Martz seems hellbent on demonstrating at every opportunity that he answers to nobody’s judgment but his own. Not for him is the conventional wisdom or the time-honored standards of sportsmanship. It may not be politically correct to say it any more, but Martz clearly believes that football is war and crushing the opposition the only righteous option. Early in the season, his arrogance permitted an onside kick in the latter stages of a rout of the Jets. That rub-your-nose-in-it decision was made to look even tackier by Jets coach Herman Edwards’ classy handling of the insult. Lest anybody should think Martz has mellowed or has been chastened by an onslaught of criticism, he one-upped himself against the Falcons last Sunday. In the waning moments of the game, up three scores against the Falcons, he eschewed the classic run-out-the-clock strategy and ran a flanker reverse. It was a double-edged sword. Not only was it heedlessly aggressive, in keeping with Martz’s heel-on-the-throat style, but it was truly reckless, putting the Rams’ irreplaceable quarterback Kurt Warner, already nursing a slight injury, in the ridiculous position of being a lead blocker for meaningless yards.

But that kind of coaching performance (or perhaps Billick publicly browbeating his offensive coordinator Monday night when the Ravens failed to score on three attempts from the 1-yard line) tells you that the NFL won’t have to raise the bar for egos or widen the strutting path along the sidelines to make room for Steve Spurrier in its coaching fraternity. The man, known by his enemies–and they are legion–as Steve “Superior” during his extraordinarily successful 12-year reign at the University of Florida, is making himself available to the NFL. And NFL teams are biting, indeed tripping over themselves to see who can lavish the most millions on a brilliant college coach who, for all his victories over Florida State, is unproven at the NFL level.

It is a quantum leap from the college game, which is often won in the living rooms of high-school seniors, to the pro game, which is often won in the tedium of relentless sessions with videotape and computer printouts. It is a leap that college coaches, from Jimmy Johnson to Dennis Green, have made successfully. But at least as many good, even great, college coaches have been humbled in the pro ranks. I wonder if Lou Holtz still, all these years later, has nightmares about his brief stint as head coach of the New York Jets. Florida won, won often and won big, with a brilliant and creative offense. But it also won with vastly superior talent and speed, a luxury Spurrier certainly won’t inherit on the losing teams queuing up for his services.

Spurrier, 56, at least had the good grace, at least publicly, to cast NFL coaching stardom as a giant question mark, one that is he curious enough to try and answer. “I’m intrigued to see if my style of offense, my type coaching, can be successful in the NFL,” he said. “I need to find that out before I completely hang it up, before I call my last play.” With the NFL in the early stages of abandoning its cookie-cutter offenses of the ’90s for some innovative or, at the very least, more creative play-calling, Spurrier’s attacking, spread-the-field passing attack, should certainly find a home. But a greater question mark is whether he can temper his other attacking style, the antic sideline behavior that may still stir college guys but tends to turn off the pros.

Perhaps the most chastening example in recent years came not in the NFL, but in the NBA in the person of Rick Pitino. Pitino, like Spurrier, won his national championship at one of the nation’s most storied college programs, Kentucky. Indeed, Pitino had already had extraordinary success at every level, including the NBA–so much success that the phrase “who has turned losing teams into winners wherever he coached” was virtually attached to his good name. But Pitino was reentering the new NBA, which is not unlike the new NFL, where the most talented receiver in the game can explain without embarrassment that he severely rations his effort. It’s an in-the-mood thing, surely everyone understands.

Well, hopefully, Spurrier does, because Pitino didn’t have a clue. Much as Spurrier hopes to transplant his offense, Pitino tried to transplant his lethal full-court press, which is decidedly not an in-the-mood thing. He railed at his Boston Celtics every step of the way, trying to exert rigid controls on a game that is simply too fast and fluid to be held hostage. And of course he exited, in the middle of his fourth season, a bewildered burnout with his reputation in tatters. Adding insult to injury, a low-key, no-name assistant coach, took over the same talent, scrapped Pitino’s game plan and in one year, had the Celtics contending with the top teams, although admittedly in the NBA’s (L)East Conference.

Spurrier doesn’t face quite such daunting odds, be it with Carolina, Washington, San Diego or Indy. The NFL, unlike the NBA, is a fan’s paradise, where turnabout is not just fair play, but the league’s new operating ethic. The once novel “worst to first” got ample usage over the past two seasons with the rise of first the Rams then the Ravens. The only question this year was which doormat would turn it around and we wound up with two: the Chicago Bears and the New England Patriots. In further testament to what a remarkable season it has been, five of the six 2000 division winners wound up with losing records this season. (As a Patriots season-ticket-holder, I’m already alternating between elation over this year’s surprise and depression over next year’s seemingly inevitable flop.)

Still, however fluid the possibilities, the NFL can be a humbling experience. Just ask George Seifert. He was once the NFL’s resident genius, the coach with the highest winning percentage in league history. Now after three seasons winning at a .333 clip with Carolina, including a league-record 15 straight losses to cap his career, Seifert has sunk into the non-Mensa ranks. Clueless was one of the kinder descriptions being tossed around after his Panther finale. The Spurrier experiment should be fascinating to watch, if only because his big ego threatens to puncture one of the underlying conceits of modern NFL coaches. Spurrier not only believes he can win in the pros, but that he can do it without giving up his cherished golf game. In a league that prides itself on a 24/7 mentality among its coaches, that would really rankle–and establish his reputation as the genius he clearly believes himself to be.