BALTIMORE _ As Ray Lewis tells it, the story of him and Baltimore is a creation myth.
His voice fell to a hush recently as he set the scene for his first season in the city, when the former Cleveland Browns were training at an abandoned state police barracks.
"It's the one thing people don't set out to do. And that is to change a culture, to really believe you can change a culture," he said. "I walked in there that first day, and there was no hope. There were no numbers, no colors, no symbol, no nothing. We're at an old army base, and every day as I'm leaving, I kept saying, 'Damn, they're going to believe. Our city don't believe. My teammates don't believe. But it's possible. I'm telling you.' "
Then, the pivot.
"You know what happened from '96 till the time I left?" Lewis said, his voice rising now. "Hope changed. It became real. Falling down is one thing. Getting your behind back up is a whole different mentality. Not being the favorites. The underdog roles are the roles you remember the most. And that's what that city, from the day I walked in to the day I left, when they walked in that stadium, they believed one thing: 'I've got hope. I've got hope that there will be a better day.' "
The narrative is, like everything about the man, outsized. And if you're a skeptic, it's downright hokey.
But here's the thing.
Lewis really did transform himself from an unremarkable college recruit and an overlooked NFL draft choice into perhaps the greatest every-down defender in football history.
And he really did arrive in a city for which pro football represented abandoned dreams and create a new rallying point for the populace. Lewis proved to be the perfect emblem for his adopted home base _ underestimated, messy and defiant.
When he takes his place in the Pro Football Hall of Fame on Aug. 4, he'll be celebrated by a nation of football fans as one of the greatest ever. But for Baltimore, the occasion will feel more personal.
Lewis will go down in the even rarer line of athletes who defined a time and place in his city, a status he shares with Johnny Unitas, Cal Ripken Jr. and few others.
"Ray Lewis was and is the Baltimore Ravens," said Rex Ryan, who as defensive coordinator helped design the units that gave a new NFL power its signature. "The fact he only played with one color jersey, that's appropriate. When you think of the Baltimore Ravens, you think of one person. There's a lot of great people in that organization, but you think of one person and that's Ray Lewis."
Lewis is a complicated figure, even for many people who've felt awed by his play and touched by his interest in their hopes and struggles.
Set aside those naysayers who've never gotten past the murder charges he faced in 2000 after two men were stabbed to death at a Super Bowl party he attended in Atlanta. Those charges were dropped, and Lewis became a greater hero than ever before in Baltimore. We'll get to that.
But Lewis has continued to inflame debate, even in retirement. Last year, when Colin Kaepernick sought to find a new NFL team after a season of kneeling during the national anthem to protest racial injustice, Lewis angered many of the quarterback's supporters by urging Kaepernick to "let your play speak for yourself."
After President Donald Trump became involved, Lewis infuriated those on the other side of the issue by kneeling with Ravens players as the national anthem played before the team's Sept. 24 game in London. In Baltimore, critics drafted a petition to have the bronze statue of Lewis removed from the grounds at M&T Bank Stadium.
Lewis said he merely wanted the best for Kaepernick when he spoke out in the first place. And he said he was praying, not protesting, when he kneeled in London.
Regardless of his intentions, he found the center of the storm. It's a place where he's comfortable residing. In fact, he almost covets the tension, believing it pushes him to greater heights.
Baltimore accepted this early on and, in fact, embraced the aspects of Lewis that offended people elsewhere.
"Baltimore is really parochial. It's not global," said the Rev. Jamal-Harrison Bryant, who welcomed Lewis into his congregation at Empowerment Temple AME Church. "And people reacted to him like someone who was from here. More than what we had seen from any player of recent vintage, he wasn't just showing up for fundraisers. He really hunkered down with people."
