It's a longstanding debate in what has been known in the past as the No Fun League. What's an acceptable celebration, and what's a choreographed Ode to Self? What's classical ballet and what's a Boogaloo Down Broadway, and how much should anyone care?

Are you OK with Deltha O'Neal's finger-wagging, I'm-No. 1 show during his interception return Monday? (He has declined to discuss it.) Or are you a Rudi man? Said Johnson, "I would never think about" celebrating a touchdown or a great run. "I know I'm going to be in the end zone. I'm going to be there a lot."

Of O'Neal's show, Marvin Lewis said, "We're going to get that fixed."

OK. Why?

From July to December, NFL players are marched like the Roman legions. No sport is more rigidly structured. If it's 12:30, there must be a meeting. No pro jocks get sore the way NFL players do. If it's a Tuesday in November and it doesn't take you 10 minutes to get out of bed, you've been on injured reserve all year.

Ten years after they retire, some NFL players are so arthritically twisted by the game, they need an Advil six-pack to navigate the day. Watch Joe Namath try to rise from an easy chair sometime.

They shouldn't be allowed to celebrate?

For players, game day is like a high school hall pass that gets you out of a two-hour chemistry lab. All week, we march, we work, we hurt. Sunday, we . . . play.

Does it sometimes look silly? Sure. O'Neal's act came off as over-the-top showboating. But on whom besides him did it reflect?

Does wagging your finger - or wielding a Sharpie or pulling a cell phone from your sock - cast a light on anyone but the player who does it? When Ray Lewis beats his chest after a tackle, does it make the whole Baltimore Ravens organization look small? Did Terrell Owens' antics as a 49er taint the entire organization?

"Have a great time, but celebrate with your teammates," is how Marvin Lewis feels about it. "That's what's allowed, and that's the way to go about it."

I doubt anyone watching Monday night will recall O'Neal's one-shot, heat-of-passion gesture, directed toward a team he felt disrespected him, as symbolic of the Cincinnati Bengals. The guy was just enjoying himself.

More to the point, though:

What is really cool?

The best way to celebrate is not to celebrate at all. Score the touchdown, drop the ball - or, better yet, find an official and hand the ball to him - and trot back to your sideline. This carries with it a Rat Pack-esque elan, a nonchalance that suggests your greatness is, for you, ordinary.

Sinatra didn't break dance.

Hank Aaron, when he hit a home run, didn't draw attention to himself. He knew the attention was already there. He assumed everyone was watching. That, friends, is cool. Much cooler than any form of celebratory self-love.

Apply it to any sport: How cool would it be if Barry Bonds didn't watch every homer he hit like he was admiring a Tahitian sunset? Wouldn't it be great if dunks weren't universally accompanied by a scowl or a scream? Coolest thing Michael Jordan ever did came in the NBA Finals against Utah. After draining yet another jumper, Jordan turned, shook his head and shrugged, as if to say, "Not even I know how I can get so unconscious on the court sometimes."

Rudi Johnson keeps his cool when he scores. That is cool.

"I just flip the ball, see the crowd's reaction, celebrate with my teammates," he said. "Everyone has his own personality. As long as it doesn't cause any penalties, I'm good with it."

Me, too. If Deltha O'Neal or any other player wants to emphasize his singular significance, have at it. Given all the blood and sweat, cheers should come with the package. Give me heavy-duty Rudi's effortless nonchalance, though. O'Neal demanded attention Monday night. Rudi assumes it will be there, every week.

Cool.

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E-mail pdaugherty@enquirer.com

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