by Ray Lewis
No weapon formed against me shall prosper.
I kept saying these words, over and over, mumbling to myself beneath my helmet, and when we huddled up I let those words spill out—along with a couple more. I said, “Nobody got to be heroes.” I said, “Just give me one more play.” I said, “One stop at a time, we walk out of here champions.” And we held them. We did. Two short passes to Michael Crabtree, incomplete, and we had the ball back on our 5-yard line, 1:46 left in the game.
All we had to do was run out the clock, and it ended up, third and eight, we had our punter, Sam Koch, line up in the end zone and run off a little more time, take the safety. The scoreboard worked out in our favor, made sense to push San Francisco deep into their own territory and let time run out on the free kick.
And I’m telling you, as soon as that clock switched to all zeroes, you could hear “Purple Rain” blasting through those Superdome speakers. Confetti flying everywhere. People going crazy. And in this huge, beautiful moment I took the time to speak the truth to the man who brought me here. I said, “God, I will never go against you.”
(Baltimore Ravens/Shawn Hubbard)
Bringing the Super Bowl trophy to the Baltimore fans.
POSTGAME
My City Is Burning
Before I finish, I want to go back to what happened in Atlanta, the tragic deaths of those two young men, the way I was falsely accused, the way I was treated. I know I said that it was time to set the incident aside and that I didn’t want it to define me, but those low moments have come back to me recently with what’s going on in some of our cities—in my own city, even. In fact, when I was working on this book the city of Baltimore was being torn apart. What set it off was a twenty-five-year-old African American man named Freddie Gray being arrested by Baltimore police officers for no good reason on April 12, 2015. The police roughed him up so bad that he fell into a coma and died a week later, igniting a firestorm of protest across my city, across the country. A week after that, as Freddie Gray was being buried, the storm turned violent. Police officers were pelted with rocks, protesters were clubbed and sprayed, cars were turned over, fires set, windows smashed.
There were ugly, terrifying images of Baltimore flashed all over the news, all over the world, and in this one flashpoint my city was added to the list of hot spots where incidents of police brutality showed a simmering racism that continues to terrorize, marginalize, and antagonize our young people. It wasn’t just Freddie Gray in Baltimore. It was Michael Brown in Ferguson, Tamir Rice in Cleveland, Walter Scott in South Carolina, Eric Garner in New York, and on and on. And those are just the folks we’ve come to know by name—can’t even put a number on those who’ve been beaten down away from the public eye. And think back just a little ways, and there are more names we can add to the list: Rodney King in Los Angeles, Abner Louima in New York, and on and on.
Things got so bad in Baltimore, the mayor declared a citywide curfew. President Obama took the time to calm people down. There were hundreds of arrests, hundreds of people hospitalized. Our city had come to a bad boil. Store owners were afraid to close up shop at night, there was so much looting and vandalism going on. I had a lot of emotions over that week, but one of the strangest moves for me was the Baltimore Orioles playing a game against the Chicago White Sox in an empty stadium because city officials didn’t trust that police officers, the National Guard, and whoever else they were bringing in could keep control. I can’t imagine what that was like for the ballplayers to play for no one but the cameras. For a professional athlete used to playing in a big-time arena, the crowd can be everything. Even when the crowd is against you, it can impact the game—and so those pictures that came out of this one “silent” baseball game were chilling.
The whole sad episode tore me apart. I couldn’t just stay at home and watch it on television. I had to do something, so I went downtown to work with the Baltimore police officers to keep the peace—to do what we could to get the rioters and protestors to dial down their rage and frustration.
I said, “What are we doing? This is not how we solve our problems.”
For whatever reason, folks responded to me on this, so I helped to lead some peaceful protests, helped to quiet some of the noise, to still some of the violence, and as I did I kept thinking back to those low moments in Atlanta. It felt to me like there was some kind of connection, so I wondered at where I’d been, alongside where we now were, and I started to realize that race relations had gotten worse in the fifteen years since those stabbings. This was just my take, I know, but this was how I’d come to see it, and it saddened me to think how things were for our young African American men. It troubled me—not just because of what I had to live through myself, although that’s a part of it. But the world has changed. Back then, I was blamed for a crime I didn’t commit, while today these police officers are lashing out at these kids before a crime is even committed. I suffered the prejudice of judgment. Freddie Gray suffered the prejudice of prejudgment. Might not seem like a big shift—but to me, it’s everything. To me, it’s the world we’ve made for our children, and it scares me to think of these black kids in the hood—what are they supposed to do? Where are they supposed to go? We’ve written them off—same way I was written off all those years ago. Same way Freddie Gray was written off by these six police officers who arrested him and put a beating on him—just because of the color of his skin.
You have to realize, I’ve been listening to this noise for fifteen years, and I’ll probably hear it for the rest of my life, but I’ve learned to tune it out. Oh, I heard it all before Atlanta, but it took on a different tone after my name had been dragged through the papers. And yet what people say about me, it doesn’t affect me. It can’t touch me. I found a way to deal with all that hatred that found me in Pittsburgh my first game back, where I was called a murderer, a nigger, a child killer. How do you deal with that? Man, I don’t wish that kind of hatefulness on anyone—especially the young black males in America who seem to have to face it most of all.
I can’t help but worry for my sons. I worry about how the world sees them, what the world expects of them. I worry about how they’d respond if they found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, up against a wrong-minded individual or group of individuals inclined to write them off—like they did me. Like they did Freddie Gray, Michael Brown, Tamir Rice, Walter Scott, Eric Garner . . .
I don’t know what to do with that worry, but I do know this: rioting is not the answer. No, the way forward is for all our brothers, for all black men to stand and be counted. If you’ve been done wrong, do right. If you’ve been done bad, do good. Be your own man. Live in your own skin. Serve your own God. Know your own mind.
That day at Three Rivers Stadium, the word nigger raining down on me as I sat on the bench, waiting to go back into the game, I turned to one of my teammates and smiled—said, “This ain’t about me.” And, really, it wasn’t. It was about the folks doing the name-calling—it was a place to put their prejudices. That’s all. So I came up with a line I’d end up repeating for the rest of my career, whenever somebody confronted me on this.
I said, “I’m gonna let my smile represent my past, and I’m gonna let my heart represent my future.”
And in those words, there was tremendous power. In those words, there was freedom. Because if I smiled, my enemies would never know what I was thinking. If I smiled, the haters would never know what was in my heart. So even when somebody cursed me, even when somebody wronged me, I would smile anyway, pray anyway. I was good. As long as you didn’t touch me or my kids, I was good.
Look, I know what it’s like to be in pain. I’ve played in pain, trained in pain, lived in pain. Those two and a half weeks in an Atlanta jail cell, it felt to me like I might die in pain. But the greatest pain of all was living every day of my life knowing I didn’t have a father. Knowing I was too small to protect my mother—to see her being hurt. To feel that hurt for her. The pain of other people’s words? The pain of other
people not liking me? Come on—that’s nothing. That time after Super Bowl XXXV, against the Giants, when those Walt Disney folks turned away from me right on the field because they didn’t want to associate with me after I’d been named MVP, didn’t want me saying “I’m going to Disney World!” It bothered me in the moment, can’t lie, but it only bothered me enough to notice. It didn’t bother me enough to get to me—I wouldn’t let it. In fact, a dozen years later, when I stepped away from the game, who came calling to give me a job as a football analyst? ESPN, which of course is part of the Disney company—not exactly the circle of life, but it was the circle of justice, at least. And I was only too happy to smile and go to work for these people and let my heart represent my future.
(Baltimore Ravens/Shawn Hubbard)
Four days before my thirty-fifth birthday on May 12, 2010, I was honored by the city of Baltimore with the naming of a section of North Avenue as “Ray Lewis Way #52.” It was an incredible day that I got to share with my children.
I know that I played the game the way God told me to play it, lived my life the way God told me to live it. And now that I’ve left the game, I’m still cut the same way. When I sweat, I sweat for me. I sweat for my kids. I sweat for my legacy. I sweat for these young men grappling to find a way out of these tough neighborhoods.
A great name is rather chosen than all the riches on this Earth . . .
That’s a line from Proverbs and I find myself thinking on this a lot these days. But what is a great name? If you wake up in the morning trying to please people, you’ve lost the battle. If you spend your time thinking on what folks say about you, you’ve lost the battle. A great name is not that. In Proverbs it goes on to say that it is better to be respected than to be liked. Think on that for a moment. Our current culture is all about being liked. How many likes we have—that’s how we take our measure. There’s no respect button on Facebook—the word itself, it doesn’t even come up. Think about the two words that are everywhere online—like and follow. They’re our currency. But if you’re a child of God, your world should be built on respect and leadership. Real people don’t follow—they lead. Real people don’t need to be liked—they earn our respect.
My mama did one helluva job on me, she did. I’m telling you, she is the reason I am who I am. I respect her. I do. More than anyone else. She was with me all through my career—every down, every game. I could feel her strength, hear her voice. She was with me in the way I mean to be for my children.
And in her presence, I find a great lesson: Be an example. Be a force for good. And know that everyone with a great name has been through something. A great deal of something. It’s not about doing what everybody else is doing. It’s just about being true to yourself. Whatever the majority of people are doing, go ahead and do the opposite—if you know what you’re doing to be right and good and true. Live your legacy. Do your thing.
Walk in a certain light.
I’ve put Atlanta behind me—I’ve let that anger go. And someday—soon, I hope—the folks in Baltimore will let this fresh anger go as well. It doesn’t mean they’ll forget how Freddie Gray was treated. It doesn’t mean they’ll forgive those police officers. But they’ll find a way to let their smiles represent their past, for their hearts to represent their futures.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Of course, I have to start out by thanking my children, who are the driving force in my life. Everything I do, I do for them. Really, from when my oldest was born, there’s not been one moment of my life that has not been for my kids. I might have dedicated this book to their grandmother, but I’ve dedicated my life to my children. So thank you from the bottom of my heart for being my four kings and my three queens.
My brother and sisters, I want to thank all four of them for walking through life together with me, through the ups and downs—I have no better friends in this world than my brother and sisters. To my extended family—my aunts, my uncles, my grandmothers, my grandfathers . . . every bloodline that’s connected to me—there is no me without you. Every story that’s never been told, it flows through you, so I want to thank you as well for being in my heart and keeping me in yours.
To every coach who’s ever coached me, I am in your debt. I never gave up, never even thought about giving up, because these good men rolled into my life. You guys shaped me into becoming the man I am today.
To my hometown of Lakeland, Florida; to the entire community at Kathleen High School; to the University of Miami and all supporters of the U and Hurricane football . . . thank you for lifting me up, raising me, cheering me on.
To the city of Baltimore, we were supposed to be connected. When God connected us, He knew that I would never stop loving this city, and I want to thank the people of Baltimore for loving me and embracing me as one of their own. To the Ravens organization, I’ve been through a lot of things in life, but I want to thank you for your dedication, your friendship, your support, and for your willingness to stand as a first-class organization in everything you do. Steve Bisciotti, Art Modell, Ozzie Newsome, Dick Cass . . . over seventeen years and four contracts, we never had one dispute. Thank you for letting my legacy start and end in Baltimore.
To every teammate I ever played with—from high school all the way to the NFL—I not only want to say thank you but I want to honor you. I don’t care if it was one day of practice or many years of practice, you made an impact on me. You pushed me forward. Like it says in Proverbs 27:17—iron sharpens iron. Thank you, my brothers.
And finally, this book you now hold in your hands didn’t up and happen on its own. I’m grateful to my assistant, Ashley Knight, for helping to organize my life and my thoughts so I could focus on this right here. I’m grateful to Jay Mandel at William Morris Endeavor, and his assistant Lauren Shonkoff, for setting this project in motion. Also to Josh Pyatt at WME, who makes everything possible. And I’m grateful to their WME colleague Mel Berger for introducing us to Dan Paisner, who worked with me to capture my voice and my spirit. Thanks also to Matthew Benjamin and the entire Touchstone team—including David Falk, Brian Belfiglio, Shida Carr, Meredith Vilarello, Elaine Wilson, Martha Schwartz, and Kyle Kabel—for believing in my story and putting it out into the world in such a compelling way. Behind the scenes, I’m especially grateful to my brother Rohan Marley for providing a home-away-from-home in New York—a place where Dan and I could do our work in a relaxed environment. Also, thanks to Rich Berman for taking the time to read the early drafts of this book and weighing in with notes and comments.
• • •
My heart is full—and my life is filled with rich friendships, too many to count. I’m grateful for all of them—for all of you. You are all a blessing to me, and you have my blessings in return.
With my father, Elbert Ray Jackson, and my mom, Sunseria Smith, at the Ravens’ Ring of Honor induction on September 22, 2013. It took quite a journey to get to this moment. (Michael Greene)
One of my first team photos, with the Lakeland Patriots. That’s me, wearing number 40, kneeling at the far left.
A head shot from my sophomore year at Kathleen High School. Guess you could see the fire in my eyes even then.
Here I am running back a turnover in a 1993 game against Virginia Tech at the Orange Bowl in Miami—my freshman season. I’d come into the game for Robert Bass, who went down with a knee injury, and I found a way to show that I belonged on that field. (Photo by Collegiate Images, LLC/WireImage)
A shot of me and all my Hurricane brothers on D: (from left to right) Corwin Francis, C. J. Richardson, Rohan Marley, Warren Sapp, Ray, and Pat Riley. (Bill Frakes/Sports Illustrated/Getty Images)
With my heroes, at a practice during the 2000 season: (from left to right) Jim Brown, Joe Frazier, Spike Lee, and Hank Aaron. (Baltimore Ravens/Phil Hoffmann)
On Draft Day, getting a hug from my grandmother Elease McKinney while talking with my lifelong team, the Baltimore Ravens. (Associated Press)
In Tampa, January 28, 2001, savoring the Super Bowl XXX
V victory over the New York Giants and being named the game’s MVP. (Getty Images)
My comeback dance on January 6, 2013, to open the Ravens’ Wild Card game versus the Colts. (Baltimore Ravens/Shawn Hubbard)
Sacking Tom Brady during the Ravens’ 2012 playoff win versus the Patriots. (Baltimore Ravens/Shawn Hubbard)
At the Superdome in New Orleans, February 3, 2013. Holding up the Vince Lombardi trophy after we won Super Bowl XLVII over the San Francisco 49ers in my last game. (Baltimore Ravens/Shawn Hubbard)
With my children at Diaymon’s sweet sixteen: (from left to right) Diaymon, Rayshad, Rayvyn, and Rahsaan. (Judith A. Dixon, RDJ Photography)
