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A year ago, in the morning hours after Super Bowl 34, leaving an Atlanta nightclub called the Cobalt Lounge, young linebacker Ray Lewis entered a darkness he would call hell. In the morning hours after Super Bowl 35, he had other plans.
"I'm going to kiss my kids, hug 'em to death, hug my mom," he said. His night's work was only minutes over. He still wore black tape on his wrists. His satin pants were stained green. His face glittered with perspiration. "I'm 25 years old," he said, his voice soft, dreamy, "and I'm a world champion."
A year ago, a tourist in town for the fun of it, he left the Cobalt Lounge in a limousine speeding away, bullets chasing it. This time, a player in the game of his dreams, he stood in a football stadium with a waterfall of joyful noise washing over him. A year ago, Atlanta police hunted him down.
This time, three Tampa police officers stood at his side, there to keep him safe in the crowds.
A year ago, two young men were murdered outside the Cobalt Lounge, and Ray Lewis was arrested and charged with the crime.
A year ago, Ray Lewis lived on the razor's edge.
A year ago? A lifetime ago.