The Hall of Fame is a hallowed institution in any sport, one that is treated with near-religious reverence and the nearest thing we have in America to something like the British Empire bestowing a knighthood.
As such, we have certain moral expectations of our most vaunted heroes. If they are to serve as a shining example of the best their sport can be, it stands to reason that they should be upstanding people off the field as well.
Yet a look inside the Pro Football Hall of Fame shows that in a hall of angels, not everyone’s got their halo on straight.
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There’s a guy in there who may have been acquitted of murder but was still convicted of kidnapping and armed robbery in the person of O.J. Simpson.
There’s Warren Sapp, who had an outstanding career as a defensive lineman but also has a criminal record that features a conviction for domestic violence.
And at the upcoming Hall of Fame induction in Canton, Ohio on Saturday, we have a guy who plea-bargained his way out of a murder charge to get off with misdemeanor obstruction of justice and a year’s probation but whose alleged victim’s family still holds him responsible for a young life taken too soon on the streets of Atlanta.
Ray Lewis, middle linebacker legend, two-time Super Bowl champion, and a man whose on-the-field accomplishments are spoken of in terms normally reserved for the likes of Dick Butkus and Mike Singletary, will don the gold jacket on a summer afternoon.
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Richard Lollar and his childhood friend Jacinth Baker, taken from this world before the age of 25, won’t be there to see it.
Richard’s younger brother Handsome Lollar, now 28, called Lewis’ induction into the Hall a “black eye to the NFL,” according to a report in the Baltimore Sun.
The Ravens told the Sun that Lewis was not available for an interview about the alleged crime.
Spokesman Chad Steele went a step further and said that Lewis has already addressed the matter, but would not provide details.
Lewis did address the issue in 2010, saying “no day leaves this Earth without me asking God to ease the pain of anybody who was affected by that whole ordeal.”
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And without further admission of guilt, Lewis has talked about the incident’s effect on the person he became later in his career.
“You ask me if I’d trade anything, and I couldn’t,” Lewis said. “I couldn’t because I wouldn’t be the man that I am today.
“The end result is who I am now. And that means if I had to go through all that again to come to the point of who I am right now, why change it?”
In the incident, Lewis, along with Reginald Oakley and Joseph Sweeting, had an altercation outside the Cobalt Lounge at 4 a.m. on Jan. 31, 2000, arguing with someone in Lollar and Baker’s group.
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Oakley said in his book “Memories of Murder” that “a Moet bottle smashed into the side of my head,” and that “all hell broke loose around us.”
In the chaos, Lollar and Baker were both stabbed in the heart and died from their wounds.
Lewis, Oakley and Sweeting beat a hasty retreat in a limousine, which had one of its tires shot out as another member of Lollar’s group tried to retaliate.
Lewis admitted to telling his associates not to tell anyone about what they saw, which was the evidence used for the obstruction charge.
The NFL fined Lewis $250,000, but what for many was the moral event horizon happened at the trial of Oakley and Sweeting.
Lewis turned state’s evidence and basically tried to pin all the blame on the same people he’d told to keep quiet.
Oakley and Sweeting were, however, ultimately acquitted. But plenty of people — the families of the victims chief among them — insist to this day that Lewis and his friends literally got away with murder.
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