by Ray Lewis
No, it wasn’t. Not by a long shot. And now that I was back in the mix, it was time to get down to it. To deliver on that promise. But then we went and lost back-to-back games, to Pittsburgh and Washington—that second one also in overtime—and I started to realize my team needed me in the mix more and more.
Still, at 9–4, we remained in control. A playoff spot was ours if we wanted it. Of course, it helped that year that there was a ton of parity in the AFC. At least, that’s what the so-called experts and prognosticators called it. Me, I called it mediocrity. There were a lot of weak teams, up and down the league. If you look at the final standings, you’ll see that there were only six teams in the conference to finish above .500, and all six of those teams went on to the playoffs.
At 9–4, only three games left to play, we were close to a lock, but we couldn’t count on making the playoffs just yet. We had some work to do, had to win at least one more game to clinch, and it was right after that overtime loss to Washington that I started thinking about getting back into a game. I wasn’t ready to play just yet, but I was ready to put a plan in place, and it worked out that Ravens owner Steve Bisciotti happened to call that week as I was doing my stretches. I had my daughter Diaymon with me, and we just happened to be talking through my return when my phone started vibrating.
Diaymon and Junior were the only two people I’d let in on my thinking about this being my last year. Even now, all this time later, they were the only ones who knew for sure what I was fixing to do. Now that there was all this talk, all this speculation, they’d become my sounding boards—don’t know that they wanted that role, but I appreciated their advice, knew they had my best interests at heart. So here I was, telling my daughter that I thought I was ready to play, and she was trying to convince me to hold out a little bit longer, to get a little bit stronger. Me, my whole focus was on helping the team. I didn’t care about my injury. I only wanted to lift these boys to the greatness that was ours—whatever it cost me. As long as I could lift my arm and get it to do what I needed it to do, I could play.
Diaymon saw it a different way. She said, “No, Daddy. You should come back in the playoffs.” Like she knew what was best for me, best for the team—best for the fans, even.
She had my back, this one—an eye for a big spot, too. She knew what it cost me, what I’d put myself through, getting myself ready after my surgery. Last thing she wanted was for me to come back in a meaningless game and maybe get hurt, knock myself back out before there was anything on the line.
But better believe these last couple games mattered. Until we clinched, every game mattered—especially if we wanted to lock up home-field advantage. The reality, though, was we only needed to qualify for the playoffs. Everything else would flow from earning this spot—because I had a vision. Because I knew.
Steve Bisciotti was thinking the same way, it turned out. I told him where I was in my rehab, how close I was to being ready. He said, “You should pull a Willis Reed”—meaning, I should find some dramatic moment in the playoffs to step back onto the field and lift my teammates, just by showing up. But this was another something I didn’t want. Nothing against Willis Reed, a great competitor, but the man was hobbled. Think back to that Game Seven of the 1970 NBA Championships. Willis Reed could barely move, but just by being on the court he was able to jump-start the New York Knicks and send them on to a championship. It was a great, great moment. No doubt. A storybook ending to a storybook season. No doubt. But I’m sorry, that wasn’t my thing. I didn’t want to just show up. I didn’t want to play hobbled. It wasn’t enough to just inspire my teammates. Hell no. I wanted to lift my team on my back and carry us to the Super Bowl.
(Michael Greene)
With current Ravens owner Steve Bisciotti, another great supporter.
I wanted to contribute—anything short of that, what was the point?
We decided I’d remain on the sidelines for our home game against the Denver Broncos that weekend. We’d take it one game at a time. I kept doing my thing in practice. I kept making my noise, rallying the troops. I came out to the stadium, went to the locker room, went out to the field—no big thing. And really, it wasn’t. The guys were all happy to have me around, and I was happy to be back, but it felt to me like I was stepping inside someone else’s office. They all had a job to do. Me, I was just showing my face.
We ended up losing that game to the Broncos—our third loss in a row, setting us back to 9–5. Truth was, if the rest of the schedule broke our way, we could have probably slipped in through the back door and qualified for one of the Wild Card spots even if we lost our final two games. But who wants to head into the postseason with five straight losses?
How it shook out was the Steelers ended up losing later that day, so it ended up we did qualify for the playoffs on the back of these three straight losses. Still, we had to win at least one more game to clinch the division, which would let us keep our first-round game at home. So our game the following week, at home against the New York Giants, was pretty damn big. And it was our last game of the season in front of the Baltimore fans and a chance to stop this ridiculous losing streak before it ran away from us. I wasn’t ready to play just yet, but I made myself more of a presence in practice. I started to hit. I tried to get some things going.
My triceps, it wasn’t right. I would not be at full strength, I was realizing. But full strength didn’t matter to me just then, because I had a world of strength to go around.
THIRTEEN
The 40-Yard Line
I followed Diaymon’s lead and waited out the final two regular-season games on the sidelines. She was right—there was no good reason to play just yet. My triceps, it could still do with some healing, strengthening. My team, they could fight to the postseason without me. There were some bumps in there, but we did manage to beat the Giants at home to put an end to that dreadful losing streak and set the stage for my return to the field in front of our home crowd. The way the standings were lining up, the final game of the season, against our division rivals from Cincinnati, didn’t really mean anything. We were at 10–5, and they were at 9–6, but we owned the tiebreaker, so the division was ours even if the Bengals beat us.
Wasn’t any reason for me to return just yet. Wasn’t any reason for any of our key guys to play in that game, really—and John Harbaugh pulled his starters after just a couple plays and left the game to the second string. It didn’t matter. The postseason, that’s what mattered, and as we were getting ready for our first-round game against the Indianapolis Colts, it felt to me like the right time to tell my teammates what was up with me. All along, I didn’t know if I would say anything about my decision to retire, or if I would just let the games play out and deal with it later. But there was buzz, speculation. Also, once it worked out that we were playing the Colts in that first round, it seemed to fit. I mean, the Colts had been Baltimore’s team, way before the Ravens. There was still a big fan base that kept rooting for their beloved Colts, even after the team quit the city for Indianapolis in 1984. And here I was, the last remaining player from that original Baltimore Ravens team of 1996, a team that helped to chase the sting from the Colts leaving, about to put on the pads for my final home game. I just had to say something, right?
So I did.
I told John Harbaugh first—it was on a Wednesday, heading into our first playoff game. Didn’t go into any details with him, but I gave him a heads up, asked him if I could speak to the team. I said, “Coach, this day had to come.”
And right then, just off of these few words, he knew.
Coach called a team meeting and gave me the floor and I talked and talked. I had no idea what I was going to say, but the words, the emotions just flowed. For thirty minutes, I went off. Took a while for me to get to the headline, but I started out talking about what the game had meant to me, what my career had meant to me, what the relationships I’d built on this team and in this city had meant to me. All of that. I talked about Atlanta, too, and how I’d strug
gled to win back my good name. It started out like a pep talk. I reminded my team that this was our fifth straight trip to the playoffs and that the past four trips had ended in disappointment—only, they didn’t need reminding. I talked about the job we had to do on the field, how I’d fought back from my triceps injury just to be here with them in this moment, to change the way our season would end. We would go out on top, I told them. There was no other option.
And then, finally, I got around to it—said, “This is my last ride.”
There were some oohs and ahhs, some rustling. But I kept going—said, “Everything that starts has an end. It’s just life.”
To a man, I believe they knew—but, still, there were plenty of emotions. Wouldn’t say it took anyone by surprise, the fact that I was retiring, but there were tears. Mine, too. I’d known this was it for me all along, but it took putting it out there for it to feel real to me, for me to think there was no turning back.
We stayed in that room for a while—time enough for everybody to come up and give me a hug, shake my hand, say something. I’d been with some of these dudes a long, long time, so this was a tough spot. For them, for me. And then it got a little tougher, because by the time we broke there were reporters waiting for me outside. Word travels fast in the world of professional sports—and, once the news was out, it spread like a firestorm. I was the top story.
Wasn’t how I wanted to play it, because we had some work to do, but it was a big story. I got that.
And now there was a bigger story we were about to tell.
• • •
One more home game.
That’s all we had left to us. Didn’t matter if we won out, who else won out. This first-round game against the Colts, with their rookie quarterback, with their Baltimore history, with their big-time receivers—this was it for me, in this city, in front of these fans. And even though it was an emotional transition for me, I was at peace with it. I was—kept telling everyone, “I’m good, I’m good.” Because I knew it was my time. Because I’d worked so hard to get back to this spot, to finish what we’d started the year before—to finish what I’d started, first time I ever touched a football.
A lot of folks, in the few days we had leading up to the game, they’d come up to me and say, “Suppose you lose?” It’s like they were asking if maybe I’d change my mind, come back to fight another day.
But I’d just say, “I don’t live on supposes.” I’d just say, “We’re not losing.” And I’d say it like a matter of fact, because I’d seen this. I’d dreamt this. I’d made a promise to my teammates that we would come back and finish this.
This ain’t over.
I told my teammates how it would go: Indianapolis, first round. Denver, in the divisional round. New England, in the AFC Championship. After that, who knows? Just then, it was looking like San Francisco was the team to beat in the NFC, so in the back of my mind we were preparing to play them, too.
That final home game—man, it was something. I talked to John Harbaugh before the game, made sure he was good with me bringing one of those little cameras out there on the field. Didn’t want him thinking it was a distraction, that I was disrespecting the game in any way. You’re not really supposed to do that, you know, take a camera out there with you. But I wanted to capture everything, hold it close, because we weren’t coming back to Baltimore. Whatever happened, here on in, this was my last dance in front of this home crowd—and that stadium was electric. It’s like the whole city was crammed inside that building, everybody hopped up on Red Bull and coffee, jumping up and down. It was exciting. It was emotional. It was crazy. I kept my helmet on, because I didn’t want the whole world to see me crying. It’s like I had my own little suit of armor, my shield. I hid behind that helmet, hid behind that little camera, kept my crying to myself.
(Baltimore Ravens/Shawn Hubbard)
My pregame prayer. Wild Card game versus the Colts in 2012.
My last dance? It came from a place deep down. The moment was emotional enough, but I added to it. I found a little extra fuel, and it came from the movie I’d watched the night before this last home game—Ali, with Will Smith. And in this one scene, where Ali fought George Foreman, they played this one song—and that was the song I was playing on my headphones as I came out of that locker room, before I stepped onto that field to play the Colts. It was an Alicia Keys song called “Fight,” and it had this one line in it that kept ringing in my head:
Didn’t come all this way just to lose.
No, sir. I did not. And as I listened to that song and took in its message, I kept saying to myself, Man, listen here. Your arm hurts like hell. You are seventy-percent healthy, and you can’t really move your arm without pure pain. So what you gonna do?
Well, there was only one thing to do, really. I told myself that if I was gonna go out, I would go out on that battlefield. Just like Ali. I was too far in. I’d already announced I was playing, so there was no backing out. So I walked out there, and I looked at that crowd, and you cannot tell me different, that I was not stepping out there for all black folks, for all underdogs, for all the people who were ever told you can’t or you will never or you can’t have or you will never do. Whatever it is, stand for something. That’s the message that was driving me when I came out of that tunnel.
Whatever pain I was feeling, it didn’t matter. But I didn’t come all this way just to lose.
• • •
There was a game to be played, so we got down to it. And you have to realize, all that time rehabbing, all that time in the gym, I never really tested my arm to see what kind of pain I would feel at full impact. It’s the kind of thing you don’t really know until you know, and what I knew was this: My strength was okay. My range of motion was okay. My flexibility was okay, too. No better than that, but once that whistle blew, it was on. First quarter, I shot through the gap on a blitz and reached to make the tackle, landed on the ground hard. I felt the crush, and I popped back up and my arm was throbbing so bad I couldn’t believe it. But then I looked up at the crowd, and I got this tidal wave of adrenaline, and I howled, “It don’t matter!” And just then, the throbbing, the pain—it didn’t matter. Not one bit.
So I played through the pain. Just set it aside. Made a bunch of tackles, a bunch of plays. Those Colts—Andrew Luck and them, Reggie Wayne and them, Vic Ballard and them—they kept coming, but we just set them aside, too. We didn’t control the game the way I would have liked, wasn’t the way Coach Harbaugh drew it up for us, but we kept the Colts out of the end zone. That was our goal, heading in to this game—to keep the Colts from their goal. All the Colts could manage were three field goals, so we had a solid victory on the scoreboard, 24–9, and at the end of the game someone came up to me and told me I had fifteen tackles. Fifteen! Honestly, I didn’t know. At other times in my career, I would’ve kept a solid count, a running total in my head, but on this day each tackle, each hit, took so much out of me that I wanted to get past it. I thought if I counted it, it would stay with me, so I shook each one off and looked ahead to the next play.
(Baltimore Ravens/Shawn Hubbard)
Walking out of the tunnel with Ed Reed during the 2012 playoffs.
At the end of the game, Coach Harbaugh did a wonderful thing. We’d just gotten the ball back on downs, time was running out. The game was in hand—we needed but one first down to run out the clock. He said, “Ray, you know the fans want to see you out there one last time.”
I said, “What you mean?”
He said, “The city wants this.”
He meant for me to take the field one final time, lined up in the backfield. It wasn’t scripted. It wasn’t planned or talked about—or, if it was, it wasn’t planned or talked about with me. So I ran out there and took my spot on the field and listened to those fans sing down to me a final time. It was like a curtain call—right there on the 50-yard line, which I thought was appropriate. Better, like a salute. And as Joe Flacco took a knee on that last play, I caught myself wish
ing I had my little camera with me, so I could capture this moment and keep it close, but just as I caught myself wishing in this way I looked around and saw all these flashes popping around the stadium. Thousands and thousands of folks snapping their own little cameras, capturing their versions of this moment, so I realized I didn’t need a camera of my own.
It was there for all the world to see.
• • •
Coming out of that first-round Wild Card weekend, I looked at the rosters of all the teams remaining in the playoffs. A lot of the players, I already knew, but I looked at the second units, the special teams—up and down the lineup. The coaching staffs, too. San Francisco. Green Bay. Denver. Seattle. Atlanta. Houston. New England. Over four hundred individuals, and I couldn’t find one who would call God’s name if he won the Super Bowl. Not one. This troubled me and inspired me, all at once, but I don’t mention it here as a knock on any of these great players and coaches, because to get to this league, to get to the postseason, there was greatness running through these teams, most definitely. Go ahead and believe what you want to believe. Go ahead and celebrate how you want to celebrate. But for me, how I believe, this was a motivating thought, an empowering thought, because it told me I had an obligation that was bigger than football, an obligation that was bigger than the promise I’d made to my teammates, to the city of Baltimore—to myself, even. I had an obligation to Him—to sing His glory, to sing His praise.
As if I needed any more reason to play my heart out.
Next up was Denver in the divisional round, just like I’d seen it—only, this game wasn’t easy, either. Wasn’t how I’d pictured it. This game had some Baltimore history to it, too, because Peyton Manning was in his first year as the Broncos quarterback, and he’d been the face of the Indianapolis Colts for a long, long time—so all those old Colts fans in Baltimore had a soft spot in their hearts for him. Don’t think those soft spots were enough to get them to pull for Peyton in this game, but it’s tough to root against an athlete you’ve made a place for in your heart.