The drive within

Dennis Dillon

Your mind's eye visualizes the hungry, frustrated linebacker. He walks in nervous circles between plays, unable to regulate the adrenaline pumping through his veins. His eyes, underscored in eyeblack, burn with intensity behind his facemask. There are scuff marks on his helmet and blood splotches on his pants. He takes his position, bends his knees, anticipates the snap. Now he runs toward the sideline, meets the ballcarrier as he turns the corner and applies a vicious tackle that rattles the ribs. He picks himself up, unwilling to give in to the spasms in his arm and the pain piercing his chest, and gets ready to do it all over again.

His resume: Two-time All-American at Ohio State. Winner of the Lombardi Award in 1987. Four-time Pro Bowl player. The leading tackler for the Lions in each of his eight NFL seasons.

His creed: Play hard, play hurt, play with enthusiasm, because a football player is what he is and always has been. This is a warrior who never missed a game or a practice last season even though in the second quarter of the opening game he suffered a torn pectoral muscle that became a 10-week affliction. It precipitated a ball of blood to form beneath his arm. Although he had it drained regularly, it kept swelling, stretching the skin and gradually tearing the layers away until one day it burst open - and that was the end of his problem

His objective: to be the best he can be. That is why Chris Spielman get to work before the morning paper during the season to study film in private. It is why he spends four hours at the stadium on Tuesdays, normally the players' day off, lifting weights and watching more film. It is why he wakes up in the middle of the night and starts quizzing himself on an opponent's formations and tendencies. It is why he sometimes walks around his house with his knees bent, in his on-field stance ... why he ascends steps sideways ... why he drops into a tackling position when he approaches a trash can.

His portrait is of a man obsessed.

But this snapshot, a precious family moment on a mid-June afternoon, doesn't fit he profile. This snapshot is evolutionary. Here he is sitting at the kitchen table - his wife, Stefanie, in one chair; 2-year-old daughter Madison in another, and 8-week-old son Noah in a pumpkin seat on top of the table - about to reveal a whole new side to his identity.

"He likes to read them out loud," Stefanie says. Then, turning to Chris, she adds: "You like to deliver them yourself because you have a flow."

"Want to hear it?" he asks. And then Chris Spielman does something very un-linebacker-like. He begins reading a poem.

"Nine months and three seasons

Our hearts are filled with anticipation

We've been through rain, we've been through snow

Just waiting for God's creation ...

A baby boy, a baby girl

Does it really matter?

A healthy baby's heart, yes

And a beautiful smile and little feet that go pitter-patter ...

I can't wait to see

Our baby's first stare

Then for sure I will know

The unconditional love that babies and parents share"

"Daddy wrote that for you," Spielman says, smiling across the table at Madison, who, at the moment, is more interested in getting another granola bar than listening to her daddy's verse. Spielman, 30, composed "A New Heartbeat" when Stefanie was pregnant with Madison. He wrote another poem, "A Second Miracle," in anticipation of Noah's birth. Each one took him 15 minutes.

"That's something that people wouldn't think that I would do or say," Spielman says. "I have no interest in poetry, and I don't read poetry, but I was inspired to write something to them while they were still in my wife's stomach. I guess when people are passionate about something, it's easy to make it come out."

The kids are too young to understand their father's passion for football - Madison calls Spielman's new team, the Bills, the "big moo-moo cows" and when she watches her dad on television, she sometimes thinks he's living with Barney the dinosaur - but someday they'll learn all about it Stefanie has experienced it firsthand. She has followed Chris' career since they were high school sweethearts in Massillon, Ohio.

"He has always been goal-oriented, always been very, very disciplined," Stefanie says. "In high school, when kids were out partying and running around, he never did that. Even in college, when people were bar-hopping, he would ask me if I would just go back to his apartment or my apartment and watch TV after a big, huge football win."

Spielman was born in Canton and grew up in Massullon, two football-crazy towns in northeast Ohio. A star linebacker and running back for Massillon's Washington High who also played guard in basketball and set the school record in the shot put as a senior, he became a celebrity before he was ready for it. The people of Massillon embraced Spielman" and sometimes they squeezed too hard. He was asked to visit hospitals, attend birthday parties and be the grand marshal in the town's Thanksgiving Day parade. Whenever there was an event, the phone would ring in the Spielman house.

When Spiehnan was 17, Massillon promoted him in a nationwide "Search for Champions" that was sponsored by Wheaties. He was one of six amateur athletes selected from a held of more than 6,400 to be profiled on packages of the cereal. It all was a bit much for a teenager whose biggest concern often was where was he going to get $10 to take his girlfriend out on a date.

"It was a great experience, but I think it above me into a shell in the same respect," Spielman says. "People started becoming very demanding ... they were expecting things. I wasn't mature enough to deal with the situations. I didn't know how to say no, and I didn't want to hurt anybodys feelings."

"I think all you wanted to do was play football, "Stefanie says to Chris.

"That sums it up," he says. "That's all I want to do now."

"You have to understand, this is what I've worked my whole life for Ever since I could walk, talk. ... At 3 years old, What do you want to be, Chris?' `I want to be a pro football player.'"

When your father is a high school football coach and takes you and your older brother with him everywhere, to the locker room, to two-a-day practices, to games., when one of your winter activities is to strap on ice skates, go out on a frozen pond and play tackle football; when the other kids are going to the movies or hanging out at the drive-in and you're walking three miles to a friend's house so you and the guys can lift weights for hours in his garage (the "Torture Chamber")... well, wasn't this script written a long time ago?

Sonny Spielman says it was when his son was about 2 that he thought "something was weird." Chris wasn't interested in playing with toys. What he liked to do instead was to go into the kitchen and pull out cans of soup. "He'd put three on this side, three on that side," Sonny says. "Then he'd move them around and smash them together."

So Sonny went out and bought Chris a couple of G.I. Joe dolls. Chris looked at them for a moment picked up one in his right hand, the other in his left hand, and brought them together in a G.I. collision. "I asked him what he was doing," Sonny says. "He said, "FOO-ball, FOO-ball One day, Sonny came home from practice and Chris was in a rage one of the doll's arms had come loose. FOO-ball player break arm," Chris said.

When he was 9, Chris played in his first organized tackle football game. His father was amazed at what he saw. "I watched him do things I couldn't get my high school players to do," Sonny says. "He had that sixth sense where he knew where to go as soon as the ball was snapped, whether it was a run or a pass. If it was a pass, he'd drop his hips, plant that back foot pivot and go back to the curl or hook zone. And anybody that got in his way he'd knock down."

Not everyone appreciated that aggressive spirit. During one midget football league game, Spielman broke one players arm and nearly gave another player a concussion. The next week, a group of parents drew up a petition to ban him from the league.

Even then, Spielman was preoccupied with doing anything that would help make him a better player. For example, he would trudge around the neighborhood wearing combat boots and hauling an old tire around his waist. "When we first moved to Massillon, the neighbors thought he was crazy," Sonny says.

He lived to play football, and that explains his reaction when - "it was either seventh or eighth grade" - the final game of the season was canceled because of a thunderstorm. "I remember I went in and told the coaches, 'Whoever made that decision is a big sissy.' I was very upset extremely upset I walked around until my mom came and found me, I was so mad. She asked me where I had been and I said, I can't believe they canceled the game because it rained.' Obviously, it was the right decision, with lightning bolts coming down."

When Chris was being recruited by Ohio State, he and Sonny drove to Columbus to watch spring practice. Chris immediately wanted to know where the linebackers were working out on the practice field. "He watched every kid who played that position for 45 minutes," Sonny recalls. "Afterward, I said, Well, buddy, if you come here, it's going to be very tough. You may not get to play until you're a junior or senior.' And he said, 'Dad, if I come to Ohio State, I win start.'"

"Career-wise, I've got one goal, one mission, one obsession. And that's to win the Super Bowl."

Spielman is sitting in a corner booth at Klancy's - "a friendly, family restaurant," according to the sign out front. He has been coming here regularly for breakfast since 1988, his rookie season. "I like it because they don't talk about football all the time," he says. "They want to know how the kids are doing. And they cook the food the way I like it."

There are 11 breakfast specials on the menu, various combinations of eggs, bacon, sausage, biscuits, pancakes and "your choice" of milk, juice or fruit. Spielman puts in his usual order. three egg whites, three pancakes, dry wheat toast a diet Pepsi and water.

"Cheryl waited on me the first time I came in here," he says of the waitress. "And she was mean."

"And now I,m nice and he's mean," she responds. "Isn't that funny how that works?"

Soon, Spielman will be looking for a new place for breakfast - in Buffalo. His eight-year association with the lions ended in March when he signed a four-year, $8 million contract with the Bills as a free agent Spielman visited Buffalo, Green Bay and the New York Giants and also had some conversations with Tampa Bay and St Louis. He chose the Bills for at least three reasons: (a) the money, (b) he wouldn't have to live in Buffalo year-round, and (c) the Bills have a craving, just like he does.

"They know how to win and have won; they just haven't won the big game," he says. "They're hungry, and that was what drew me They know they have only a few more years left to make a go of it with Thurman and Jim Kelly and Bruce Smith and like that I just want to be a part of that it happens. I like the continuity of the team, from the coaches down to the players.

"The one thing I thought about was that in Detroit, we had four different defensive coordinators in eight years, and this year would have been another one. ... I just think if s easier for one player to make the adjustment than to have 11 make the adjustment. We found that out last year, when we struggled for the first 10 games. We didn't know what the hell we were doing. And I'm not blaming anyone. I'm just saying on the whole, we didn't get it done - the players, nobody. I didn't want to go through that again."

There was a time when Spielman felt he would spend his entire pro career in Detroit But the NFL's liberalized free-agency system and salary cap have made that idea preclusive for many players. He severed his ties with the Lions rather unceremoniously one morning in January, when he was working out at the Silverdome. Suddenly, he felt like he didn't belong there anymore. "It's time to go," he thought. So he cleaned out his locker and found a gym that same day.

In Buffalo, Spielman essentially will play the same role as he did for the Lions. He'll be an inside linebacker in the Bills' 3-4 defense, a spot that was shared last year by Mario Perry (who has moved to the outside) and Monty Brown know with the Patriots). His primary responsibility will be stopping the run. When he stays on the field in passing situations, hell lock up with the tight end or fullback, although Bills defensive coordinator Wade Phillips says, "He's not the man-to-man cover guy we had," referring to Cornelius Bennett, who left as a free agent and signed with the Falcons.

Spielman made an immediate impression on his new teammates on the first play in minicamp. "He stepped up and took charge," Phillips says. "He just took over the huddle. Besides calling the signal - we didn't tell him the got everybody together and gave them a little pep talk."

Although the players didn't have to be at minicamp until 9 a.m., Spielman would arrive at 6:30 to watch film. Then he would stay after practice and watch more film. The Bills weren't scheduled to open training camp in Fredonia, N.Y., until last Thursday, but Spielman was planning to get to Buffalo almost two weeks early to begin his preparations. "They say some players go over and beyond," Phillips says. "He's definitely one of those."

It has been an offseason of many changes for the Spielmans. In addition to Chris, signing with the Bills, they welcomed Noah into their family in April, put their house in Rochester (a Detroit suburb) up for sale, found a house to rent in Buffalo and bought a house in Columbus - lose to the campus of Ohio State, which Stefanie also attended - and plan to make their permanent home there.

"We did four of the most stressful things in life in about a month," Spielman says. "My wife told me life with you is either extremely boring or extremely exciting. There's no in-between.'"

Spielman picks up his bill and looks at it skeptically. He waits until Cheryl walks within earshot. "I eat the same thing every day, and every day it's a different price."

It's time for his morning workout. Spielman leaves a tip, walks out to the parking lot and climbs into his black Dodge Ram 4x4. As he has done so many times in the past eight years, he makes a right turn out of Klancy's and pulls up to the first intersection. Straight ahead, about half a mile down the road, is the Silverdome. But Spielman changes his direction, this time, he turns right.

"There is one thing I can control. I will never be outworked."

On "Chris, Words of Motivation," a list of inspirational principles Spielman wrote before spring practice of his senior season at Ohio State and now is hanging on a wall in his basement that is No. 1. Among the others "Before one believes in others, he must believe in himself" and "There are no losers; only winners who quit too soon" and "Those who work the hardest are the last to surrender."

If there is a common root in Spielnan's success, it is diligence. He takes pride in his work ethic. That's why he spends all those hours running and lifting weights, studying film and walking around his house in quirky gaits. "If he thought sleeping in his uniform would make him better, he would do it," says Don Clemons, a Lions linebackers coach who be friended Spielman in 1988, the player's rookie season. It is why on the first day of the Bills' minicamp, Spielman's ankles were taped be fore breakfast and he was dressed for practice and sitting at his locker, studying his new playbook, before the rest of the players arrived.

"I'm one of those paranoid guys who thinks, Am I doing enough? Am I doing enough?'" he says. "If I find somebody doing something more than me, or better than me, then I'm going to do it and I'm going to do it better than he is. I used to read about (former Bears linebackery Mike Singletary about how much film he watched. So I said, 'If I have to watch film six hours a day, I'm going to watch more.' Like if I see a guy at practice running extra sprints, then I'm going to keep on running until he leaves the field.

"I feel what I need to get done, what I need to do to get ready to be the best player on Sunday - I have to do that Ifs just my way. I don't miss a workout. And if I do miss, which happens very rarely, then I will be like a guilty son of a gun. So then I'll do it at night, or in the middle of the night, or whatever."

When Spielman isn't in the weight room working out, he's in a meeting room studying film. "If I could give any advice to young kids in high school or college, I'd say, Watch that film, watch that film, watch that film.'" He takes pride in knowing he watches more film than perhaps any other player in the league, and that has been a big source of his success.

"I really think he believes that gives him a little bit more of an edge," Clemons says. "And it does; I don't think there's any doubt about that You can see him instinctively understand what the other team is trying to do and recognize the play (merely) by alignment by maybe a tip he picked up along the way. He'd study it so much to the point where we'd be in practice - and I run the scout team - and the offense would run a play from a certain formation and Chris would be where he's really not supposed to be, but he'd make the play. And (the offensive players) would say, 'What - do you show him the cards?

"That's, I think, one of the things that separates him from a lot of other players, the fact that be may not have some of the (physical gifts that (other players) have, but he maximizes his ability by having one extra tip here or one extra little idea there."

Today is one of those humid days in June, and the thermometer is headed toward the mid-80s as Spielman's truck pulls into the parking lot of Rochester High School. Despite the temperature, he is wearing a long-sleeved, blue sweatshirt with "Marines" in maroon letters on the chest and blue and white designer sweat pants. He ties a red do rag around his head, wraps tape on his wrists and then puts on a pound weighted vest that he wears when be is running or lifting weights. He walks through an iron turnstile, which acknowledges his entrance with a loud groan as it revolves, and heads for the bleachers.

"The best part of my game is quickness and instinct," he says. "This is one of the things that develops my quickness." He hops up the l@ concrete steps to the top, walks back down and then paces back and forth in the front row. As he moves toward a trash can, he suddenly steps around it and raises his right arm in an uppercut motion." Here's an offensive lineman," he says, fending off an imaginary block. The next time he walks by it, the trash can is a running back and Spielman drops down into a tackling position.

"You're testing yourself constantly," he says. "If you make your training hard, the game is easy. I never lean over during a workout. I never drink water, either, which is probably the most stupid thing I do. But ifs another test."

He repeats the step-hopping exercise three more times, then switches to an agility drill in which he runs up the steps sideways, crossing one leg over the other, as fast as he can. He does it four times from each side.

Now, he's getting worked up. His pulse is racing and his words are coming in staccato bursts between breaths. A distinct mood change is taking place.

"You're always picturing plays, game situations, what the other guy is doing. ... When you work out you get in a determined mood that simulates your psyche on game day. ... A transformation takes place. ... You notice when I get jacked up, my voice changes a little bit. It escalates. ... Pretty soon, you,re feeling pretty nasty."

Is he feeling nasty right down I'm getting there," he says.

Spielman finishes his workout on the asphalt track, where he sprints 25 yards, jogs for 25, sprints for another 25, then walks 25. He does 10 sets altogether. "Most people would think of eight automatically-four quarters," he says. "But two more is overtime."

As he cools down by walking once around the track, Spielman says, "You've got to get your muscles used to those quick, sharp movements. You hardly ever run in a straight line on the football field. A lot of it is you're flowing down the line, crossing over and jumping over people. When I was going up those steps sideways, I was trying to get my groin and hips used to those moves and go as hard as I can, not worrying so much about speed but really pounding - go-go-go-go! Playing my position, if I have to run ands downfield, then forget about it. But if there's a guy running from that sideline to the other sideline, I'll guarantee you I'll catch him."

This was an easy day for Spielman. Tomorrow, his schedule includes eight yard dashes, eight 40s and four 60s - all at full speed. Then he'll run several 100s to cool down.

What does he think about during his workouts? "I never look back," he says. "I always" look to the future. I can picture myself in (Buffalo's) Rich Stadium now, making a play, or a big hit or an interception, or causing a fumble. Walking off the field after a win.

"You have to keep the drive going. You always have to keep feeding yourself. Ifs like a continuous hungry and frustrated monster. You've got to keep feeding, feeding."

The running part of his day over, Spielman gets back into his truck and heads for the gym to lift weights. On the ride there, he keeps his weighted vest on, rolls the windows up and turns on the heater. Just another little test

COPYRIGHT 1996 Sporting News Publishing Co.
COPYRIGHT 2008 Gale, Cengage Learning