In the wake of the fiasco in Seattle, Gary Radnich had a question. It wasn't pleasant, but it had to be asked. And much to his credit, with Jed York on the line, he asked it.

"I'll ask you straight up," he said. "How committed is your family to Singletary?"

Now Radnich might never win a Pulitzer Prize, but he phrased the question brilliantly. It was open-ended, you see; it didn't define a level of commitment and ask for only a yes or no. It wasn't merely whether, say, the coach would be back next year. All its terms were up to Jed. He could commit big or small, or not at all.

The conventional wisdom is to answer a question like this without really saying anything. To show support but leave room to escape. Something like, "Coach Singletary has a four-year contract, and we intend to honor that contract." Or "We don't expect to make a coaching change in the foreseeable future." You know, something mushy. We don't "intend" or "expect" to make a move, but there's a thing about intentions and expectations. They change.

Jed, though, doesn't play that game. He likes to tell the truth, and tell it with flair. He likes to show both his honesty and his guts. So when it comes to commitment, he's got no interest in room to escape. Even if the house he's in is on fire.

So without hesitation, his answer was this:

"Mike's our coach, and he's gonna be our coach for a long time."

I know we've had our battles, dear readers. A few of you agreed with my position that Singletary should clear out his office by January 4th. More of you said—reasonably, I'll concede—he deserves at least 2010. But Jed's already way ahead of all of us. It doesn't matter how this year ends. It doesn't even matter how next year ends.

Jed's already seen enough. Mike Singletary is here to stay.

Okay, then. How 'bout Scot McCloughan? I mean, without an epic miracle we're about to miss the playoffs for the seventh straight year, and McCloughan's presided over five. Care to fire a warning shot, Jed? Nope; "I'm fully in Scot's corner."

Okay, then. How 'bout Mike Holmgren as a head of football operations? An exciting infusion of credibility, experience, and brains? Nope; that'd be something we "aren't considering."

So will anything happen if "our season ends in December" (or whatever)? Sure, but not to our new holy trinity. This is it, folks; "the three of us together need to find a way to make the decisions that we have to do to make sure that this team wins."

I think Jed's smart, and I know he sincerely wants to win. Still, this is just weird. We might disagree on how much rope these guys deserve, but no one would argue they've proven enough to justify all this devotion. And understand, devotion's the word. Mike Nolan is gone, but his trusted lieutenants are staying for good. I actually doubted they'd be here next year, but Jed said it all.

They'll be here next year, and they'll probably be here in 10 years.

After this interview, I promptly began the five stages of grief. The first four were mercifully quick: the denial ("No! He couldn't mean that!"), anger ("Argh! We will never return to the playoffs again!"), bargaining ("Okay, how 'bout they go if we see no playoffs by 2014?"), and depression ("Why, Eddie? Why did you ever need that riverboat gambling license?"). But Jed left no room to continue to fight.

I reached the acceptance stage. Over the next decade, we'll win with Singletary and McCloughan, or we won't win at all. So if I wanna win—and heaven knows I do—then I wanna win with Singletary and McCloughan.

There. I said it.

And so, with a newfound clarity of purpose, I watched us play the Cardinals. As recently as last week, we thought this game would mean so much more. But motivation wouldn't be tough. The Cards might win this division, and indeed they surely will, but not on this night. Not on our field.

And sure enough, at no time this year have we ever been better.

We simply demolished 'em. In his previous four games, Kurt Warner completed 73 percent of his passes for 1,089 yards, 12 touchdowns, and no picks. That's a cartoonish rating of 133. Against our suddenly swarming defense—which sacked or hit him nine times (welcome aboard, Mr. Brooks)—he completed a season-low 55 percent for a season-low 178 yards and two picks, for a season-low rating of 45.

Oh, and did I mention the seven turnovers?

Granted, our offense was hardly a model of greatness. We wisely came out passing again, but New Alex took a disturbing step back; he threw some nice ones, particularly for his two scores, but after three solid games he was way out of sync. Looking slow and uncertain, he tossed two picks and hit his own season-lows of 54 percent, four yards per pass, and a rating of 60. We've gotta admit he's shown more than expected but still hasn't shown he's the guy. The good news was, when we shifted to run—again, wisely—it finally kicked in. Running hard behind a line that seemed to get its act together, Frank Gore had his strongest game, toting it 25 times for 167 and the clinching score. On his back, we held the ball for 37 minutes and never gave the Cards a chance to steal.

A ball-hawking D and a clock-chewing running game, eh? Just like the coach drew it up.

In the end, it always comes back to Mike Singletary. You've driven me nuts this year, Coach. But I love this franchise, and you're not going anywhere. So let's not fight. Let's just win.

So far, so good.