I Feel Like Going On

by Ray Lewis

  That deck of cards I kept flipping, it sure wasn’t stacked in my favor. And now, after all that, it started to feel like things were about to change. There was money coming, a baby coming, a whole new chapter about to start.

  Coming from where I come from, going to the league was like going to the promised land. This was the NFL, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. This was hope and glory. If I played it right and smart, it meant that all those worries that had been dogging my family would just disappear. Just hearing my name called on draft day, it would change everything, so that was my thinking, spring of my junior year. It wouldn’t bring back those folks I lost—no way, no how. It wouldn’t put all those Christmas presents we never had back under the tree. But it would set things right, here on in. That was where I was coming from, and one of the great joys of being on the verge like that was the chance to experience it with my great friends—because, let’s be honest, life was about to change for a lot of them, too. The people I was running with at that moment, the people I was playing football with right then, they had a shot, same as me.

  It was all good, all around.

  Probably my closest friend at Miami was Marlin Barnes—we roomed together freshman year, stayed joined at the hip from that point on. He played linebacker, same as me, and we were cut in a lot of the same ways. Junior year, we were living with Earl Little, one of our cornerbacks, and Trent Jones, one of our running backs. We were set up the same way as freshmen, as sophomores. Why mess with a good thing, right? We were a wild group—only, we weren’t reckless wild, like most everyone else we knew. No, we were just plain wild. Had a lot of good times together. We stayed home a lot, played a lot of cards—only, we didn’t play for money. We played for push-ups. The loser had to work.

  One of the first things we bonded over, me and Marlin, was this idea that football was a game changer for us. Already, it had gotten us into college—something we had no reason to count on, no reason to even think about when we were growing up. Yeah, we were just freshmen, backing up the first string, but we knew our time would come. We knew the game could take us someplace special. So we made a promise to ourselves: whoever made it to the league first, the two of us would get a truck, take a ride to Black Beach Week in Daytona, and celebrate together.

  This was the size of our dreams, back then—but, one thing you have to realize, to us, Black Beach Week was the pinnacle. Black Beach Week was just an all-out party. But who had time for that sort of thing when we were playing ball, trying to get by? This year, me declaring for the draft like that, it was time to make good on this promise. I’d already gotten myself a big old truck—a black Chevy Suburban, first real set of wheels I’d ever owned. I already had a big old pile of cash—an “advance” on my future earnings. So me and Marlin, we started making plans.

  I said, “Red, I got the Suburban ready.”

  (Don’t know why, but he was always “Red” to me—to a lot of the guys on the team.)

  I said, “I got a couple cases of Heinekens and a pocketful of money. Let’s go.”

  He said, “What time you want to head out in the morning?”

  Now, it was just me, coming out that year. Red, he was planning to come back to Miami for his senior year. He still had some things he needed to do on the football field, wanted to get his degree. He had plans, man. So this road trip, it was on me. I was spending all that money I was about to earn—livin’ large, before I had a right to it—which was how I got the truck.

  We set a time, but Red said he had something he had to do over at his mama’s house first, so he wanted me to pick him up over there. First, I went and gassed up the truck, did a couple other things to get ready. Next thing I knew, Red beeped me on my pager—yep, in those days, that’s how we stayed in touch. I called him back and he said he was running late. Said there were still some things he had to do over at his mama’s.

  Wasn’t anything for me to do but wait, so I told him I’d wait. It was just the two of us. We were only going to kick back, let off some steam. There’d be plenty of time for that.

  This was all on a Friday morning—April 12, 1996. The plan was for us to stay the weekend, then head back home and get ready for draft week. There was a lot going on, there’d been a lot going on, but we had it all figured out.

  After another while, there was another page from Red. This time he said, “You go ahead without me, man. I don’t want to hold you up.”

  I said, “Hold me up? What’s the matter with you, Red? I don’t even need to go to Beach Week. This is just something we always talked about. If there’s a problem, we can find something else to do, maybe go another time.”

  He said, “No, man. I really want you to go. For both of us, I want you to go. We been talking about it for so long. It’s important.”

  I said, “Bro, you sure?”

  He said, “You always had this plan. You should go.”

  He was right, you know. I did always have this plan. It meant something. So I went—headed off, anyway. About an hour or two later, I was riding north on I-95, my beeper went off again. It was Red—couldn’t think why he’d be calling. I pulled over first chance and called him back. Turned out he was looking for this tight white shirt I used to wear, wanted to borrow it for a party he was planning to go to later that night. No big thing.

  I said, “Party? What party?” This was the first I was hearing about a party.

  He said, “Louis Oliver, he’s having a party at the beach. I’m thinking of going through.”

  Louis Oliver was a safety for the Miami Dolphins, went to school at the University of Florida. We had some friends in common, so it sounded like a good time. But me and Red, we had a rule. We never went out in Miami without each other. Why? Because there was trouble round every corner, man. Freshman year and sophomore year we’d had some problems. Nothing major—just knucklehead problems. Dudes kicking up some dust, talking trash. Dudes jealous of how the girls would all seem to line up for us—because, can’t lie, we had it going on. Oh my goodness. We were fit as hell, big men on campus, all of that. Going out to the clubs, we always had each other’s backs. A private party like this—that was another deal, but we all knew how these private parties went down. You’d start out one place and end up another, probably at a club.

  I said, “Louis Oliver, for real? If you’re going to that party then I’m turning around. You know how it is.”

  He said, “I know how it is, Ray. And how it is, you should go to Daytona.”

  I said, “I’m coming back. I’m going to the party with you.”

  He said, “Up to you, man.”

  So I got off at the next exit and doubled back to Miami—but then, about an hour later, Red paged me again. It was crazy, him calling and calling like that. Something was up, but he wasn’t saying. All he said this time was, “Bro, I ain’t gonna make it. Why don’t you turn back around and hit Beach Week?”

  By this time, I was almost back to Miami, but Red was pretty clear he wasn’t up for a party, so I just figured I’d turn around, start all over again for Daytona. I was like a yo-yo, man. Up and down I-95.

  Finally, I made it to Daytona. I had my two cases of Heinekens and a couple thousand dollars in crisp hundreds in my glove compartment. I was good to go, ready to kick back. Remember, there was all this good stuff about to happen. Draft day was coming. I’d been working out, talking to a couple teams. So there was a whole lot to celebrate. Trouble was, I didn’t really know anybody at Black Beach Week. Oh, there were folks I knew to say hello, but none of my good friends were there, so I sat in my fine new truck as the sun was setting that first night, sipping my beer, checking out the scene, thinking things through. After a while, I got out of the car, started walking around, and sure enough there were some familiar faces up and down the beach. Folks from Lakeland, from Miami. All over. I wasn’t really feeling it, was thinking about turning around and heading back to Miami that night, but I’d been drinking a little and it was a six-hour drive, so I knew this wasn’t a good
idea.

  It ended up, I ran into one of my homeboys, he said I could just chill in his room, so that’s what I did—only, I still wasn’t feeling it. There were these cute girls hanging around with our group, everybody was messing around, but I was kind of hanging back, you know. My head was someplace else. One of the girls finally said to me, “Baby, what’s wrong?”

  I said, “I honestly don’t know. Something’s not right with me.”

  Midnight came, and I was still on the outside looking in. One o’clock passed, then two o’clock. Same thing. By three o’clock, everybody had kind of paired off or fallen asleep, and I was just sitting by myself, sipping my Heinekens, wondering why I was in such a funk. This was supposed to be the time of my life, right? I was about to turn twenty. I was about to get drafted. I had my family all set up. We were in a good place, finally. There was money coming my way, a baby coming my way. But I couldn’t loosen up for trying.

  Then my phone started ringing and my first thought was, Dang, Red! It’s five o’clock in the morning!

  But it wasn’t Red. No, it was Randy Shannon.

  I called him back—said, “Randy, what you doing up at this hour?”

  He said, “It’s Red. He’s no longer with us.”

  I said, “Red get himself kicked off the team? What the hell did my boy do?”

  He said, “No, Ray. You’re not hearing me. It’s Marlin. They found him dead this morning in your apartment.”

  I didn’t think I’d heard Randy straight, but of course I knew I had. Deep down, I knew. Oh man, I knew. Whatever happened, it was tied in to the funk I’d been in all night long. It’s like my head wasn’t on straight for a reason.

  Still, I fought the truth. I said, “Wait a minute, Randy. Hold on. My roommate Marlin? My boy? This is what you tellin’ me?”

  He said, “This is what I’m telling you, Ray. I’m so sorry.”

  I couldn’t think—couldn’t think what to say or what to do. But also, couldn’t think.

  I stormed out of that hotel room, busted a hole in the wall on my way out, headed straight for my truck—I’m telling you, I lost it. Like, completely lost it. Somehow, I had the presence of mind to pull into a gas station on my way out of town. I hadn’t been drinking all that much, but this call from Randy, it sobered me up, straightaway. I was clear, wide-eyed, awake as hell, and full-on grieving. My phone, it kept ringing. My beeper, it kept going off. But I wasn’t picking up. I just drove. Only time I reached for my phone was to call Red. It made no sense, but I kept dialing his number.

  That whole ride back to Miami, it passed in a blur. I remember getting on the highway, setting up in the slow lane, putting the car on cruise control. Turned the radio all the way up. And then I cried and cried.

  • • •

  It’s been twenty years, and I still can’t think back on that day without tearing up. But I’m pushing myself here because I want the world to know we lost a good man that day, in a senseless way. I want the world to know the tug and pull that finds you when good things are about to happen—because when good things are about to happen, the bad things can’t be too far off. Joy and sorrow. They’re two halves of the same whole. If you hope to celebrate, you had better expect to grieve. I’m sorry, but you can’t have one without the other. You just can’t. Because that’s not living.

  Like I said, I didn’t know what normal looked like. I’d lost too many people close to me. And other people close to me, I never even had them to lose.

  Wasn’t just Red we lost that day—no, it was Timwanika Lumpkins, too, his good friend since just about forever. Me and T spent a lot of time together. She was a special spirit, a special person. We dated for a while—but T and Red, they weren’t together like that. In fact, Red had just started seeing this other girl, Lisa, and things were starting to get serious. But T had a history, she did, and it was that history that came into play that Friday night. She’d had a baby by this man named Labrant Dennis, and he was out looking for her. Don’t know why he was looking for T, what set that in motion, but there he was, and how it shook out was he beat them both to death with the butt end of a twelve-gauge shotgun. The report said Labrant Dennis struck Red twenty-two times, and then he turned and did T the same way.

  It was Earl Little who found them. He came back to the apartment, late, noticed his tires had been slashed, raced upstairs to get his keys and see what the deal was, but when he tried to open the door it wouldn’t go. He pushed it open a crack and saw Red laying there, all covered in blood. Then he saw T.

  For the longest time, me and Earl, we tried to figure out what went down. The police kept saying there was only one man involved, that Labrant Dennis was acting alone, but this made no sense to us. If you knew Red, you knew he didn’t back down. He was a big dude. The only thing that would have stopped him was a gun—but if it was just that one bad guy, acting alone, Red would have taken his chances. A punk like that puts a gun on you, that time of night, that kind of spot, only way it ends is you getting killed. Ain’t no talking. Might as well take your chances. So there had to be someone else in that apartment. Had to be.

  But we’ll never know.

  I was tore up, man. Beside myself. Outside myself. I couldn’t get my head around what happened. So what did I do? I left. Not right away, but I don’t remember how we passed those terrible hours on Saturday. Talking to Red’s family. Talking to the police. Talking to my roommates, my teammates. It was another blur. But then at some point I was back in the truck, headed to Lakeland. Don’t know why. To this day, I can’t think what I was looking for back home, can’t remember what I did while I was there. Only thing I know was I shut off my phone, shut off my beeper.

  I checked out, man.

  • • •

  Meanwhile, there was the draft, peeking out of this dark cloud. All these years, it was something to look forward to, but now that it was here it didn’t much matter. Red, he would have wanted me to get into it like we’d always talked about, but my heart was just shattered. It felt to me like maybe I was cheating on Red’s memory, looking for something to celebrate so soon after he’d been killed—even though, I knew, Red would have told me I’d worked too hard not to celebrate.

  So I went through the motions. All those weeks, leading up to Black Beach Week, there was a lot of talk. Teams calling, folks wanting to know about my character, my conditioning. I didn’t go to the scouting combine, didn’t think I had anything to prove in that kind of setting, but I did work out for a couple teams. I went to the weigh-ins, all these little procedures they had set up.

  A lot of the talk had to do with my size, because by NFL standards I guess I was a little short, a little light. But that was the knock on me when I started at Miami, right? Made no difference in how I played, but it made a difference to these experts, these coaches. I went to one of those meat-market weigh-ins, and Bill Cowher walked by—the head coach of the Pittsburgh Steelers. He stood in front of me as I took off my shirt and stepped on the scale—said, “Wow.” Meaning, you know, that I was cut, ripped, whatever . . .

  Then I stepped up to where they measure your height, and the person calling out the measurements said, “Six foot w-w-w . . .” You know, like they were caught between saying six foot even and six foot one.

  Coach Cowher, he looked on and kinda smiled. He caught my eye and said, “That’s a little short.”

  So I smiled back and said, “Ain’t nothing tall ever won no championship.”

  He said, “What you mean?”

  I said, “We’ll see, Coach. We’ll see.”

  He started to walk off, but he turned back and said, “I’ll remember you, Ray Lewis.”

  At the U, they did this thing where all these former Hurricanes would come back and watch you work out. It was like an alumni ritual, and the older players would take the time to encourage you, tell you how things would go. And then, some of the scouts around the league, they’d come by to check you out—like our own little combine.

  In those weeks leadi
ng up to the draft, before we lost Red and T, I was going back and forth, talking to all these folks—folks from Green Bay, most of all. The Packers had the twenty-seventh pick, and they were looking at me, hard.

  There was a lot of talk about my speed. I ran the forty so many times, it felt like a hundred miles of auditions. Back of my head, I had to clock a 4.5 or better to cut down all that talk about my size. Told myself a 4.5 would put me solidly in the first round. But each time out, I was off by just a little bit: 4.55, 4.52, 4.61 . . .

  I was determined to beat the number, so every time a scout asked me to run, I took off. The guy working me out from Green Bay, he said, “Man, you’re the only one ain’t scared to run.”

  I said, “Because it don’t matter.”

  For him, I finally got my time: 4.45.

  But that was when I was riding high, headed off to Daytona with my boy Red, headed off to the league, knowing I was a lock for the first round. That was when I was running in the light.

  • • •

  It worked out that the day of the draft was the day of Red’s funeral. The whole time we were burying Red, I don’t think I took my sunglasses off, not once. There were too many tears, man. Just too many tears.

  All through that day, I kept those glasses on, even when I got to this little suite my agent had set up for me at Dolphin Stadium, which back then was known as Joe Robbie Stadium. Wasn’t that I was embarrassed to be crying—because I had every reason to be crying. No, it’s just that I didn’t want to lock eyes with anyone. You make eye contact, then that person has to say something about Marlin, something about T, and I didn’t want to go through all of that, just then. I wanted to keep what I was feeling to myself—to keep what I was feeling to a minimum. That’s the only way I could get through this low, low time, to shut those feelings all the way down—kept telling myself there’d be plenty of time for feelings later.