He told stories as best he could for quite a while – as long as he could muster the energy. He put us at ease with his honesty and his sense of humor.

Then, he turned to me and asked if I brought the letters.

Dwight was always the center of attention, the one from whom everyone wanted to hear. But for the next hour or so, he sat up in his bed and listened as we formed a semi-circle around him with our chairs and read letters aloud.

Some of the letters were absolutely hilarious. Dwight laughed, along with everybody in the room. Some were so emotional that whomever read the letter had to pause to regain composure before finishing. Dwight was clearly touched, eyes reddening on more than one occasion. It was powerful. All of the letters came from such a good place.

He heard from long-suffering fans who were rewarded for their devotion. He heard from people who were going through difficult times and experienced life-changing joy. He heard funny anecdotes about what occurred in people’s lives as the play developed. Most of all, he heard how his play enriched families and connected people.

And that, more than anything, is what struck me about watching Dwight go through this terrible ordeal. Eddie DeBartolo created a culture of family with the 49ers. Former 49ers staffers Kirk Reynolds and Fred Formosa were simply amazing in their devotion to Dwight. So many teammates, coaches, executives and friends rallied in support of Dwight. Go ahead and appreciate those men for what they accomplished as a team long ago, but admire them more for the compassion they showed a friend when he needed comfort.

There might be a time later to get into specifics of what occurred that day as we read letters to Dwight. But as a person who helped serve as a conduit to connect Dwight to his fans, and his fans to Dwight, I can tell you that he heard your letters. And the impact each of you had in bringing him joy and contentment during the final days of his life was significant. You made a difference, I can promise you that.

Here’s one story I feel appropriate in sharing:

In 1998, a young reporter traveled to Vancouver, B.C., for a 49ers’ preseason game. At a reception held at the Sheraton Hotel two nights before the game, he was looking for a table at which to sit. The reporter saw Dwight and immediately gravitated toward him.

That same evening, a young lady attended the function with a friend of hers who worked for the 49ers. The young lady said to her friend, “Oh, my! There’s Dwight.” The friend said, “I know him. He’s a great guy. Do you want to sit there?”

The reporter and the young lady sat next to each other – brought together at that exact time and place because of Dwight. After all, there was no question, Dwight’s table was going to be the fun table.

How much of what we now take for granted would even be possible without Dwight?

The reporter and the young lady were married two years later. They now have two wonderful daughters.

Thank you, Dwight.