Lisa Olson Nfl

When Chris Spielman suffered a brutal neck injury, he said overcoming it was a breeze compared to most everything his wife Stefanie had faced. When her hair started falling out, when clumps of it began landing on the floor and in their toddler's hands, Chris decided to shave his own head, a soldier in solidarity. When it became apparent that more chemotherapy and a mastectomy -- breast cancer's evil twins -- were high on Stefanie's schedule, Chris bid a temporary farewell to the NFL, skipping an entire year so he could be with the woman he proposed to on the 18th hole of a Putt-Putt course.

None of the above should be considered exceptional behavior by husbands or partners forced to watch their loved one undergo treatment for cancer. But everything Chris did back in those gloomy days following his wife's diagnosis was regarded as unusual and, in some parts, emasculating.

Stefanie Spielman, 42, died Thursday after a lengthy battle with breast cancer. Chris Spielman, the NFL and Ohio State star, was by her side, along with their four children, and while she deserves a thousand hosannas and a billion thanks for her work in raising millions over the years to combat the disease, it should be noted that he was quite the trailblazer.

EAST RUTHERFORD, N.J. -- The loneliest man in the stadium sat alone on a bench, his thoughts drowning out anything the crazed blob of 70,000 might be yelling at him. How could he have let not one, but two kicks trickle through his hands on a day like this, when the Tennessee Titans so desperately needed a win? How could he wrap such perfect gifts for the New York Jets, his fumbles turning into touchdowns for the wrong team? His teammates tried to comfort him with arm squeezes or soothing words, but Ryan Mouton just squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

EAST RUTHERFORD, N.J. -- Pump up the volume, Jets coach Rex Ryan had implored fans in a taped phone message, and so they did, until the Meadowlands was shaking like a thousand space ships about to launch.

Don't just beat them, Jets safety Kerry Rhodes had beseeched, try to embarrass them, and while we kept waiting for the visiting Patriots to make Rhodes regurgitate his bulletin board words, the Meadowlands kept getting louder and louder and louder and louder. "I actually felt the ground vibrating," Jets defensive end Shaun Ellis would say later, after experiencing a day like no other in Gang Green's tortured relationship with the Patriots.

The tumblers shifted just slightly Sunday in a division long dominated by New England. It's only Week 2 of the season, so caveats must be noted: surely Tom Brady won't always look so uncomfortable while getting hit from every angle, and Bill Belichick will crack a smile before he allows himself to again be outcoached, and the laws of football's universe suggest Ryan's bravado will eventually backfire, and New York's defense can't always gloss over the mistakes made by Mark Sanchez, their rookie quarterback.

EAST RUTHERFORD, N.J. -- Society benefits the more Michael Vick thrives. Not that his success should be viewed through football's prism -- he can complete 7 for 11 passes for 26 yards, and rush for another 35, and occasionally inspire flashbacks with his elusiveness, as he did Thursday night in the Philadelphia Eagles' 38-27 preseason loss to the New York Jets, and the only people he truly impacts are those who inhale and exhale football.

However his gridiron career finishes, it will be a small footprint to the legacy Vick leaves. No, Vick's true worth should be found in moments beyond the 60 minutes when he earns his employ. This is why we should stand up and root for Vick to thrive, to create a positive ripple, to leave his little section of the planet better than he found it.

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NEW YORK -- Beyond their occupation and celebrity lifestyles and physical similarities, Plaxico Burress and Donte' Stallworth really don't belong in the same sentence. They committed different crimes in different states, and if both men are lucky enough to ever again play in the NFL, it will be interesting to see how the league skirts the pesky issue of convicted felons associating with other felons.

Until then, enough with the clueless comparisons between Stallworth's light sentence in Florida for committing vehicular manslaughter while drunk and Burress' heavy plea agreement for criminal possession of a weapon in New York. Just because Florida officials allow wads of cash to buy leniency, that's no reason other states can't legislate their own version of justice.

NEW YORK – Sycophants have Plaxico Burress' back, no matter where he turns. It's as if he has transported a gang of 300-pound offensive linemen, stuffed them in power suits, swapped their playbooks for legal briefs and mesmerized them with his shiny Super Bowl ring.

That some of these wannabe teammates draw paychecks from the Manhattan District Attorney's office is hardly surprising. Burress was, after all, on the receiving end of one of the greatest touchdowns in New York Giants' history. His fans are omnipotent, to the point where there have been serious internal disagreements within the DA's office over how to handle the criminal charges pending against the wide receiver, prompting NFL commissioner Roger Goodell to explore punishing Burress even while the case against him meanders along.

NEW YORK – All these years later, Joe Namath's scripted line still seems so naughty: "I'm so excited, I'm gonna get creamed," Namath says seconds before the feather-haired, mostly unknown starlet begins to suggestively caress his chin with shaving balm.

"Let Noxzema cream your face so the razor won't," coos Farrah Fawcett. "You've got a great pair of hands," Namath tells her, before ending the television commercial with a sly grin.

NEW YORK –- Thick in the huddle forming on the balcony of Radio City Music Hall, New York Jets fans found themselves caught in a delightful audible. They had been warming up for hours and now their lungs were quite lubricated, their vocals ready to stretch.

Praise Joe Namath and pass Fireman Ed's helmet, the Jets had finally done something right. They traded up 12 spots for a franchise quarterback, snagging Mark Sanchez with the fifth pick of the NFL Draft Saturday, and for a moment Jets' fans could see paradise from midtown.

Michael Vick could be scrambling toward freedom any day now, as plans proceed for the disgraced quarterback to be relocated to a halfway house in Newport News, Va., the staging ground near so many of his repugnant crimes.

Most of his victims are dead, drowned or electrocuted and tortured at the behest of Vick and his crew, or they were humanely put down, their injuries and upbringing too horrific to overcome. Some managed to survive thanks to saints from animal rescue facilities across the country. If there is any karmic justice in the world, Vick will relive his evil deeds every time he hears a dog bark or sees a tail wag. He neither deserves nor should he be allowed to come within a football field of man's best friend, ever again.

With all due respect, the players and coaches participating in Super Bowl XLIII are wimps.

That's right, I wrote it. Ken Whisenhunt, Mike Tomlin, Larry Fitzgerald, Hines Ward ... scroll down the rosters of the Pittsburgh Steelers and Arizona Cardinals and show me one man brave enough to predict the unpredictable, one soul bold enough to step out on a ledge and bare their truth.