Arguably the greatest commissioner in any professional sport at any time in our nation's history, Pete Rozelle went to his grave regretting his decision to allow the NFL to play its full schedule on Nov. 24, 1963, two days after the assassination of John F. Kennedy.

Ripped near-universally by the media, it didn't take long for Rozelle to acknowledge his mistake of judgment, one that would haunt him for more than three decades afterwards. Asked upon his retirement in 1989 what he might have done differently during a tenure in which he stewarded the NFL to a position of preeminence, Rozelle barely blinked before offering a reply, and everyone knew the answer that was coming anyway.

	Paul Tagliabue says the NFL will take at least 48 hours to decide if it will cancel this week's games.

And now his successor, a man with an abiding social conscience and a commissioner riding an historic skein of accomplishments, is faced with a similar dilemma. And it says here that, despite the consequences of competitive balance, logistical lunacy and possible tiebreaker tedium, Paul Tagliabue should cancel the schedule for the coming weekend.

Or find himself, probably 30 years from now, harboring the same regrets as Rozelle.

For the record, the league issued a press release Tuesday afternoon announcing that there would be no quick decision and that NFL officials will spend the next day or two considering the options. Truth be told, there is but one choice here, and that is not to play.

The decision shouldn't be rendered with the usual tangible criteria, but rather with a sense of morality, and with the realization that Americans need to tackle their collective grief and not sit in front of their big-screen televisions watching linebackers tackle tailbacks. Just as Pearl Harbor and the Kennedy Assassination signaled dramatic changes in the way we live, so shall the events of Tuesday morning. Anyone who thinks otherwise is marked either by nuttiness or naivete.

What results from Tuesday's attacks will be an alteration of our lifestyle and, more than the physical destruction, it will be those emotional scars that will bring the most delight to the cowards who perpetrated the dastardly deeds. Since we are destined for change, a weekend minus NFL football will, in the long run, represent a tiny sacrifice.

For all his brilliance and public relations savvy, what Rozelle failed to grasp was that Americans didn't necessarily desire a public diversion on Nov. 24, 1963, as much as the country needed a private time of mourning. Nearly 40 years ago, we were stripped of our innocence, and on Tuesday our collective soul were left bare. The first was never truly restored, which should never be used as an excuse for not attempting to recapture the second.

Sure, I am aware of the problems that canceling the weekend's games will cause. There is -- because the Super Bowl follows the conference championship games by just a week this season -- no chance to make up the lost contests. It means playing a 15-game schedule that will be unbalanced, with some franchises having only seven games in the division and not the standard eight. It means reimbursing ticket revenues, expunging the travel plans, fading for one week from the public consciousness.

And again, we say, so what?

Because of a players' strike, the NFL played a 15-game schedule in '87 and survived. Its incredible popularity will survive a one-week hiatus now.

	The league has finally conceded that its product is as much entertainment as sport, but that doesn't mean the show must always go on.

The league has finally conceded that its product is as much entertainment as sport, but that doesn't mean the show must always go on.

People forget that, in 1963, the NFL wasn't the only sports entity that treated things as if it was business as usual. A day after Kennedy died, the Southeastern Conference played its schedule, and Wake Forest and North Carolina played the night of the assassination. There were some NBA and NHL games that weekend, as those two leagues curtailed just a part of their schedules. Even though legendary Oklahoma coach Bud Wilkinson was a friend and confidant of Kennedy, the Sooners played their grudge match with Nebraska.

But it was Rozelle who caught the most flak, opting to play the games despite entreaties from influential owners like Art Rooney of Pittsburgh and Cleveland's Art Modell. The league made a few suggestions out of respect for the late president, like not having the player introductions and not having halftime entertainment. There was a silent tribute before every game. Modell ordered his public address announcer to refer to the Browns' competition that day just as "the Cowboys," fearing any mention of the term "Dallas" would incite sensitive Midwestern fans.

Said the commissioner, who counseled with several White House officials, including the often nonsensical press secretary Pierre Salinger: "The president would want us to play. Football was Mr. Kennedy's game."

Just as the NFL sits atop the sports pedestal, so does it have a responsibility -- no, a trust -- to assume a lead role in determining how sport reacts to tragedy of this magnitude. And that reaction should be cancellation of the games.

As one of the 336,892 fans who attended one of the seven NFL games that day -- this was before the merger, and it should be noted that the rival AFL postponed its contests -- I can tell you nearly 38 years later that I remember watching Jack Ruby stick a gun into the gut of Lee Harvey Oswald that day more than I do the 17-17 tie between my beloved Steelers and the visiting Chicago Bears.

But there I was, a 13-year-old kid, who watched Oswald get shot on my folks' black-and-white television set, then hustled the three blocks down the street to catch the 54-C trolley for the short trip to Forbes Field, where the Steelers played their home games back then. You should know this: I was a Catholic kid, attending a Catholic grammar school, taught by nuns, and Kennedy was a hero.

The afternoon he died, the lights flickered on in the auditorium at St. Joseph School, interrupting the showing of "Little Women," and we were herded off to the church, which was adjacent to the school building. And as we knelt praying the rosary, our pastor, Fr. Mansmann walked in to tell us the president was dead, and Sister Mary Joseph literally fainted in her pew.

Pretty good recall, huh? But then again, anyone 10 years of age or older recollects just as well the afternoon of Kennedy's death. Other than Bears tight end Mike Ditka plowing through eight would-be Pittsburgh tacklers in one of the most brilliant individual plays I've still ever to witness, I can't remember much about the game two days later.

Except for maybe the gnawing feeling, as the chilly day wore on, that I really didn't need to be watching a football game that day.

And there is this: Most of the players didn't want to be there either.

Years later, the great Philadelphia Eagles receiver Pete Retzlaff recalled having "a hollow feeling" that day. "By game time," he said, "everyone was emotionally drained. We had no emotiona at all, and you can't play football without emotion."

The athletes of this era might be a more selfish lot, but the bet here is that few of them would protest if Tagliabue decides to turn out the lights this week. Doubtless, there are people who work in the league's Park Avenue offices who know someone killed in the rubble of the World Trade Center. A New York Jets staffer allowed Tuesday evening the team's front office was close to several supposed victims.

The players and coaches and team officials to whom we spoke were split on the notion not playing this week. Doubtless, the commissioner will entertain opinions from both sides of the issue on Wednesday.

But here's the bottom line: Better to spend this Sunday sitting in the front pew at church praying for this nation and for those who died so senselessly on Tuesday than to sit in a club seat at an NFL stadium second-guessing yourself for being there.

Len Pasquarelli is a senior NFL writer for ESPN.com.