9201010847 DETROIT FREE PRESS 920108 Wednesday, January 08, 1992 METRO FINAL CHASER

SPT

1D Photo Color MARY SCHROEDER : Lions linebacker Chris Spielman bears the scars of his profession, but there's more than meets the eye. MITCH ALBOM SEE ALSO METRO EDITION, Page 1D Copyright (c) 1992, Detroit Free Press A LION OBSESSED SPIELMAN BRINGS PASSION FOR PERFECTION TO HIS JOB Alone in the dark he sits, behind the projector, his thumb clicking the remote button as the players on screen move backward, then forward, then backward, then forward. He calls the action like a drill sergeant: "Corner trap (click) . . . now a sprint 15 (click) . . . this is a 15 bend. See that tight end? (click) He's supposed to block No. 52. (click) He's gotta get his butt up there, now! Look, (click) he's hesitating, (click) he's hesitating (click) . . . GO, RIGHT NOW! (click) . . . too late!" Coaches do this kind of film watching, gulping coffee and rubbing their eyes. And so Chris Spielman, a coach's son, does it, too. He is the only player in the Silverdome at this hour. It is Tuesday, "off day," the day when other Lions are at home sleeping or playing with the kids. And here is Spielman with his joystick. "This is Washington's draw play (click) . . . see that hole? (click) I gotta be there (click) . . . Ooh, (click) I'll be faster than that guy Sunday, guaranteed (click)." You might think this unusual behavior for an athlete, even in the playoffs, but remember, we are talking about Chris Spielman, whose first tackle came at age 5, when he took down his grandmother. She had just walked in the door, and Chris wanted to play football, and he wrapped her in his arms and -- whompf! -- down she went. "Jeez," I say. "Did you hurt her?" "Nah, she's still living." He flicks on the lights and laughs, his neck muscles rolling under his T-shirt. His hair is matted, his stubble at least three days thick, and there is a scar on his forehead. I ask Spielman the last time he was without a scar someplace on his body, and he says, "When I was born." There is no telling how Sunday's NFC championship will turn out, but I can promise you the man who will bring the most spit and desire to that game will be the man behind this stack of game films. You think Chris Spielman was born to play football? When he was 3, he was racing through the house with his older brother, Rick. They were heading for the door, Chris lunged forward -- and ran into the wall. Opened this bloody gash on his forehead. "Dad, does Chris have to get stitches?" Rick asked their father. "I think so,' his father said, frowning. Legend has it Chris said: "Goody." But that's only a legend. Behind the grrrrrr And you can't believe every legend you hear, right? Otherwise, you'd think Spielman, 26, is no more than a tightly wound instrument of destruction, a walking set of shoulder pads whose only form of expression is "GRRRRRR!" Not true. He might be every factory worker's favorite ballplayer, all grit and gristle and overachievement, but he is also a shy, patriotic husband with a thin tenor voice, a guy who sees things simply but honestly and without pretension. He sort of reminds you of the Tom Cruise character in "Born on the Fourth of July" -- before he goes to Vietnam. Life is black and white. You work hard. You strive to be the best. And you do what you have to do. Spielman hates wearing neckties, but he'll wear one if he has to. He is not much for books, but he went back to college to earn his degree. He does not swoon at romance, but he can pull it off. The summer after he was drafted by the Lions, Spielman proposed to his high school sweetheart, Stefanie, the only girlfriend he's ever had. Here's how: He took her to a miniature golf course in Canton, Ohio, and when they reached the 18th hole, he told her he left his keys near the green, could she please go get them? When she got near the hole, she looked down and saw an engagement ring wedged inside. She began to cry. "Then what did you say?" I ask. "I said, 'Go ahead and putt.' " "No, after that." "Oh. I said, 'Stefanie, will you marry me?' She finally said yes. Afterward, the people gave us a free game because we got engaged on their putt-putt course." See? Told you he had a romantic side. Reluctant celebrity "This place has good food," he says, pulling open the door. "You ever been here?" We are entering Klancy's on Opdyke Road, one of Spielman's favorite restaurants -- largely because it's within a mile of the Silverdome. Klancy's has a Formica counter, booth tables and, according to Spielman, "great mashed potatoes." Upon spotting the football player, one of the workers immediately motions to a booth near the back. Several waitresses say, "Hi, Chris." The cook pokes his head out and says, "Chris, how ya doin?' " Spielman sits down, looking sheepish. "I told them we were coming. They're kind of excited." Spielman does not do a lot of interviews outside of the locker room. He is painfully shy about his private life, mostly because when he was in high school in Ohio, his picture was on the cover of a Wheaties box -- part of the cereal's efforts to honor young athletes -- and instantly, his world was turned upside down. People asked him to speak to Boy Scout troops, to make appearances, to serve as an upstanding example of American youth. That's a tall order for a sweaty teenager who mostly liked to play football, lift weights and watch TV with his buddies. He would go out with Stefanie, and guys would laugh behind his back and call him "the Cheerios boy." He chose to attend Ohio State, not far from home, and that only made his celebrity more intense. He started his freshman year, and from that moment on, everyone on campus knew who he was, every class, every lunchroom. "The hardest thing for me to do is to let people get close to me,' he says. "Mostly because of that Wheaties box thing. I only have about five people who I really let know me. With everyone else, I mostly talk football. "Maybe because of that, there's this misconception that I'm only a football player, not a person. I always hear how intense I am, and my wife and I talk about that. She tries to get me to stop and . . . what is it, smell the roses? But I can't do it. It's not me. "After a game, whether we win or lose, if there was one play I messed up on, it haunts me for days. I'm in this constant search for perfection, I don't know why. When I come home from a game I start walking around the house in circles. I go from the living room to the dining room to the kitchen -- and I don't even realize I'm doing it. Stefanie says, 'Chris, sit down.' And I say, 'Huh?" In order to understand this intensity, you must understand Spielman's relationship with his father, Sonny, a high school coach who once took his 4-year-old son to practice, pointed to a group of linebackers and said, "Go watch them." Sonny Spielman wanted his kids tough; he demanded excellence and hard work. When Chris was 11, he took a job raking baseball fields at a summer camp -- while other kids his age were playing on them. "Responsibility," his father called it. You hear stories about Chris' obsession with football: How he once smashed a window in college to break into the weight room. How he would meet the Ohio State coaches before sunrise to watch film. "My goal was to get to the building before (head coach) Earle Bruce did," he admits. That meant 6 a.m. He did it. Even now, he rises at that hour every day in the off-season to work out. He is so consistently excellent that no one even bothers to ask coach Wayne Fontes how Spielman played this week. He does the film thing every Tuesday and on Sunday he is the general, he calls out defensive signals in the two seconds between the time the opposing team drops at the line and snaps the ball. That's not easy. "Chris is unbelievable," his teammates will tell you, rolling their eyes in a mix of admiration and disbelief. But he is also human. It is not hard to see beneath the whiskers and the piercing eyes, to find there a shy boy who is trying to earn the love of his father. Is that so unusual? As he struggles to talk about himself at Klancy's, I notice he has pulled apart several toothpicks and destroyed a straw. Nerves, he says. Nerves? 'Be the best you can be' Yes. And that's the thing about Spielman. There are a lot of levels operating here. There is the guy who will be counted on to lead the Lions defense against the Redskins this weekend, but there is also the guy who looks down when people compliment him. It is true he won the Lombardi Trophy and a Pro Bowl selection for his never-ending toughness. It is also true that he wears sweat socks under black dress socks, because the dress ones are "too thin." He swears by his country, his religion, says he would have fought in Vietnam ("definitely"), but when I ask what he would say if a son one day came to him and said "Dad, I want to be a florist" -- this is what he answers: "I'd tell him 'Be the best florist there is.' " And ultimately, that is the core of Chris Spielman. His obsession comes not from a desire to inflict pain, but from a desire to be the best, the way his parents taught him. Because of that, he is truly passionate about his work, football, and there are those who say this is not the healthiest obsession. You know what I think? I think in an age of apathy, passion is not something you criticize. It could be in art, music, or football -- it is still passion, and it should be celebrated, at least when it blossoms in a fair and decent man, who doesn't ask for more than his share, and doesn't put himself above the mashed potato-eaters. "I'm really not a grrrr person," he says apologetically, "it's just when I talk football, I get excited . . ." We understand. You are what you are. So next time passion gets the better of Chris Spielman, maybe you can forgive him. His grandmother did. DLIONS; CHRIS SPEILMAN; FOOTBALL; ATHLETE;Lions