This happened a couple weeks ago. Maybe you caught it. Terrell Owens had just scored a touchdown and launched into his choreographed-by-Debbie-Allen dance of shameless self-congratulation.

A teammate trotted over to pay his respects. After all, T.O.’s TD was worth six points for the 49ers, every last one of them. The teammate tried to get Owens’ attention. He tried to congratulate Owens, tried to share in the moment.

Owens ignored the guy. He kept right on gyrating, be-bopping and me-me-meing. Finally the teammate walked away, his message undelivered. Owens continued his “I Am the God of Hell Fire” strut in the corner of the end zone by himself.

You want to know what’s wrong with pro football? You want to know why the NFL is growing less lovable by the week? It’s not honest passion displayed in the heat of the moment. It’s not even the excessive celebration attached to the most menial of achievements. It’s not the poor quarterbacking or the brain-boiling tedium and fractured justice of instant replay.

What’s killing the NFL is the corruption of the ultimate team game by an increasing focus on the individual, by the individual, for the individual.

It’s not that Joe Horn wants the world to know the Saints scored a touchdown. It’s that he wants the world to know he scored a touchdown. He wants the love, all of it, to the exclusion of the linemen who blocked on the play, the receivers who drew coverage with decoy routes, the running back who picked up the blitz, the quarterback who delivered the ball, the coaches who drew up the gameplan and called the play, the backup players who mimicked the opponent’s defense during practice the previous week, and the general manager who assembled the roster and hired the staff.

It takes a village to make a touchdown in the NFL. Horn’s actions lead you to believe he considers himself a citizen of Joe World, population: 1.

You can almost accept the attention-getting histrionics of NBA players. Basketball is a team game disguised as five one-on-one matchups. Likewise, baseball boils down to a series of confrontations between a pitcher and a batter. Shaquille O’Neal can almost single-handedly win an NBA game. Catch Randy Johnson on the right night, and he can pretty much single-handedly win a baseball game.

Thing is, nobody single-handedly wins a football game. Ever. It is, or should be, the epitome of the collaborative athletic effort.

If you’ve ever been around an NFL team, you know it functions like a small town. The locker room is crawling with more than four dozen world-class athletes, each one with his own specialized abilities. There is a head coach, aided by several assistants.

The preparation for each game is beyond thorough. Based on the review of miles of tape, a gameplan is created, then practiced. Come game time there are coaches in the press box and on the sideline, all in constant communication. Players have access to images of their opponent’s formations moments after they happen. It may not be rocket science, but coaches and players treat it as if it were.

It is on the field, however, that football becomes a true group effort. When executed properly, the coordinated efforts of 11 men moving at the same time can be poetic. Guards pulling, receivers crossing, the quarterback faking a handoff on his way back to pass.

That’s the game a lot of us fell in love with, and that’s the game that is being undermined by players who feel compelled to stand alone in the spotlight.