Centered

by Jason Brown

  Rook

  I was rich. I was heading to play for a franchise that, just a few years before, had won a Super Bowl. And I won’t lie: I was excited about it all. My hard work and dedication had paid off. I was going to play professional football, a vocation that millions would envy. But even then, I was worried about the implications.

  The NFL season starts around the middle of July, when training camp begins. The Baltimore Ravens held their own training camp back then at McDaniel College, located in a Baltimore suburb called Westminster. Now, if you know anything about that area of the country, you know how hot and muggy it gets in summer. It can be miserable to even step outside, much less spend hours in that heat, running up and down in full pads. The humidity is so terrible that ESPN even did a story on it one year. It’s even hard to breathe in weather like that. The air just presses down on your shoulders and sometimes feels as though it might suffocate you.

  We weren’t the only ones out there in that heat. Ravens fans are true fanatics. Thousands would show up to watch us practice, suffering through all that heat and humidity just to have a chance to say hi or get an autograph. So, naturally, players are encouraged to shake a few hands and sign a few autographs when practice is done.

  I was a rookie offensive lineman. No one was spending hours in the heat to see me. Fans wanted to talk with Jamal Lewis, who two years before ran for 295 yards in a single game, or Todd Heap, a two-time Pro Bowl tight end called the Stormin’ Mormon. They wanted to see Jonathan Ogden and Ed Reed, who both have since been inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame, or Deion Sanders, another Hall of Fame legend, who was finishing out his career in Baltimore. And they especially wanted to see linebacker Ray Lewis, perhaps the greatest linebacker to ever play the game.

  These were some of the NFL’s biggest heroes. Football gods. I was just a fourth-round draft pick. And that gave me time to look around a little.

  One afternoon while we were over at one end of the field where all the fans gathered to meet the players, I looked over across the field to the other side. There I saw a man standing all by himself. I could barely see him through all the humidity. There was a haze blanketing the practice field, and it made me wonder whether I was seeing him at all. So I turned more fully toward him and put my hand to my forehead, trying to shield my eyes from the glare of the sun, just trying to make out who or what I was seeing.

  And then I knew: it was Jesus.

  I heard Him speaking to me—not across the field, but in my heart.

  Who is going to follow Me? He asked. Who is going to follow Me?

  I know there’ll be doubters out there. Maybe I was a little hazy myself because of the heat. Maybe the image was just some fan who got lost. Skeptics could figure out a thousand different ways to brush that moment away.

  But I know what I saw. And I realized, in that moment, what a challenge God had given me. He’d brought me into a game, a profession, that is surrounded with rampant idolatry. I heard those fans holler for autographs, and I knew that for many of them, those players—those Baltimore Ravens—were their idols. They’d wear their jerseys. They’d hang up posters in their bedrooms and man caves. They’d scream on Sundays for the players to save the game. For a few fans, a player like Ray Lewis might as well walk on water.

  I thought about all the children who grew up watching those games, who grew up loving their favorite players. Just because I was a Baltimore Raven—because I wore the jersey and played on that green field—I was, in a way, idolized too. I was no Ray Lewis, but I was a Raven. And I remembered what Matthew 18:6 said about those little children: “Whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a great millstone fastened around his neck and to be drowned in the depth of the sea.”

  That plagued me for a while, because I was a little guilty of idolatry too.

  Ray Lewis might be one of the most passionate football players I’ve ever met. Every game day, Ray would watch the movie Gladiator on a portable DVD player as he got ready for the game. As Russell Crowe’s gladiator Maximus Decimus Meridius suited up, so would Ray. As Maximus fired himself up to enter the arena, so would Ray. They both got ready for battle—to entertain the masses with their sweat and blood.

  It was hard to look at Ray Lewis—at the time a two-time Defensive Player of the Year and Super Bowl MVP—and not idolize him a little. My rookie year, that was the guy I was going to have to face at almost every practice. It was kind of intimidating.

  Then one day while we were in the locker room, a light bulb went off for me. I saw Ray putting on his armor, just like I did. He put on his socks, and I put on my socks. He put on his jockstrap, and I put on my jockstrap. He had to lace up his shoes the same way that I had to lace up mine. Underneath all that armor, he was a man. Just like everybody else.

  Most people see their superheroes only in uniform. We don’t see them when they’re vulnerable. But I did. I saw Ray when he got treatment for all the bruises he’d suffered on game day. I saw him in the cold tub from being so sore. And, for me, that leveled the playing field.

  He’s just a man, I thought to myself. Just like I am.

  The next day at practice, the coach called a play where I was supposed to go to the next level—and that meant squaring off against Ray Lewis.

  And I pancaked him. I didn’t just block him. I knocked him down and fell on top of him, eliminating him from the play.

  We got back to the huddle, and Tony Pashos—a third-year offensive tackle and a good friend of mine on the team—pulled me in.

  “Jason,” he said, “what did you just do?”

  “I just did my job; that’s what I did.”

  “No,” he said. “No. You don’t do that.”

  “What do you mean, ‘You don’t do that’?” I asked.

  “You don’t pancake Ray Lewis,” Tony told me, showing a wisdom beyond his youth.

  I was still puzzling over this when the next play was called—the very same play that we’d run just a minute before. I’d need to face Ray again.

  I came through to the next level, getting ready to block Ray. But then, an instant before I could get my hands on him, he somehow juked to the side, grabbed the tail end of my jersey from my back, and pulled it over my helmet. And then he threw me to the ground. Hard.

  So there I was, my arms flopping around like stalks of grain in a strong breeze. I couldn’t see anything because the tail of my jersey was covering my eyes. I flailed around like a 320-pound fish on the riverbank. And when I finally freed myself of the jersey, I saw Ray staring at me with a look that Maximus Meridius himself would’ve been proud of.

  He didn’t say a word, but his eyes said, Rook, show some respect.

  I didn’t say a word. But my eyes said, Yes sir.

  Ray Lewis was just a man. He still is. But even men deserve a level of honor too.

  New Lives

  After a rough 2005, my rookie season, we won thirteen regular-season games in 2006, losing just three. It was the best regular-season record in the franchise’s history, a mark that wouldn’t be topped until 2019.

  My career was beginning to click. Although the travel was tough and the time we spent apart from each other painful, Tay and I were trying to do the best we could under the circumstances. I spent as much time at home in North Carolina as I could during the off-season (roughly February through July). It was far harder for me to get back during the football season, but I drove home as often as I could. Whenever Tay had a break, she tried to drive up to Baltimore to see me. But you just can’t get much quality time in those short, unreliable visits.

  But we were both excited to welcome a third member of our family.

  The Ravens had just finished playing in Buffalo, New York, on October 21. It was the last game before our bye week, which meant that I had almost a week of rest and re
cuperation time before the team would start formally preparing for our November 5 game against the Pittsburgh Steelers. I was looking forward to spending that week with my very pregnant wife. As soon as the team got back to Baltimore, I made the five-hour drive down to North Carolina. I didn’t even tell her I was coming back home that night.

  When I pulled into the driveway, her car wasn’t there. No lights in the house were on. She wasn’t answering her phone.

  In desperation, I called Tay’s best friend to find out what was going on.

  “Oh, hey, Jason,” she said sweetly. “I’m with Tay. In the hospital.”

  Tay had gone into labor that morning. She didn’t tell me because she didn’t want to distract me from the game.

  Think football players are tough? They don’t have anything on my wife.

  Two days later, JW came into the world. I call him my first-begotten son.

  With JW’s arrival, I wanted to be home even more. But the NFL doesn’t give paternity leave. We finished out our 5–11 season that year, then went 11–5 the following year. But to be part of that successful season, I was doing something I promised myself I would never do.

  You remember my daddy issues: I knew what it was like to grow up without a father in the house. I knew what it was like to see my dad just every now and then. He sacrificed his time with us to provide for us. His job in DC allowed us to buy a slightly nicer house, to drive slightly better cars, to afford a few luxuries. But back then, when I was missing him so much, I didn’t care about any of those things. You can’t put a price tag on the time you spend with your father.

  And here I was, doing exactly what my dad had done. I was a great provider, but I knew in my heart that I wasn’t being a great father.

  About a year after JW was born, and at the beginning of that successful 2008 season, I was preparing to leave for Baltimore again. Tay was still working her way through dental school, and I’d just dropped JW off at the babysitter’s house, just like I’d done countless times. I said goodbye, just like I’d done countless times. But somehow my son—even though he couldn’t even walk yet—knew that this goodbye was different. As soon as I put him down, he was bawling—wailing as loud as he could with those little baby lungs of his. He was clawing at my legs. He was crying so hard that he couldn’t even get out the word no, but I knew what he was saying to me.

  Daddy, don’t leave me, he was saying. Please don’t leave me.

  But I did. It tore my heart out, but I turned and walked away. I didn’t stop. I didn’t stay. And in that moment, I felt like I had abandoned my child.

  When I tell that story, some people think I’m laying it on a little thick. Oh, that’s so dramatic, they tell me. They remind me that this experience isn’t unique. Many mothers and fathers work. Lots of children spend much of their time with babysitters or at day-care centers. People go to work every single day and sacrifice that time so their families can have bread on the table and clothes on their backs.

  Just like my father did. Just like I was doing.

  I get why both parents work, why they leave their children with babysitters and day-care centers and preschool. I really do. But man, when I look at the state of families today—all the brokenness experienced in so many homes—I believe it’s often because our priorities aren’t where they’re supposed to be. Look at the shattered families, the divorce rates, the rise in anxiety and depression in kids. Is it because we, as parents, sometimes focus on the wrong things? That we focus on the worldly treasure, and we overlook the priceless, living gifts that God has given us? Does anything—even an NFL career, even a Super Bowl ring—compare with a great day with our children? Does a seven-figure bank account outweigh the time we could spend with our kids playing catch or fishing or just talking? I don’t think so.

  Breaking the Bank

  My NFL career was shaping up just like my agent said it would. I started all sixteen games at center in 2008, that 11–5 campaign, and I helped turn Baltimore into one of the league’s top rushing offenses. We went to the playoffs again, ultimately losing to the Steelers in the AFC Championship Game. We were one game away from the Super Bowl, but by any measure, we had a successful season. I still had that reputation of being one tough son of a gun, a guy without an ounce of quit in him. And as I went into free agency, I was considered the top interior offensive lineman available.

  The St. Louis Rams, a team that had gone 5–27 the previous two years, were looking for some heavyweight help, and they turned to me. The Rams pulled out their checkbook and signed me to a five-year, $37.5 million contract, making me the highest-paid center in NFL history at that time. I was the team’s first pickup—the first piece to what new head coach Steve Spagnuolo hoped would be a successful rebuilding effort.

  “There was no question he was going to be the guy we were going to focus on at that position,” Coach Spagnuolo told the Associated Press after I signed. “I’m just glad it all fell in place like it did.”

  Tay finished dental school the same year I wrapped up my time in Baltimore. It freed us both up to move to St. Louis, to build a real home. No more commuting back and forth between cities. And although the life of an NFL player is never normal, it looked as though we were getting closer to some semblance of normalcy. I’d come home from a day at the “office” and spend the evening with my wife and son. It wasn’t The Brady Bunch, maybe, but I hoped that we were on the way to feeling like a family—a real family.

  Looking back, I don’t think our priorities were right on target. We were going to be a family on our terms. Like the great philosopher the Notorious B.I.G. once said, “Mo money, mo problems.”

  Every strong family needs a place to live—a family home—so we bought a house: a ridiculous twelve-thousand-square-foot mansion with marble fireplaces and exotic wood floors and two massive bars. We didn’t drink, but it didn’t matter. I stocked those bars with every high-shelf bottle of liquor available, right down to a $1,500 crystal bottle of Louis XIII cognac.

  When I wasn’t playing football, we also went to church every week, putting on our best clothes and heading off to the service, just like a good family is supposed to do. We looked the part of the perfect American family on Sunday mornings—a perfect power couple with their adorable little boy. But Monday through Saturday, our lives were anything but perfect.

  Everything looked like it had fallen into place for us, but Tay and I weren’t clicking the way we used to. The time apart had taken a toll on our relationship, and we lost the humility and grace we used to give each other. We were prideful, arrogant.

  I was a big, important football player. Everyone was telling me how great I was. But Tay didn’t see it. Why couldn’t she see how wonderful I was? Why couldn’t she see what everyone else saw in me? Meanwhile, Tay—Dr. Brown now—was ready to be respected as well, and she wanted me to show her that respect. And if I didn’t show it sufficiently? There’d be problems. We were fighting all the time, it seemed. We felt out of sync.

  We’d pursued our dreams. We’d reached our goals. We’d achieved everything we’d worked so hard to achieve when we were poor, happy college students. But our success—all the wealth and fame and respect we thought would make everything great—actually made it harder to live with each other. Individually, we’d done everything we’d wanted to do. But our marriage, our family, was hurting. And no one knew it but us.

  Faith and family, we’d always said. Faith and family. Those were supposed to be our priorities. I think we still paid lip service to them. But our actions? Our attitudes? Our pride? Anyone who looked closely at our lives could see that our real priorities were different.

  Man in the Mirror

  It was May 5, 2010. My birthday. I woke up in our mansion, pushed the thousand-thread-count sheets off my body, put my feet on the exotic wood floor, and shuffled off to the bathroom. I should’ve been happy. I turned twenty-seven
that day, and it seemed as though I’d already given myself every worldly gift possible. My presents were all around me.

  But I found myself thinking about Ducie. He was twenty-seven years old when he died. I thought about what I’d done in my life and what he’d done. I realized I couldn’t compare the two. I was playing a game for a living. I was in the entertainment business, giving people three hours of distraction on a Sunday afternoon. Ducie had lived a life of service.

  People always told me that I looked a lot like my brother, especially when we smiled. But when I looked at our lives—how we lived them, what those lives said about our values and priorities—I realized they didn’t look much alike at all.

  I looked in the mirror. And I saw Ducie.

  You know what that reflection told me? The same thing that bratty, snotty-nosed kid had told Ducie years before, right after losing a race.

  What are you doing with your life that’s so great? the reflection said. What are you doing with your life that’s so awesome?

  I knew in my spirit what the answer was: nothing.

  * * *

  ···

  “Keep your eye on the ball.” Almost every coach in almost every sport says that. For most athletes, it’s rule number one. But in football, that feels especially true, even when the ball isn’t actually moving. In the moment before the snap, every eye is focused on that football. Every offensive player is listening for the quarterback to call for the snap. Every defensive player is focused on that ball, waiting for it to move out of the center’s hands. Every man, woman, and child watching the game—be it a field of three hundred or a stadium filled with eighty thousand—is waiting, almost breathlessly, for the ball to move.

  All the action centers on that weird-shaped, blown-up piece of pigskin. I guess it makes sense that the guy who sets it all in motion, every snap, would be called the center. He is, in a way, the center of that tiny, self-contained world of sport at that moment, in the pause before the storm.