by Ray Lewis
He said, “Son, I’ve thought about you every day.”
I sat there in the front seat thinking, Really? Thinking, Every day, huh? I didn’t say anything—what was there to say to that?
The whole time, I never once asked where we were going, and he never let on. We were just going. For a while, I thought he only wanted to drive, to keep me trapped like that, a captive audience. Finally, we pulled up at this small green house in the shade of an old oak tree. We got out of the van without saying a word, and I followed my father inside, where we were met by a man older than my father who looked kind of familiar.
My father pointed to him and said, “Ray, this here’s your grandfather.”
I said, “What?”
He said, “Say hello to your grandfather.”
I’d never met this man in my life, never had any reason to even think of him—and here he was. It was a little too much for me to take in just then, felt like I had to lie down for a bit. A moment like this, I could have used a heads-up. It set me off, more than a little. Both these men, they weren’t fathers. Yeah, they were dads, but that’s where the relationship ended. Me, I was a father—other men, fathers. I didn’t care to walk through the muck with these two, telling me why they were the way they were, how they never had what my kids now have. No, that wasn’t how this would go.
No way.
For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why my father had driven me all this way. I mean, on the surface, it was good to lay eyes on my grandfather—Shadie Ray Whitehead. But I couldn’t shake thinking there was something else going on—you know, a way for my father to justify his absence, to show me that this man had not been in his life, and that this would in some way explain why my father had not been in mine.
I liked my granddaddy well enough. And I liked my father fine. We were all in good company. But I could not relate to either one of them as men, so whatever relationship we would build out of this moment, however we would find a way to be with each other, it would start from a place of differences. We shared the same blood. We looked the same. We walked the same, talked the same. But we were not the same—could never be the same.
My grandfather lived in a modest house, in a militant way. He was seventy-three years old, lived by himself. He had his routines—ate the same foods every day, went to bed at the same time every day. Been that way for forty years. There wasn’t a whole lot of furniture, but the place was nice, clean. He didn’t have much, the way things looked, but he didn’t seem to want for much, either. He took care of himself. There were no pictures of me and my sisters, but I could see a bunch of pictures of my father, my uncles, my great-uncles. Some of them had been great athletes, boxers, going all the way back to the time of slavery. There was a lot of family history in these walls, and as soon as I got used to where I was and who all I was with, I let myself take it in.
We had a good connection, me and Shadie Ray. It was a sweet thing, meeting him like this, a healthy thing. We talked and talked—and for the first time since we’d set out from my hotel, my daddy kept quiet. The time flew by, and then we fixed ourselves a little something to eat, and then we drove off. On the way back, there was less talking—probably because it was late and we were both tired. But there was also a lot to think about. It was still a little unreal to me that I was sitting in the front of this vehicle with my father—a man I’d never really met until this day. He said he thought about me every day, and I took that as a lie, but the truth was I’d thought of him every day, and not in a good way. I’d thought of the obstacles he’d placed in my life, in the lives of my mother, my sisters. I’d thought of the ways he failed us. I’d thought of the legacy he left behind—the one I’d worked so hard to erase all through high school. And now here he was, sitting right across from me, close enough to touch. The man looked like me, talked like me, but he was not like me in any way that mattered.
And in that moment I realized I no longer needed to think of him every day—at least, not in the same ways. No, I could think of the man I’d become, instead of the boy I’d been. I could think of my own children. I could pledge to love them even more, be there for them even more, fill up all those spaces in their lives where my daddy should have been in mine.
My own sisters, they wanted nothing to do with this man. They would have told you I was their father, not this man in the front seat with me. I was the one who’d raised them, looked after them, fought for them. Not him. I was the one they came to when there was something going on. But I had to let all of that go. Meeting my grandfather like this and seeing my father like this let me see it was time to let the bitterness slide. My whole life had been bitter. My whole career, I was bitter, angry. It’s how I played the game. I had my mad on, and I laid it out all over that field. But I didn’t need to hold on to that bitterness any longer, I realized. I was good. My mom and my sisters were good, too. No, this man who called himself my father didn’t change a single diaper, didn’t make it to a single one of my games, didn’t lift a single finger for a single moment in the service of a single one of his children. And it wasn’t just me and my twin sisters—he had ten children in all, scattered all over, and I could bet he was just as useless each time out. But I started to think that without this man’s uselessness, I wouldn’t have pushed myself so hard.
So out of that long day in North Carolina, we found a way to reconnect—and I must say, I liked being in my father’s company. Hard as it was for me to believe, a relationship took shape. I didn’t set out looking to keep this man in my life, but here it is. We get along. I look forward to our talks, our visits. It can be a one-sided relationship at times, he tends to call for money more than he calls just to talk, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy hearing the sound of his voice, hearing the richness of his laughter, seeing myself in him. He is the father I am not—meaning, everything I am to my children, for my children, it’s because of what this man was not for me and my sisters. I am the positive to his negative, and I count this as a great good thing.
Very quickly, music became our bond. My daddy loves to sing, and so do I, and every so often we’ll fall into it together. He’ll start in on a hymn or an old gospel song, and I’ll join in. Or maybe it happens the other way around. The music lifts us up and helps the pain of all those absent years melt away. We are not the same, made from different stuff, but when we lift our voices, none of that matters.
Now, it just worked out that one of our favorite movies is The Five Heartbeats, which tells the story of an R&B singing group that folks say was modeled on the Temptations, the Four Tops, and the Dells. We’d each come to the movie on our own, long before that day in North Carolina, but once it came up that it meant something to each of us, separately, we made the time to watch it together. We both knew the story: the lead singer of the group was a character named Eddie Kane Jr., and the first time I saw that movie, long before my daddy and I reconnected, I saw his story as my father’s story. In the movie, Eddie Kane had every gift, same as my daddy. He was good-looking, same as my daddy. He could sing, same as my daddy. He had a way with the ladies, same as my daddy, who went Eddie one better because he was also a great athlete. But they shared the same dark side, because the character in the movie also struggled with drugs and alcohol and all kinds of poor choices, and my daddy was cut this way, too.
In the movie, Eddie Kane’s life is so out of control that the other members of the band kick him out. He’d been the main heartbeat of the Five Heartbeats, but he can’t keep it together, so they continue on without him. That’s how it goes in life, right? Either you can cut it or you can’t. Eddie’s girl, Baby Doll, leaves him when he’s at his worst, but she comes back to him, stays with him, marries him, helps him get the Five Heartbeats back together, too. There’s this rousing moment toward the end, when the group is singing this one song in church, “I Feel Like Going On,” and there was just something about that song, man—it got us going. It sang like an old spiritual, like folks had been singing these words for generations.
Me and my daddy both, we responded to it.
Though the storm may be raging,
And the billows are tossing high,
I feel like going on . . .
That song, it spoke to us. It sang to us, and for a while in there, every time we got on the phone with each other, I started in on this song. Why? Because it tells of the way this man persevered. Though the storms were raging, and he went through some tough, tough times, my daddy kept on keeping on, and I applaud him for staying in the fight. On his side, he feels the same way about me, so we trade off, and when he sings I know he’s thinking of me, and all his other children, and the tough times he put us through. Those billows were tossing high for us—because of him, so he sings to celebrate us.
I feel like going on . . .
Yes, yes I do. Always.
• • •
What I learned from my father was the kind of father I would not be. It was my greatest motivation in life, to be a real father to my children, and I felt it rise in me the first time I held my son Junior in my arms. Ray Lewis III. It was a great day when Junior was born, the ultimate. I was still in school, his mom and I were still together, talking about everything to come. My dream, even then, was to have this big family—ten children, maybe more. I wanted kids running everywhere. I wanted to become the old man sitting on the rocker on the back porch, watching the kids out in the yard. I wanted to be that dude walking down to the creek with a fishing pole on his shoulder and a cigar in his mouth, grandkids tugging at his shirtsleeves, a call coming in telling him that all his children and grandchildren are coming home for the holidays.
And in this moment, first day I held Junior in my arms, all of that was possible. Right there in the hospital, I could see how our lives would go. I was headed to the league. There’d be money coming my way. I could take care of my mama, my sisters, my brother. The game would take care of me and my own little family for a while. I would set things right and break that long run of no-account fathers cutting at my family tree like a buzz saw.
Things didn’t end up working out with Tatyana, Junior’s mom. She wanted to stay in Florida. Oh, she came up to Baltimore from time to time, and for a while it was still looking like we’d find a way to be together as a family, but once Junior started school, that happened less and less. By this time, we had two more boys—Rayshad and Rahsaan—only, we weren’t together in the same way as a family. This was a great sadness to me, but I swore that when I had kids I’d never be out of their lives—and I never have. Never treat them like my father did me—and I never have.
That picture I’d always carried, of me and my great big family? For the longest time, I could close my eyes and see it, but when I open them now the picture looks a little different. My dream of a big family is coming true in new ways—ways I hadn’t figured. They’re at that age where they don’t need me shining a big light on how things are with us and how things aren’t, but let me say that I love them all and can’t imagine a world any different than the one I have with them. I wish I could have my children under my roof, but I’ve found a way to roll with it. Junior, Rayshad, and Rahsaan were down in Florida with their mom most of the time I was playing, but I always found a way to be present without always being present. Their mom knew how important that was to me. And while I was making my life in Baltimore, there came my daughter Diaymon. And then there was my son Ralin and my daughter Rayvyn. Later on, Ralin’s mom had a daughter without me, Kaitlin, and I’ve embraced her as my own as well. So, no, it’s not how I pictured it—seven kids, by four different women. Not even close. But it’s the picture God has taken for me, and so that’s the one I’ve put up on the mantel. That’s the picture I choose to celebrate. I’ve started telling people I’ve got four kings and three queens—all living under different roofs—not my own, but we make it work, we do. One of the ways we make it work is to be present in each other’s lives—fully present. The holidays, that’s our time together. We’ve worked it out with my kids’ moms over the years that we all get together at my house in Baltimore. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Summer vacation.
One thing, though: the game was a drag on those holidays. I loved having all seven kids under one roof for the holiday, together with all my siblings, my mom, my aunts and uncles and cousins, but the way it usually worked during my career was I always had one eye on the clock, one foot out the door. We’d have our celebration, we’d wake up the next morning, all my kids would be piled onto my bed, roughhousing, just being together as a family, and my bags would be all packed, sitting by the door. And then, too soon, I’d have to head out, and my kids would look at me like I was pulling some kind of plug. That’s the great heartache in the life of a professional athlete. Middle of the season, you’re someplace else. Even if you’re around and it works out that your schedule sends you home, your head is someplace else.
Each year, it got harder and harder to walk out that door, and at some point I realized the game will get rid of me after a while. I realized that the life I was in was bigger than just me—and for me, bigger meant my family. And so that first Thanksgiving away from the game in 2013 was a sweet, sweet moment for me and my family. There was no place else I needed to be, nothing else I needed to think about. It felt to me like I’d arrived. My whole life, I’d been working toward something, powering through. But now I was here, at home, my giant family spread all over the house. Wherever I was headed, all those years, I had finally arrived.
Now, I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea—this didn’t mean I was in the kitchen, helping out. Afraid not. You see, in my family, we do it old school. The women, they take charge of the kitchen. The men, we head to the other room, kick back and relax. And let me tell you, it felt good to finally relax.
That first Thanksgiving, my nephews sitting on my lap, my nieces to either side, my kids running every which way, one of them came up to me after a while and said, “Dad, you’re not mad anymore.”
This was true. I’d always been on edge, wired tight. But once the game was gone, there was only this right here—there was only family.
Understand, I haven’t given up on that dream of one big family, all up under one roof. Trouble is, I still haven’t met the one—the woman who’s meant to be my partner on this ride. Sometimes, you get with someone when you’re young and you grow in different ways, on different paths. That’s all. Now that I’m older, a little more set in my ways, I’m hoping to find someone who’s also a little older, a little more set in her ways—and that our ways might fit together. And when that happens, and it will, we’ll start in on another bunch of kids, start filling up the house all over again.
The parenting part, I’ve got that down by now. I know how to be a father to my children. They know my rules. They might get away with this and that when they’re at home with their mamas, but when they’re in my house we go a certain way. We don’t watch R-rated movies. We don’t listen to music that degrades my daughters and pushes my sons toward a lifestyle that doesn’t fit with who we are. We’re clear on that.
We carve out our special times together—and in between those special times, I’m back and forth to wherever they are, taking in their games, driving them to school, getting something to eat—whatever I can do to stay in their faces, in their heads, in their hearts. In our own way, we live as if we’re all up under the same roof, and when it works out that they’re under my roof—well, then things go a certain way. My kids know that when they live with me, they live by my rules, and just so we’re clear on what those rules are, I put them up on the fridge.
On the fridge, it says:
WE WILL ALWAYS PRAY TOGETHER BEFORE BED
WE WILL ALWAYS EAT TOGETHER AT THE TABLE
WE WILL FIND SOME TIME TO READ A BOOK EACH AND EVERY DAY
WE WILL ALWAYS DROP OUR PHONES ON DADDY’S DRESSER AT TEN O’CLOCK EACH NIGHT—UNLESS SOMEBODY ELSE IS PAYING FOR IT
If you stick to what’s on the fridge, you’re good. But there are also plenty of other rules in my house that are
clear and easy to enforce: about homework and working out, and how much television they can watch when living in my house. When my children are back with their mamas, there’s not a whole lot I can do, but I like to think I’m instilling a mind-set in them, a work ethic that lets them stick to most of these rules even when I’m not around to check up on them.
All in all, we’re one big happy family, in our own way, and it all flows from the patterns my father could not set for me. It comes from my own mother, who had to be both a mother and a father. It comes from the strength of family I felt with my brother and sisters. It comes from knowing the hurt that was visited on me and my family by these other men. It comes from the promise I made to myself in childhood that I would not live a day in my father’s name and that I would not raise a child by his example. The fact that we’ve made repairs to our relationship and found a way to enjoy each other’s company doesn’t change the pain this man caused us all those years. It doesn’t erase the past. But it does help me to set that past aside and look ahead—because, got to say, I feel like going on. Whatever it is I’ve been put on this earth to do, I’m not done yet.
I feel like going on.
I do.
I will.
I must.
TWELVE
“This Ain’t Over”
Man deals with the possible . . .
God deals with the impossible . . .
Those were my words to our team doctor, Leigh Ann Curl, when she checked me out on the sidelines that day in Baltimore. October 14, 2012. The day I busted up my triceps in the sixth game of the 2012 season, a season I knew would be my last. When I said those words to the doc she looked at me like I was plain crazy. She could see what my arm looked like just then. She could see the injury was bad upon bad—said she didn’t need an MRI to tell her what was plain as day. Said she knew from experience that people my age don’t recover from that kind of injury.