Jerry Rice waves to the crowd while being carried by teammates after the 49ers' 17-0 win over Chicago.

Or eighty things.

It was about a pair of hands. And a towel. And two churning legs. And a slant pattern. And a bounce off a safety. And about a pair of eyes, coveting the end zone like it was eternal salvation.

And about 74 other reasons to worship at the Shrine of Jerry.

Playoff implications? Go stuff your spreadsheet where the sun don't shine, pal. Salary cap talk? I got your cap overrun right here, chief.

Sunday was a sun-splashed day at Candlestick Park, and if you dared to call it 3Com Park, you were sent rowing on the nearest canoe to the East Bay. Enjoy the ride, chump.

Because the only thing that flowed more freely than the emotions for Jerry Lee Rice were the tears that sprung from the Mississippian's eyes from kickoff to final gun (excepting, of course, for the hilarious interlude of Rice ripping a sideline radio reporter with whom he had a beef, proving that feet of clay can sometimes get in the way of a bronzing.)

But I've never seen a better football player. Not Emmitt Smith. Not Bruce Smith. Not Deion Sanders. Not Reggie White.

OK. I never saw Jim Brown. Or Bob Lilly.

But I saw Jerry Rice. Lots of times. In practice, always, always, always going. In a locker room, sometimes snapping, sometimes delving into low behavior, sometimes speaking nobly. In games, always, always, always making a difference -- until Father Time motioned for a T.O., literally and figuratively.

Bottom line: Best I ever saw.

Not always the nicest guy. Not always the most polite. Not always the biggest jerk, either. He was a guy. A very intense guy. A very proud man. A guy who believed that the ball in his hands was the best place for a ball to be and -- hell, man, you gonna argue?

I heard the 49ers actually wanted to bring out a white horse for Jerry to ride off on Sunday, as he had metaphorically suggested earlier in the week. Saner heads prevailed. He went out the right way: Watching a younger, better player steal his thunder, doing what he could his own way, which was seven catches for 76 yards at the age of 38, two knee surgeries in the hole.

Rice then took laps around the 'Stick, bathing in the fans' adulation. He spoke on a makeshift stand at midfield, breaking down emotionally, mirroring his body's deterioration. And he was then carried off the field on his teammates' shoulders to the strains of Beethoven's "Ode to Joy."

You wanna beat it?

I don't. I just want to remember it for a long, long time.

With that, this week's List of Five is dedicated to No. 80, since the number five, multiplied by Joe Montana's No. 16 (and don't ever kid yourself, life was never better for Jerry than when Joe was heaving it) equals, well, 80!:

1. Eddie George: Titans Running Back, or Yeti?
If Jerry Rice could have picked one performance that he dug the most from Week 16 (save for Terrell Owens' 20 -- 20! -- catches, which J.R. himself would have, in all likelihood, preferred for himself), it would have been Tennessee's No. 27 slashing through the snow in Cleveland like the ridiculous stud he is.

And sleeveless, too!

Hey, if I had to fetch the paper from the driveway in weather like that, I'd be toast four paces in: slip, fall, neck brace for the month of January -- all while wearing two pairs of thermals and a T-neck. Eddie George gained 176 freaking yards in it. Sleeveless!

In an increasingly faceless NFL, where the New York Giants (!) stand to win home-field advantage in one conference, Tennessee has a Super look with its Super stud. Who, by the way, must be spending all of Tuesday's off-day in a hot tub, teeth chattering out Morse code.

2. Speaking of the Giants ...
Holy Joe Pisarcik. The Giants' win over Dallas on Sunday was quite possibly -- no, screw quite possibly, it was the worst football I've seen all year. These guys are front-runners for NFC home-field advantage?

For the love of Gene Upshaw, man, abolish free agency and the cap. If this is the nonsense we, the self-respecting (sort of, on a good day) and La-Z-Boy occupying football fan, to put up with, I say a pox on it all. Bring back the free-spending dynasties of yore! Bring back Eddie D.! Bring back Art Rooney!

Now, I just have to make sure Jim Fassel doesn't read this. He's mean, you know.

3. Are the Detroit Lions Really Just One Win from the Playoffs?
Man. Think of the spiked egg nog that is flowing at Gary Moeller's house ... right now! And while you're at it, name five Lions. Not counting Barry Sanders. You're on the clock.

4. By the Way, that Monday Nighter Was, Like, the Best Game I've Ever Seen.
Was I just in a good mood? Was I just that fired up on the Bucs? Am I just that huge of a Dennis Miller fan? Granted, I was a bit in my cups while watching, but that fourth quarter ... that's entertainment! The Dunn-to-King lateral was one of the great plays of the year. Warren Sapp is always worth rooting for. So is Tony Dungy.

And, in a not-so-subtle sidelight, I noticed Georgia Frontiere has surrendered the ruse and gone tastefully grey. About time, woman. You and Wayne Newton sported follicle colors not found on this Earth, my dear. Way to gracefully acknowledge life's two-minute warning.

5. Terrell Owens' 20 catches.
I heard the phrase "passing the torch" so much, I thought I'd fallen asleep and dreamt that Cheech and Chong were doing postgame commentary.

With that, a look at our (sniff, sniff, sob) final week: