Ray Lewis was a Hall of Famer on the field but had many questions away from it

Ray Lewis, first-ballot Hall-of-Famer. As a lifelong Pittsburgh resident and Steelers fan, typing that phrase makes me queasy and stokes a sort of involuntary rage tic.

But Lewis is a deserving first-ballot choice: a man who transcended arguably the most macho position in the most macho sport for the better part of two decades. Framing Lewis strictly in terms of what he did between the lines would not be an appropriate reflection on his career, however, because for many fans, what happened outside of them defines him just as much, if not more.

No reflection on Lewis’ career is comprehensive unless it includes his association with a double homicide in Atlanta during the 2000 Super Bowl week.

Lewis was convicted only of misdemeanor obstruction of justice in connection with the murders of Jacinth Baker and Richard Lollar, even though Baker’s blood was found in Lewis’ limousine, and the infamous white suit Lewis had on that night was never found. Two of Lewis’ associates were acquitted of the murders, and to this day, no one has ever been convicted.

Though the murders happened nearly 20 years ago, the event as well as the memory of the victims, kept alive by their families, still shadow Lewis, and no amount of image rehabilitation can change that.

That Lewis has become even more outspoken about his religion and even has tried to transform himself into a sort of wise counselor in the years since that incident has irked many while simultaneously appealing to another contingent.

Lewis also injected himself into the ongoing national anthem controversy, suggesting that Colin Kaepernick “shut up and play,” then later kneeling with Baltimore players before a game. In both instances, he was very much the center of attention and very much a polarizing figure.

There is no such polarization when discussion shifts to what he did between the lines for 17 seasons, nearly all of which were excellent. Even Lewis’ staunchest critics know that criticizing his on-field exploits is a fool’s errand.

Lewis was a first-team All-Pro five times in his first nine seasons. He would have had six — and consecutively — had an injury not cost him all but five games of the 2002 season. Detractors frequently tried to deflect credit for Baltimore’s defensive success, saying that Lewis was assisted greatly by a stellar defensive line. But he was the true heart and soul of Baltimore’s defense. For the majority of his career, Lewis was the most feared, most intimidating player in the league.

Runs up the middle? Futile. He broke Rashard Mendenhall’s shoulder with a hit during Mendenhall’s rookie season with Pittsburgh. Lewis shut down plays from sideline to sideline, and though he acquired a reputation as a guy who would occasionally fly into a play late, after the real tackle had already been made, he shut down countless offenses with his quickness and tenacity.

There was no opposing player who brought me to that special kind of boiling, irrational fan anger faster than Lewis. For many years, I told myself it was because he was overrated, because he always seemed to know where the cameras were, because of those late pile jumps. Older and wiser, I can admit that I just hated that he was an outstanding player who was always around the play and frequently tormented my team.

In addition to his obvious, most frequently discussed qualities, Lewis was quite the ball-hawk, too, ranking seventh all time among linebackers, with 31 interceptions. From 1997 through 2011 he made the Pro-Bowl, save two seasons cut short by injury. The final two of his All-Pro campaigns came during his age 33 and 34 seasons.

One of my favorite methods to judge a player’s greatness is to ask sports fans to name a player at a certain position who played during their lifetime. For example, if someone asked me to name a wide receiver, I’d say, without hesitation, Jerry Rice, or Lewis’ 2018 Hall classmate Randy Moss. If you asked me to do the same with linebacker, I’d likely say Ray Lewis, despite the fact that he played for my favorite team’s biggest rival.

I suspect most people, whether they harbored ill will toward the Ravens or not, would also say Lewis when asked to name a linebacker. He was the position, especially from 2000-2010. There were other great linebackers who weren’t primary pass rushers — Derrick Brooks and Brian Urlacher spring to mind — but Lewis managed to supersede them all, at least in the mind of the public.

Ray Lewis was also the kind of player whose talents were such that you knew you were watching an all-time great every time he was on the screen. That feeling doesn’t come around all that often in the NFL outside of the quarterback position, and especially on the defensive side of the ball in this day and age, but it was undeniable with Lewis.

Still, while Lewis’ career accomplishments could stuff even the most spacious trophy case, there remains the issue of the man away from the game. His career unfolding the way it did even after Atlanta is a testament to many things — not all of them good. Lewis’ acceptance back into mainstream discussion shows how quick we are to forgive athletes, no matter how ugly their misdeeds.

That he was also embraced as a mentor of sorts, especially in his later years, and how uncritically that dynamic was explored points to the ways in which, societally, we look at athletes as role models even if their actions suggest they should be anything but.

Perhaps most of all, Lewis’ rise back to prominence shows that the “winners” get to tell their stories; to shape their narratives. There have been compelling pieces written about the aftermath of the double murder and the fact that the victims’ families have neither forgotten nor forgiven Lewis for his role while being suspicious of whether or not he was more involved than the charges against him suggested.

Lewis beat the rap for the most part and got to move on, got to put the incident behind him, and because that was best for the business of football, everyone more or less went along with it. He dodged a bizarre story about “deer antler spray” that accused him of using a banned substance to help heal his torn triceps in 2012.

He settled with the families of the Atlanta victims, too, which is the kind of thing that doesn’t look great when it comes to proving someone’s complete innocence. Still, most of those stories have fallen by the wayside. Lewis was connected to plenty of negativity during his career, but little of it seems to have stuck.

Ray Lewis will walk into the Hall of Fame deserving of his status as an all-time great. He is a hero to many Ravens fans, a man who left the sport on top, a Super Bowl champion. His excellence on the field is beyond question. Still, despite all those accolades, he remains a man whose name will always be trailed by whispers — a man followed by the specter of a past he will never fully outrun, and rightly so.

Ray Lewis the football player enters the Hall of Fame this weekend, and his enshrinement is a fitting and deserved capstone to a great career. That much is beyond question.

Trying to find much agreement on Ray Lewis the man, however? That’s a much tougher task.