I've got to admit it, Jed. You almost had me going there.

Nice touch, that "apology" of yours. "This past year was frustrating on many levels for 49ers fans," you wrote. "For that, I want to apologize to you and everyone that cares deeply about this team."

And then, at the podium, you stepped right up and doubled down: "This season wasn't fun. It wasn't fun for me, it certainly wasn't fun for the fans, and I truly am sorry that we had to go through this year."

Even some of your harshest critics were impressed. "He acted with contrition and humility," said one. "He acted the right way. He acted like the man he needs to become."

And even I myself was tempted. As I said, you almost had me going there.

But then I realized, we've been here before.

Let me tell you a story, Jed. It had been a dark time for the Niners. In only a few short years, they'd gone from powerhouse to laughingstock. They had a poor roster that had been poorly coached, but the issue went much deeper than that. After a series of dubious ownership decisions, the Niners—organizationally—lacked any shred of credibility. The fans, purportedly "Faithful" or no, expressed the one doubt that makes owners quake: they doubted whether the owners even wanted to win.

So as the fresh young face of the ownership group, you stepped up to put that doubt to rest. With every ounce of your conviction, you put it in no uncertain terms: "I promise I won't rest until we reestablish a championship culture."

And the fans, as desperate and foolish as fans often are, believed you.

That was eight years ago.

Now let's fast-forward to yesterday, and let's see if this sounds familiar, Jed. It had been a dark time for the Niners. In only a few short years, they'd gone from powerhouse to laughingstock. A poor roster, sure, but a coaching staff that was the league's worst by a country mile, led by the most poorly-equipped head coach ever. And organizationally, the Niners lacked any shred of credibility. The fans, purportedly "Faithful" or no, expressed the same doubt: they doubted whether the owners even wanted to win.

So though neither as fresh nor nearly as young, you stepped up to put that doubt to rest. With every ounce of your conviction, you put it in no uncertain terms: "I want this team to win. Nobody wants this team to win more than I do. And I'm going to work at it every day to make sure that we get back where we belong." You even went so far as to add the classic huckster's favorite line: "You can trust me."

Some fans, as desperate and foolish as fans often are, will again believe you. But dare I say, the smart ones won't.

Oh, don't get me wrong. If you know nothing else—and, by now, it's clear that you might—you know how to deliver a speech. And sure enough, "nobody wants to win more than I do" is at least as stirring as "championship culture." But you can't erase those years in between. And it's those years that prove it. You're lying again.

As the press more or less pointed out, you already had a championship culture. Despite his faults—many of which I've detailed here—Jim Harbaugh produced one immediately. If nobody wanted to win more than you, then you should've kept Harbaugh. Or, upon firing Harbaugh, you should've hired someone who, at least theoretically, could've won just as much.

Instead, you hired Jim Tomsula.

Yesterday, you were asked to explain. "In terms of Jimmy T.," you said, speaking as if Tomsula were some kind of mob-enforcer, "we took a chance on somebody that we believed strongly in, certainly his character, his leadership ability, what he was able to do, and ultimately that didn't work out, and I feel like, watching what my uncle did, watching what my grandfather did, you have to learn from mistakes, you have to learn from failure, and we didn't get this one right."

So let's unpack this. You "believed strongly" that Tomsula could produce wins at a Harbaugh-like rate, in light of "his character," "his leadership ability," and "what he was able to do." These, of course, are lies. We're talking about a coach who couldn't articulate a coherent sentence, let alone a coherent vision. Do you actually expect me to think, for a single second, that you interviewed Tomsula and came away "believing strongly" in "his leadership ability"? Believing that Tomsula would win more than Harbaugh?

It's possible, I guess. But there are two possibilities, and only two. One is that you actually did, in which case you're a complete idiot. The other is that you actually didn't, in which case, despite what you just told us, you don't care about winning, or at least you don't care nearly enough. I subscribe to the latter view, if only because you seem much more conniving than dumb. But in the end, it doesn't matter. In either case, you're totally unfit for your job.

Which brings us back to your purported "contrition and humility."

As I'm sure you know, there's a P.R. tactic known as a "non-apology apology." Here's what Wikipedia says: "A non-apology apology is a statement that has the form of an apology but does not express the expected contrition. It is common in both politics and public relations. It most commonly entails the speaker saying that he or she is sorry not for a behavior, statement or misdeed, but rather is sorry only because a person who has been aggrieved is requesting the apology, expressing a grievance, or is threatening some form of retribution or retaliation."

And this, in fact, is what you did. Faced not only with the fans' grievances, but also with their threatened retaliation (and even their actual retaliation, if you consider those rows and rows of empty seats), you said you were sorry. But specifically, you said you were sorry "that we had to go through this year." As if this year was just bad luck.

No, Jed. You didn't have to go through this year; you chose to go through this year. For God's sake, don't you realize what you've done? Eight years ago, you asked us to stick with you as you reestablished a championship culture. We did, and then you did; we joined you on the long, slow climb up the mountain, and then we finally reached the summit. And then, out of some fit of self-righteous pique, you simply threw it all away. And now that we're down at the bottom again, you've got the gall—the absolute gall—to ask us to stick with you again. To trust you. Because, hey, no one wants to win more than you.

Forget it, Jed. It's too late. You can hire whomever you want; now that you know that you must make a splash, I'm sure that you'll go after all the big names. (I'm not sure why any of them would work for you—after all, look how you treated the last big name—but who knows, one of them might.) But I invested in you, and you punished me for it. I simply refuse to invest again.

Especially because, as it turns out, I don't need you.

This season, for the first time in 35 years, I didn't watch the Niners play. I kept tabs on them, enough to know that you'd succeeded in dragging them back to oblivion. But thanks to you, I didn't invest in them. I didn't invest any time, money, labor, or love. I invested those in other interests, which deserved them more. And, again, thanks to you, I didn't miss the Niners at all.

But it was actually even more than that. I celebrated each embarrassing loss. I treasured each empty stadium-seat. Any failure that you could suffer, I wished for you to suffer it. And no matter whom you hire next, I still will wish you to suffer it. For what you did to this glorious team—for turning the league's greatest franchise into one of its very most pathetic—I will wish you to suffer.

And so it's hit me, a truth that I'd been running from but now can simply no longer escape. I'm no longer a Niner fan.

And this site, I know, is for Niner fans.

I've been so honored to have this platform these last seven years. Reaching thousands of you every week was an incredible thrill. And receiving your feedback, whether it was positive, negative, or just plain nutty—Lucky Phil, I'm looking in your general direction—was incredibly gratifying. All in all, this site has given me some of the best times I've ever had.

Thank you, David, for this great opportunity. And thank you, dear readers, for all your support. I won't miss Jed. But I will miss you.

And, indeed, you can trust me.