It's not hard to find Ray Lewis in prayer. You might catch a glimpse of it on the sidelines before a game. In the locker room. Even on the cover of Sports Illustrated -- the muscular Baltimore Ravens linebacker standing bare-chested in a swimming pool, his palms pressed together.
To some, Lewis' frequent expressions of faith are the marks of a life redeemed, a long 13-year journey from murder accusations -- later dropped by prosecutors -- in the death of two men hours after the 2000 Super Bowl in Atlanta.
But for others, the show of faith is little more than an act.
"Stop acting like you are one of the people that come out of the Bible," said Greg Wilson, whose nephew Jacinth Baker died along with a friend in the infamous melee 13 years ago that almost derailed Lewis' career.
"If you're redeemed -- and he's always quoting Scriptures -- then you would have stood up like a man and said what happened," Wilson said.It's not hard to find Ray Lewis in prayer. You might catch a glimpse of it on the sidelines before a game. In the locker room. Even on the cover of Sports Illustrated -- the muscular Baltimore Ravens linebacker standing bare-chested in a swimming pool, his palms pressed together.
To some, Lewis' frequent expressions of faith are the marks of a life redeemed, a long 13-year journey from murder accusations -- later dropped by prosecutors -- in the death of two men hours after the 2000 Super Bowl in Atlanta.
But for others, the show of faith is little more than an act.
"Stop acting like you are one of the people that come out of the Bible," said Greg Wilson, whose nephew Jacinth Baker died along with a friend in the infamous melee 13 years ago that almost derailed Lewis' career.
"If you're redeemed -- and he's always quoting Scriptures -- then you would have stood up like a man and said what happened," Wilson said.It's not hard to find Ray Lewis in prayer. You might catch a glimpse of it on the sidelines before a game. In the locker room. Even on the cover of Sports Illustrated -- the muscular Baltimore Ravens linebacker standing bare-chested in a swimming pool, his palms pressed together.
To some, Lewis' frequent expressions of faith are the marks of a life redeemed, a long 13-year journey from murder accusations -- later dropped by prosecutors -- in the death of two men hours after the 2000 Super Bowl in Atlanta.
But for others, the show of faith is little more than an act.
"Stop acting like you are one of the people that come out of the Bible," said Greg Wilson, whose nephew Jacinth Baker died along with a friend in the infamous melee 13 years ago that almost derailed Lewis' career.
"If you're redeemed -- and he's always quoting Scriptures -- then you would have stood up like a man and said what happened," Wilson said.Revisiting the scene
For 13 years, Reginald Oakley has also remained silent about what happened in Atlanta.
But this week, he agreed to walk through the Atlanta neighborhood where the killings happened and talk about that night.
It's the first time, he said, he's returned to the scene. The neighborhood has changed drastically, but the memories are still fresh.It was self-defense for me because someone attacked me," Oakley told CNN.
He still maintains he did not stab anyone.
But for the first time, Oakley cast doubt on Lewis' version of what happened that night. Lewis wasn't a peacemaker, he says, but a participant in the fight.
"I don't know if he was wrestling or fighting, but I know he was right in the mix with everybody else," Oakley said. "I think he was just standing up for himself. It's just too bad that when the police asked him what happened he wouldn't come clean."
But Garland, the defense lawyer, remains unrelenting in his defense of the football star.
"He was not involved in the fight; he didn't cause it," Garland said. "He didn't take an act or step or statement to make this happen. He was no more guilty than the other 100 people on the street."
Storybook ending?
The convoluted accounts of what happened that night still anger the families of the victims.
"All of them were involved in it and nobody wants to tell the truth with exactly what happened," Wilson said.
And he just doesn't understand how football fans can get swept up by the story of Lewis' redemption.
To him, Lewis is a criminal ringleader "hiding behind the Bible."
"This will never fade," Wilson said. "I hope it haunts them for the rest of their life until the day they die and then they burn in hell."
But if Lewis is thinking back on what happened in Atlanta, he's not letting on. He was all smiles during Super Bowl media appearances this week, even while batting down fresh accusations claiming he used a banned performance-enhancing substance.
He hasn't gone out this week, he says. He doesn't want to. All he's thinking about is football.
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"You draw up a lot of storybook endings, but for me, how else would I rather go out than be on the biggest stage ever," Lewis said, "giving everything I've got for my teammates to be able to touch that Lombardi trophy."
Of course, the true end to Lewis' playing career will come in a few years when he is enshrined in the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio.
It's just a few miles down the road from where Jacinth Baker and Richard Lollar, childhood friends from Akron, Ohio, were buried 13 years ago.
