In a Nov. 29, 1998 contest at Giants Stadium, with his team hopelessly trailing the New York Jets 41-14 in the fourth quarter, now-deceased Carolina Panthers tailback Fred Lane scored a meaningless touchdown on a 2-yard run.

To punctuate that innocuous score, Lane stood primping in the end zone and taunting the Jets fans, who eventually rained down on him a barrage of debris and verbal denigration. Just before he turned to lope back to the bench, a hot-dogging Lane posed one more time in front of the partisan end-zone denizens.

	Saints tackle Kyle Turley tosses his helmet during his now-famous tantrum.

And, in a final act of defiance, he grabbed his crotch.

One day later, Panthers owner Jerry Richardson -- whose reeling franchise had already suffered an abrupt bailout by quarterback Kerry Collins earlier in the season -- announced he was suspending Lane for the following week's contest because of the obscene gesture.

It was, insisted a somber Richardson, "the right thing" to do under the circumstances. To his credit a contrite Lane, who would forfeit $10,647 of his minimum $181,000 base salary by sitting out the game against the San Francisco 49ers, wholeheartedly agreed.

Acknowledged the apologetic Lane: "Sometimes you just step over the line, and for no good reason, and you have to pay the price of your action."

We resurrect this real-life parable in light of the $25,000 fine imposed on the off-kilter offensive tackle Kyle Turley by New Orleans Saints officials on Tuesday evening. It is, to be sure, more than just a slap on the wrist.

But not much more than that.

Somewhere in the 48 hours between the time Turley was ejected from the game against the Jets, ostensibly for flinging the helmet of New York safety Damien Robinson as if the headgear were a discus, and the time the Saints opted to dock their offensive tackle's next paycheck, this vital component of the ugly scene was lost in the shuffle: Turley made one of the most tasteless gestures imaginable, the ol' hand to the inside of the elbow, before he was escorted to the New Orleans locker room.

And he did it, no less, on national television. And in front of a surprisingly large late-night audience that had just flipped over for the final minutes of the Saints-Jets contest because it was still too jacked up by the ninth inning of the World Series finale to yet turn in for the evening.

Everyone saw it. Everyone, apparently, with the exception of Saints owner Tom Benson, general manager Randy Mueller and coach Jim Haslett. It was such a central component of Turley's conspicuous but predictable meltdown that it could not be missed.

Except, it seems, by the Saints' equivalent of the three blind mice.

How else to explain that Turley, albeit $25,000 lighter in the wallet, was not suspended by the team for Sunday's key division matchup at San Francisco? Unless an ever-diligent NFL finemeister Gene Washington intervenes this week, and corrects the Saints' oversight by imposing a league suspension, Turley can laugh all the way to the anger management classes he promised New Orleans officials he will attend.

This was, let's face it, the easy way out for the Saints. And one that everyone probably saw coming. At a Tuesday press conference concerning Super Bowl XXXVI details and planning, commissioner Paul Tagliabue noted that Turley needed to control his passion, but that fans would likely see his trademark intensity again against the 49ers.

	Those who insist that (a fine will send a message) are being ridiculous because, to his credit, Turley is one of those rare players for whom the competition means more than the cash.

Queried by a quick-minded reporter if that meant Turley would avoid suspension for the game, Tagliabue didn't have a chance to answer, because Benson responded instead. He joked that's precisely what the commissioner meant. Call it the handwriting on the wall but, at that moment, suspension by the Saints ceased to be an option. A victory over the 49ers was, to be frank, more critical than Kyle Turley's dubious mental health.

This is not to suggest we are so Pollyannaish to think that on-field obscenity is not part of the fabric of the NFL tapestry. Stand on a sideline sometime, even at training camp, and you will bear auditory witness to a cuss-word lexicon that not only defies belief, but oddly defines the brutality of the game these men play. As an afterthought on Sunday, I watched Baltimore linebacker Ray Lewis shoot the bird at Pittsburgh offensive tackle Wayne Gandy, who wasn't even dressed for the contest.

It is a game not for the feint of heart or for those who speak mostly in nice, complete sentences. We're not so naïve, after 23 seasons of NFL coverage, to suggest that. Nor is it a game of political correctness. That said, the players need to be held accountable for the actions that venture beyond the pale, and Turley's obscenity was too blue to simply be ignored by the Saints and the league.

Some might insist that by dipping into Turley's pocket for 25 grand, nearly the equivalent of a game check for a fourth-year veteran with a base salary of $450,000, the message is being sent. Those who insist that are being ridiculous because, to his credit, Turley is one of those rare players for whom the competition means more than the cash.

The Saints probably could have fined Turley $100,000, and he would have been getting off easy, since he'll still get to play on Sunday afternoon. The only deterrent for the kind of behavior exhibited by Turley on Sunday night might be to remove him from the arena that so stirs his emotions beyond those considered acceptable to the forum.

The only thing that might have successfully captured the attention of Kyle Turley, and forced him to truly acknowledge the problem, would have been to suspend him a week. And to describe the fact the New Orleans organization didn't take such a strong stance -- would not sacrifice one week's worth of Kyle Turley on the field to perhaps save himself off it -- there is but one word:

Obscene.

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