Screams echoed across Bernal Heights Park in San Francisco, interrupting an otherwise peaceful morning back in April. “Coyote!”
Distance made this young man difficult to peg. Diminutive. Dressed like a farmer. Surrounded by TV cameras.
Coyote!
This didn’t surprise Sara Donchey, a news anchor at KPIX, who lived nearby and often walked her dog, a Doberman rescue, at that park. Coyotes also roamed there frequently. She saw or heard them, howling late into the night at fire trucks or ambulances speeding by, sirens blaring. She still walked her Doberman without affixing leashes. These coyotes weren’t attackers. And, scary as they sounded, her Pinscher towered over them.
Coyote!
She stared at this man, the famous agronomist or rancher or whatever. Noticed he didn’t panic. Seemed almost shy. His voice did surprise her. It boomed, as if detached from that puny body and attached to a powerful amplifier.
Yo! Coyote!
Was he … pointing? At? Maybe? Her?
Donchey turned around. And when she turned, she saw not just a coyote but a “massive” one. Bigger than any she had seen before. “This guy had been eating well for a long time,” she told Sports Illustrated months later.
She leashed the Pinscher and hurried backward, Doberman in tow. Security guards charged toward them, up a hill.
Story gets stranger. Turns out, this man, the farmer whose voice echoed, wasn’t a farmer at all. He had partnered with John Deere that spring. The company made him its first Chief Tractor Officer, creating a promotional position that had not previously existed. Their partnership meant he would create content and influence, thus shining a brighter spotlight on hot topics such as farming and construction. He would do both with the same methodical anti-flair that powered unexpected success at his actual job, the one few expected he would have.
Donchey cannot recall the precise distance between coyote and self/Doberman. Really close covers it. Maybe 20 feet away. Typically, when coyotes howl, they emit a hissing sound. This coyote didn’t hiss. Didn’t move. Eventually, confrontation avoided, off it went.
Hadn’t a friend who also used that park mentioned a commercial would be filmed there? Didn’t the spot feature football players? San Francisco … diminutive … famous enough to become a Chief Tractor Officer.
Of course. Wonderboy quarterback. Statistics that twinkle. Career that gleams, mostly, three seasons in. Noodle Boy body. Might do tax returns in his spare time.
Brock Purdy!
As with all elements that form the dilemma regarding his football future in San Francisco, even the coyote rescue would be twisted and reframed in subsequent months. Purdy had exaggerated the tale. Which wasn’t true. Purdy had saved Donchey’s life. Which also wasn’t true.
That’s the Brock Purdy Dilemma, or BPD, where extreme takes drown out nuance, discouraging more thoughtful debates, especially around the contract extension he’s due this spring. The actual coyote-story takeaway was far simpler. “I saved Brock Purdy from three days of having to answer questions about football,” Donchey says.
(For the record: Pay him, she says.)
Depending on the time of day, the alignment of the moon, groundhogs, Facebook, dudes at the office coffee machine, lucky socks, Uber Eats delivery drivers and an uncle who memorized every bullet point in San Francisco 49ers lore, Purdy is viewed as … one of the NFL’s best quarterbacks.
Depending on those same factors, minus the uncle and the groundhogs, but adding the temperature in Bismarck and the average Oregonian’s wherewithal to remember pi through eight digits, Purdy is viewed as … the worst quarterback ever to don shoulder pads.
Why do we feel this way?
Care so much?
Argue about caring?
Twist facts, logic, reason?
Stand up for someone we’ve never met?
Shoot down objective, quantifiable success?
To find out, Sports Illustrated made a terrible decision this fall. The plan: embark on a season-long analysis of Purdy. The process: interviews, film study, research and more than one failed attempt to coax the quarterback into weighing in. Can’t blame him, given both the season (bad) and the dilemma (complicated before it started; growing more so weekly). The goal: to understand the BPD and separate fact from fiction, layering nuance onto poorly established narratives.
Cruise by Purdy’s page on Wikipedia and notice the staggering tally of anonymous editors … fighting … day after day … to craft their version of the BPD.
Supporter: Purdy plays best when stakes elevate.
Skeptic: But what about this season?
Supporter: Won more, amid dire circumstances, than most anybody else would have!
Skeptic: Wins aren’t a quarterback stat!
Purdy just keeps playing, evolving, dividing. Only now, with that extension looming, BPD stakes elevate higher and higher, higher than ever before. The Niners will pay Purdy nine figures, in the $300 million neighborhood. Or they will not pay him, at all, after next season, when he hits free agency.
This marks a lifelong duality for Purdy. It says as much about us, a divided nation of football-obsessed nonexperts who think we understand what happens every Sunday but do not, not really, not the way people in football understand it. Which doesn’t stop anybody from howling like the coyotes roaming Bernal Park.
It’s best to lay out the BPD in four steps. Step 1: Doubt. Step 2: Purdy excels; overcomes this doubt, and forces shifts in perception, along with belief in what we see but our eyes don’t trust. 3: We set new expectations. 4: Paradigms change, rotating the BPD back to Step 1.
Some believe Purdy deserves a my-own-mint-level extension. Others believe he’s not worth the mints that Olive Garden servers place atop each check. It goes and goes, this hamster wheel born from Skip Bayless’s mouth, disaster and euphoria, First Take and worst takes and all the takes. Everything swirls without end.
Hasn’t he done enough already? Purdy might project as the weakest entrant in an accounting firm’s annual arm wrestling contest. He still starred for a college program that’s Division I but not major; was still selected, famously, with the final pick in the 2022 NFL draft; still started for a playoff team; became a franchise quarterback; made a Super Bowl; elevated a proud franchise; lost a Super Bowl; all while inspiring hope and … doubt.
Purdy-related perception began in conflict. Whether in youth football, high school, college or the NFL, doubt always threatened to envelop him. And, yet, Purdy always convinced some who mattered to believe in him.
The pattern started in youth football, near his hometown of Queen Creek, Ariz. Age: 11. League: San Tan. Team: Special Forces. BPD: present, even then.
In previous interviews, coaches from those teams framed Purdy’s initial position—right tackle!—in simple terms. They could only start one quarterback. They made him their backup.
Well, yeah, says Robbie Bond, Purdy’s youth teammate for two seasons, including that one. Young Purdy struck Bond as smaller, smart, nice kid.
“Sadly, our coaches didn’t recognize his potential. He wasn’t as tall as the quarterback who started over him. [The starter] was essentially a wide receiver they made into a quarterback.”Robbie Bond, Purdy’s youth teammate
“Sadly, our coaches didn’t recognize his potential,” Bond says. “He wasn’t as tall as the quarterback who started over him. [The starter] was essentially a wide receiver they made into a quarterback.”
Bond’s father, who coached a younger Special Forces team, told his son he advocated for swapping in Purdy. “He always said [Brock] was uncanny,” Robbie says. “Like he always knew where everybody was and everyone’s presence in the pocket. He could read the field really well.”
That team reached the league championship anyway, where a San Tan power that had blown out the Special Forces earlier that season awaited. At halftime, down 21, coaches finally subbed in Purdy. “Made a comeback,” Robbie says. “Lost by a touchdown. He completely changed the game.”
No one ever doubted Purdy’s abilities again.
Said no one, ever, from then to now.
Career motto: Delivering amid doubt.
The pattern held. At Perry High, Purdy didn’t make the varsity his freshman year. He split time as a sophomore. After coaches finally made him the starter, Purdy led Perry to back-to-back state championship appearances. Perry lost both games.
He landed a scholarship to Iowa State but didn’t start his first game. He still played in all four seasons, starting 48 games, throwing for 12,170 yards and 81 touchdowns, while fashioning his own month, October. Still, he peaked in his sophomore campaign and went with the final-answer pick to San Francisco in the 2022 draft.
Purdy projected as a developmental type, a ceiling in the neighborhood of career backup. Thus, Purdy became Mr. Irrelevant.
Even then, he had experience. Tools. Talents. Elite brain.
In San Francisco, Purdy began his NFL career as the 49ers’ third-string quarterback. He lived with roommates, a pair of Niners teammates. When they dressed up as Dr. Seuss characters for a team Halloween party, he still hadn’t played a snap. He would play, after injuries shelved both quarterbacks in front of him. He would win his first eight starts, vaulting San Francisco into the conference championship game, where it lost, largely because he tore the UCL in his throwing arm and hardly played against the Philadelphia Eagles.
All doubt ended there, right? Wrong!
Actual football experts noticed what everyone should have seen. Purdy commanded huddles. Controlled presnap machinations with ease. Played with a distinct, favorable rhythm. Manipulated defense. Threw a catchable ball. Never strayed far from trademark traits: efficient, methodical, calm.
“He’s just one of those guys,” says Kurt Warner, NFL legend; Purdy, essentially, before Purdy. “They’re good in college. But we’re seeing better versions in the NFL.”
This arc, Warner explains, is not without precedent. It’s still rare.
Exceptions typically bloom late, for a variety of reasons, from poor system fits to bodies that don’t scream prototypical quarterback.
Drew Brees praised him. So did Deion Sanders, Joe Montana, Steve Young, Jerry Rice—a Mt. Rushmore of endorsements from 49ers icons. Purdy finished third in offensive rookie of the year voting. Became a captain.
His personal body coach, part physical therapist, part trainer, Tom Gormely, soon reached the conclusion that statistics and film study, and analytics all pointed toward: “Brock might be a game-changer.”
He still endured so many blizzards of criticism that supporters nicknamed a legion of critics that had grown rather than shrunk. The Brock Purdy Hate Train formed an anti-bandwagon. No matter how well Purdy played, or for how long, members always had explanations ready to minimize his impact.
First, they chose the tiredest trope in professional football. Purdy won because of everyone else around him.
Truth is, Purdy did have elite teammates. First-team All Pros such as George Kittle, Christian McCaffrey, Deebo Samuel and Trent Williams. He did play for an elite coach in Kyle Shanahan, one of football’s most innovative and creative offensive minds.
“Surrounded by talent” boxed Purdy into another false construct. That’s the point of shaping an explosive offense. No team attempts to build one with mediocre blockers and skill-position stars signed at the nearest Circle K.
Warner begins listing great quarterbacks and their equally great, if not even greater, offensive teammates. Joe Montana … (long list) … Steve Young … (long list) … Tom Brady … (long list). “I can’t name a guy that’s great who was surrounded by ‘average’ talent his entire career,” Warner says. “There isn’t any. Because it just doesn’t happen that way.”
The problem: brains. They’re magical, intuitive, liars. Notions take hold. Some stick. Others cement. All inform the binary lens typically applied to sports stars. Heroes and villains. Conquerors and underdogs. Brocktober and Mr. Irrelevant. But Purdy straddled and blurred lines intended to easily delineate value in the NFL.
“And blah, blah, blah,” Warner says. “Based on what we’ve seen so far, [Purdy] is the best we’ve seen in that system, with those players, with Kyle Shanahan. Say what you want. Best in that system. Period.”
Purdy delivered more proof in his second season. He recovered in record time from the UCL tear but wasn’t canonized, nor labeled heroic, the product of will, modern science and uncommon grit.
Debate made even the criticism of Purdy more extreme. Consider Ryan Clark, one of the most astute analysts in pro football, who opined that Purdy wasn’t Patrick Mahomes, Josh Allen or Lamar Jackson. Pretty benign take. Accurate, too. But reactions bent toward whoa, as if Clark had assaulted Purdy’s beloved golden retriever.
Look around the NFC, he told SI earlier this season. Which QB would you most want running your offense? Maybe Jared Goff in Detroit. Maybe Jordan Love in Green Bay. Also: Purdy.
Clark watched Purdy elevate during the 2023 season. He ranked first in touchdown percentage (7.0), yards per attempt (9.6) and yards gained per pass completion (13.9). Finished second in completion percentage (69.4). Third in touchdown passes (31). All while setting a new franchise single-season passing yards mark (4,280), finishing fourth in MVP voting and sixth for offensive player of the year.
The cute nature of his origin story, Mr. I, and that magical rookie campaign, squared even less with Purdy’s MVP-caliber play. We saw Purdy, a librarian in shoulder pads. We saw Purdy, engaged in his best Joe Montana impersonation. Purdy never had “that insane physical build, right?” Clark says.
“We’re seeing Brock become that franchise guy,” Clark says. “He took another step toward that [in 2023]. He is now one of the better, top quarterbacks in the NFC. It’s all evolution.”
Consider the trio Clark described, throw in Joe Burrow, and that’s, roughly, the entirety of Tier 1-caliber NFL quarterbacks. Guys who win games regardless of caliber of opposition, matchups or schematic wrinkles. (Burrow spent this season testing that theory.)
The second tier consists of elite quarterbacks who need better construction around them to raise Lombardi Trophies overhead. Think: Jalen Hurts, Jared Goff, Justin Herbert, Jordan Love, Kyler Murray, Jayden Daniels, Matthew Stafford, Sam Darnold, Dak Prescott (when healthy) and … Purdy.
Teams pay them, almost always, absent better or cheaper alternatives, which are rare beyond rare and typically involve good fortune. And no team feels great about the total they’re forking over to a Tier 2 quarterback.
In theory, San Francisco could dump Purdy after next season. The Niners could bargain shop for a Sam Darnold ($10 million this season) or Geno Smith ($25 million). They could rent a veteran, but cost and impact relative to cost both come with a variance tax attached: Baker Mayfield ($33.3 million average), Derek Carr ($37.5 million), Aaron Rodgers (same) or Kirk Cousins ($45 million). They could whiff badly, like the Cleveland Browns did when they traded a king’s ransom and paid Deshaun Watson, on average, $46 million. Or they could pay top dollar for better options that still don’t meet the casual-fan criteria for value relative to contract, which is always skewed by the tally of cash involved. Like Murray ($46.1 million average), Hurts ($51 million), Tua Tagovailoa ($53.1 million, as a fringe Tier 2 QB) and Trevor Lawrence ($55 million, same).
Purdy entered 2024 after an active offseason. He spent weeks in Jacksonville, training with Will Hewlett, his personal throwing coach, and Gormely. Got married. Hosted football camps. The prospects sometimes looked older than him.
Everything was changing. Except the BPD, which seems destined to percolate for every NFL snap Purdy ever plays.
Hewlett pushed a healthy Purdy deeper. They focused on pelvic rotation so Purdy could rotate more into and through each throw. Purdy added mobility in both hips and spine. The combination opened his body slightly as he threw, which forced a better arm slot—more “laid back,” per his coach’s description, because that’s exactly what happens to a throwing arm with additional body rotation added to the motion, creating more of a whip, adding more dynamic elements to Purdy’s fortifying skill set.
By training camp, Hewlett saw passes that zipped from Purdy’s arm with higher velocity and additional spin. Small gains in those related areas meant Purdy could throw harder when he wanted to explore ever-tighter windows or needed extra oomph.
Despite injuries to McCaffrey, Kittle and Samuel; despite losing McCaffrey for the bulk of 2024; Purdy showcased those improvements through the first quarter of the season. Absent more typical targets, Purdy turned Jauan Jennings into Jerry Rice. Leaned on McCaffrey’s backup, Jordan Mason. Limited mistakes. Made throws most NFL quarterbacks can’t make.
Purdy, Gormerly says, can speed to his fourth target on a given progression in roughly 1.5 seconds. “That’s his superpower,” the coach says. “How quickly he processes the game.”
Hadn’t his first 25 NFL starts already proven that? Since the AFL merger, the three quarterbacks who held the highest passer ratings after 25 career starts were named Mahomes, Warner and … Purdy, who ranked ahead of them.
In those starts, Purdy won 19 times, completed 69.1% of his passes, threw for 6,508 yards and 47 touchdowns and amassed a passer rating of 112.6. He set all sorts of single-season franchise records—for a franchise that played Montana and Young and Jeff Garcia and Colin Kaepernick.
Surely, the hate train would come around. No! Mr. I ensured Purdy would forever be viewed, at least in part, as The Quarterback Who Doesn’t Look Like One. That he doesn’t buy into such Rudy-esque notions, that he never has, only clouds the picture even more. Much like the end to this miserable San Francisco season.
To say injuries enveloped the Niners’ roster in 2024 is to traffic in comical understatement. Hints of doom started in the preseason, when reports surfaced that McCaffrey wasn’t healthy. He would fly to Germany to seek answers in September, after team doctors upgraded his diagnosis from “calf strain” to “bilateral Achilles tendinitis.” He didn’t play a single snap until Week 10. The season, at that point, was not lost, to Purdy’s credit—which he still didn’t receive.
The season died, officially but unofficially, at Miami in Week 15. Both teams entered 2024 with high-but-realistic expectations. Both endured significant injuries to pivotal players or position groups. And, yet, after the Dolphins spanked the Niners, they were billed as resilient. San Francisco, with one fewer victory, was a disaster, total collapse fulfilled. Rather than nuance, blame pointed back at Purdy.
Skeptics could have chosen to view Purdy within that lost-season calculus, as a valiant competitor fighting against an injury plague and even worse—two teammates lost children to stillbirth this season; another, rookie first-round wideout Ricky Pearsall, was shot in the chest during an attempted robbery and didn’t play until Week 7. Purdy still had success, for long stretches, without so many of the teammates so talented they received all credit for any of his success. But the 49ers didn’t stumble. Shanahan did. Purdy did.
The Niners also held onto the playoff fringe far longer than most teams, amid the same set of terrible circumstances, would have. Maybe that’s because … (ducks) … Purdy had … (dons bulletproof vest) … a significant … (dons Viking helmet) … positive … (enters witness protection) … impact?
How this season counts in relation to the contract extension depends on how the person analyzing it considered Purdy before they began that analysis. If he’s Rudy, the little John Deere engine that, in 2024, could not, then it proves, once and for all, that without talented teammates he won’t amount to much. If Purdy could play, if he had elevated, then this campaign is proof of the opposite.
What changed? Expectations! Paradigms! Health!
Both parties know where the other stands. San Francisco wants him back—for the right price. He wants to stay—for the right price. The difference in “right price” is where the deal complicates. If the gap can close—and two sources currently working in San Francisco believe it will—expect an extension announced by March.
If that happens, the BPD will power into overdrive.
San Francisco compares favorably to other franchises in extending its best players. The Niners extended Kittle, McCaffrey, star pass rusher Nick Bosa and elite fullback Kyle Juszczyk in recent seasons. In each instance, the respective player signed a contract with an annual value among the top-three highest-paid players at their respective position.
The parties agree on many points. That Purdy outperformed his initial deal, impact exponentially higher than expectations. That the 49ers aren’t the team they were in 2022 and ’23 without him. That he’s worth a major raise. But there will be changes before next season—significant changes.
If the gap doesn’t close, expect Purdy in San Francisco next season. He’ll make $1.1 million for the base salary in the final year of his rookie contract. The 49ers should have at least $50 million in cap space.
If an extension doesn’t materialize, Purdy will then become a free agent (though the Niners could extend the argument another year with the franchise tag). Another team will pay the cash infusion the Niners deemed more important to allot elsewhere.
And the BPD will still power into overdrive.
SI reached out to eight members of separate personnel departments across the league. All eight responded via phone call or text messages to a simple question: Would they pay Purdy?
Six said yes.
Five affirmed without hesitation. Each cited NFL economics, particularly with quarterbacks.
One said yes with a disclaimer. He would unless the Niners embark on a complete overhaul. He wouldn’t rebuild around Purdy.
Neither source would say definitively that they knew San Francisco had a plan firmly in place. They pointed to a franchise, instead, that’s deep into its “discussion” phase of an extension, despite anonymity granted in exchange for candor. Perhaps those discussions lead to the same place the other two execs from SI’s poll reached. Neither would pay Purdy, period.
One, an AFC general manager, says he believes a Darnold or Smith will be available to a team like the Niners in 2026. They’ll be forced to pay more than they want but free up more money overall. The other said he didn’t buy Purdy as a cornerstone; loved him, just not at $55 million per year. Neither mentioned the upcoming quarterback draft class, which is generally considered weaker than normal.
Even then, we’re gonna debate Purdy until 60 years from now, because we’re sports fans, and we love to argue and we play fantasy football, which makes this sport of actual professional football seem more relatable than it is. But, hey, at least as long as we make our arguments as vociferously as possible, they don’t even need to include things like … facts. Which just proves that Brock Purdy has had at least one irrefutable impact.
We cannot, will not, won’t ever stop debating him.
This article was originally published on www.si.com as The Brock Purdy Dilemma: Debating Whether the 49ers Should Pay Their QB.