It’s now Year 10 of the Kyle Shanahan era in San Francisco.

Ten years. A decade. A veritable eternity in the modern NFL, where head coaches are typically discarded faster than gas station sushi.

And with the big 1-0, Shanahan has officially tied Bill Walsh for the longest coaching tenure in franchise history.

Except, well, what does he have to show for it?

There’s a rather massive, silver, Lombardi-shaped difference between the two men.

Walsh burned out, sure. The stress of the job had hollowed him out when he stepped away from the 49ers in January of 1989 at the age of 57.

But he left with rings on his fingers. Three of them.

And Shanahan, 46 and coming off a concussion from a serious car crash in July, is still hunting for his first.

Which brings us to the uncomfortable question hovering over Santa Clara: Is Shanahan’s 49ers legacy already cemented, or is the best yet to come?

The résumé, we know, is exceptional. Shanahan’s reputation around the league is unimpeachable.

An elite offensive mind without a superior in that department, he’s the guy every other owner desperately wants to duplicate, usually by hiring anyone who has ever shared a cup of coffee with him.

His coaching staff is poached so routinely that the 49ers might as well install a drive-thru window outside Levi’s Stadium.

But it’s a testament to the rock-solid program he’s built in a league that is always chasing the next trend; an association that’s fly-by-night, inherently chaotic, and reeks of desperation from coast to coast.

The successes of Shanahan far outweigh the mistakes.

Is that enough for the 49ers?

All he can claim is that ineffable word-of-mouth status and a pair of NFC Championships — the kind of hardware that takes years for the 49ers to even acknowledge with locker-room banners.

Is that enough to survive the crushing weight of San Francisco’s history?

Because we all know greatness means one thing around these parts. It means a parade down Market Street. (And Santa Clara Street, too.)

Without one, what exactly is Shanahan?

Is he Marv Levy? Always poised to be the bridesmaid, but never the bride?

Is Shanahan a brilliant football mind cursed to watch someone else hoist the Super Bowl trophy while the confetti sticks to his visor?

Is he Marvin Lewis? (Seriously, what is it with the Marvs?)

Lewis survived a generation in Cincinnati despite clear signs of decay, strictly because ownership was too complacent to make a change.

Jed York isn’t cheap, but the 49ers owner is deeply enamored with stability.

Or, is Shanahan simply the next Andy Reid?

For a decade, Reid was the patron saint of “almost” in Philadelphia.

He called brilliant plays, won countless games with the Eagles and gagged when the lights were the brightest.

Then he went to Kansas City, found his generational quarterback, learned a bit of clock management and became inevitable, winning three Super Bowls and guiding the Chiefs to two more.

The 49ers are betting their $10 billion operation that Shanahan is Reid, just waiting for his time to break through.

They’re praying the breakthrough happens here, and not on some other franchise’s dime.

But does Shanahan actually have that kind of longevity in him?

The modern NFL is a soul-crushing, 365-day grind.

And Shanahan isn’t just fighting the rest of the league; he’s fighting the relentless brain drain within his own building.

Constantly hiring new coaches is exhausting.

Needing to find new ways to stay in the game — much less stay ahead of it — is far more taxing than people will ever give it credit for.

He spends his early offseasons fending off the rest of the league from his coterie of Gary Kubiak scions.

Since Shanahan has taken over in Santa Clara, six of his offensive assistants have been hired to be offensive playcallers for other teams. The latest is Brian Fleury, his longtime tight ends coach who is replacing former 49ers “offensive passing game specialist” Klint Kubiak, whose turn as the Seahawks’ offensive coordinator landed him the Raiders head coaching job this past offseason.

And those are just the top assistants on the offensive side.

There’s always coach churn in the NFL, but Shanahan is now on his fifth defensive coordinator in five years (some successes, some errors) and his fifth quarterbacks coach.

That’s the hidden tax of being the smartest guy in the room.

Everyone steals your play sheet, and when they figure out that they can’t figure it out on their own, they steal your mentees, too.

So, Shanahan reloads. What else is there to do?

He drafts new players, replaces departed assistants and draws up fresh ways to get a wide receiver ridiculously open over the middle of the field.

But is this constant change invigorating or deteriorating?

Shanahan is an excellent coach. Anyone with a functioning cerebral cortex knows that.

The way the next few years go, however, will define if he’s a truly great one in San Francisco.

The grace period is over. The think pieces about his offense have lost their novelty.

The moral victories? Those became gauche years ago.

It’s Year 10. The only thing left to prove is the only thing that matters.

Because if he doesn’t break through, he won’t be remembered as a genius.

He’ll just be the smartest guy to never win a ring.

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