Lowell Cohn: The one and only Eddie DeBartolo gets the spotlight Sunday

The 49ers will honor Eddie at halftime of the Patriots game.

I use Eddie’s first name only because you and I require nothing else to identify him. He is Eddie. Makes us feel like we know him, have known him a long time.

And we have. Seen him grow from a young 49ers owner to a great 49ers owner - I have never covered an owner the players loved like him.

And we’ve seen him grow into a respected, revered elder statesman. Now that he’s in the Hall of Fame, the Niners will give him a ceremony.

Eddie.

Allow me to tell a few Eddie stories, ones you don’t know. When Bill Walsh died in 2007, they held the memorial service - a celebration - at the glorious Memorial Church on the Stanford campus. So many distinguished people spoke. Among them Joe and Steve - on a first-name basis here. Harry Edwards delivered a lovely, impressive talk about Bill.

And then it was Eddie’s turn. He tentatively walked to the microphone. He was shy. He said he felt daunted following directly after Edwards - called him Dr. Edwards. Full of respect.

I felt for Eddie. Edwards is an intellectual, and he had used big words, and he spoke brilliantly, and he has that deep rumbling voice that enthralls. Good luck following all that, Eddie.

And then Eddie started speaking.

Forgive me, Harry and Joe and Steve. You guys were wonderful, but Eddie was the best speaker that day. He spoke from the heart. Spoke simply and directly - declaratively - about his relationship with Bill and what they had built together and what Bill meant to him.

His talk was pure emotion - the best kind of talk. And although Eddie is wealthy and famous, he seemed in awe of the moment in the right way. Humbled by the moment. I felt tears in my eyes. I’m not sure why.

When the whole thing was over, people milled about the Stanford quad. I went over to Eddie. We had known each other many years, and sometimes I had been hard on him. I regret that. We shook hands. I said I liked his speech the best.

Eddie blushed. Seriously, he blushed. “Come on,” he said.

I think he thought I was joking him. I said I meant it. I hope he still doesn’t think I was joking him.

That was the last time I saw Eddie, although we have talked on the phone a few times. He gave me his super-duper, top-secret phone number. And he’s always gracious. That’s the word, “gracious.” Never rushes me. Answers honestly. Seems to honor our old times together.

And now I want to tell one more Eddie story with a little side trip on the way.

In the early 1990s, Bill and his wife Geri bought a house in Woodside. More like a spread in Woodside. Bill was not materialistic. Didn’t want things. He wanted to run a football club. This was his first mansion - I guess it was a mansion.

He invited me over to show me around. He never had anything like this before. He was childlike showing me the guesthouse.

“We have a guesthouse. You and your wife can stay here.” We never did.

Eddie, you know what I’m talking about. I’m sure he gave you the same tour in the same childlike way.

He showed me his vineyard.

“We have a vineyard,” he said, waving his arm at his grapes. Before he took me inside, he showed me the Bufano mosaic near the front door.

“I have a Bufano, Lowell.” The childlike voice.

And then he directed me to the sofa in the living room. He wanted to show me something. And it involved you, Eddie. But you’ll have to wait a minute, OK? I’m going to tell a Bill story and you’ll like it and you’ll know it’s pure Bill. Then I’ll get back to you.

Years after Bill first showed me his house, in fact six weeks before he died, he invited Ira Miller and me to that house for lunch. Ira and I drove to Woodside, drove through the gate and parked the car. We rang the bell. No answer. We turned around and now the gate was locked. Trapped. We figured the gardener had finished his work and locked up before leaving.

Ira phoned Bill at his Stanford office. “Bill, it’s Ira.”

I heard Bill’s groan come through the phone. He had forgotten about the lunch.

Eddie, how many times did Bill forget things? He would be in his own world thinking about whatever and he would lose track. Bill told Ira he’d be right over. Ira said good because we were locked in.

Bill showed up and laughed an embarrassed laugh, and we went into the backyard for lunch. Jack Cakebread had sent me several of his great chardonnays to give Bill, and I brought three sandwiches. As I unwrapped them, Bill said, “Can I have the mortadella?”

The last thing I ever gave Bill was the mortadella sandwich, Eddie.

OK, that’s the end of the flash forward. I’m getting back to you. I hope you think that Bill story was worth the delay.

Years earlier when Bill first bought the Woodside place, he was giving me the grand tour. As I mentioned earlier, we had arrived at the sofa in the living room. Bill pointed to something above the sofa, something in the place of honor. It was an oil painting.

Eddie, I don’t remember what it looked like. I don’t have a good visual memory. But I remember thinking it was beautiful.

“Eddie gave us that,” Bill said.

His voice was emotional and he didn’t speak for a while. I imagined him going over the years of your relationship in his mind. The glory - what glory! - and some of the fallings-out you had, and the makings-up. And how those made your bond even stronger.

“You know what?” Bill said. “Eddie is a warm man with a generous soul.”

That was the very definition of you, Eddie.

“You’re right,” I said. “Eddie is a warm man with a generous soul.”

Congratulations on your big day, Eddie.

For more on the world of sports in general and the Bay Area in particular, go to the Cohn Zohn at cohn.blogs.pressdemocrat.com. You can reach Staff Columnist Lowell Cohn at lowell.cohn@pressdemocrat.com.