Thanks for the Memories
As a football fan, you’re supposed to feel uneasy when the opponent is knocking on the door of your goal line, threatening to score a game-tying touchdown. When that opponent, the Cleveland Browns, has just carved up your defense throughout a potential game-tying drive, in their pursuit of an unprecedented sweep of the team their city believes your own hometown stole from them, that feeling should theoretically be doubly strong.
When your offensive fate in a potential overtime rests in the hands of one Kyle Boller-well, you’d better hope someone in your section smuggled in some Pepto-Bismol. As Cleveland’s Jeff Garcia approached the line for a crucial third-and-goal, however, I felt a quiet confidence that would soon be vindicated in extraordinary fashion.
I was seventeen, and my high school football teammates and I were squashed into the top two rows of M&T Bank Stadium, invited to cheer on our quarterback in the Ravens’ halftime competition, which pitted local signal-callers against one another. As our shaggy heads protruded from the opposite end zone section into the starless Baltimore sky, we were as far away from the game’s decisive play as possible.
“No freaking way we let them score,” promised my friend Justin, a star wide receiver/safety whose jersey number 20 was a not-so-subtle nod to our favorite Raven. I leaned forward, peering through the binoculars my Dad had passed along for my trip to the “nosebleeds.”
Facing a third-and-goal, Garcia dropped back, and fired a pass over the middle towards tight end Aaron Shea. Middle linebacker Ray Lewis arrived at the same time as the pass, sending the ball floating through the cool November air. I captured the descending pigskin through the lenses, watching as it tumbled end over end, towards the ground and an inevitable fourth down try.
Suddenly, the football was no longer the only object in the frame.
A pair of black-gloved hands swooped out of nowhere, like the talons of a skilled bird of prey, snatching its target a split-second before it was too late. I looked up to see an all black-clad No. 20 galloping an NFL record 106 yards to paydirt, crouching low and flapping his wings to the delight of myself, Justin, and 70,000 other souls inside M&T Bank Stadium. And from the moment I saw those gloves appear, I’d known to whom they belonged. Ed Reed had saved us once again.
Five years from now, Reed will be inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame. He will enter the hallowed halls of Canton as the NFL’s all-time leader in interception return yardage (1,590), as well as the owner of the 6th most interceptions in league history.
He will take the podium wearing a ring commemorating the ultimate accomplishment: a Super Bowl victory.
But for Ed Reed, more so than any athlete in my lifetime, his greatness lies not in what he did, but in how he did it.
The value of Ed’s return yards cannot be fully captured by the change in field position they initiated, nor in the points he scored. Each return was a masterpiece he painted upon a vast green canvas, weaving his way through would-be tacklers to the delight (and sometimes chagrin) of teammates, coaches and fans alike.
His defensive impact can’t be quantified in tackles and pass breakups; he was what kept even all-time great quarterbacks and coaches up at night, and he was the reason generations of Ravens fans waited until the offense took the field before heading to the bathroom.
Whoever is Reed’s presenter in Canton on that day in early August 2020 will have no shortage of praise to heap upon the former Raven and Hurricane. They’re sure to mention some of Reed’s all-time records, like being the only player in NFL history to score touchdowns off of a punt return, interception return, blocked punt, and fumble recovery.
But that person likely won’t mention how Reed’s heroics inspired so many fans and players to reconfigure the old cliché to read: “The best offense is a good defense.”
When I was in high school, my defensive teammates and I would make bets with our Offensive Coordinator, boasting about how we’d outscore the Scout Team Offense in practice. Any turnover was an opportunity to vindicate our claim, weaving around would-be tacklers and lateraling our way towards the end zone in our best approximation of Ed’s inimitable style.
But it wasn’t simply what he did, or even how he did it that made Ed Reed so great. One of Reed’s greatest qualities was his singular threat to do his most breathtaking work when it mattered most.
Reed’s 9 playoff interceptions (including multiple postseason picks against both Tom Brady and Peyton Manning, as well as a crucial 2nd-half interception in Super Bowl XLVII) are tied for the most all-time, highlighting the ballhawk’s ability to raise his game against the toughest competition, with the highest stakes.
Throughout his career Reed has made the decisive impact late in games, securing victories through interception, fumble, punt and punt block returns. Thanks to those late-game heroics, fans throughout Baltimore will know full well what it feels like to be down by a score late in a game, and to actually be more hopeful of a game-winning touchdown when their Ravens are on defense (or special teams) than when they are on offense.
When I tell my Grandchildren about Ed Reed, facts and figures will be only a tiny part of the tale. He will be remembered forevermore in Baltimore, not for the statistics he achieved, nor even for the victories themselves that he helped us achieve. We will instead cherish the memories of the moments Ed gave us.
I’ll tell my Grandkids about the aforementioned snatch and gallop against the Browns, and about the moment he one-upped himself with a 107-yarder against the Eagles four years later, flying pigeon-toed down the same sideline for a backbreaking score.
I’ll also try to put into words the exasperation brought on by laterals-gone-wrong, the thrill of seeing No. 20 suddenly appear somewhere the game plan surely hadn’t placed him at the moment the ball arrived, and the way seeing Reed lined up deep to field a punt felt like holding the world’s most thrilling trump card.
I’ll ask them to put down whatever new-fangled gadget has captured their attention so I can describe the way he yelled “Get off the field!” after scything through Edgerrin James’ legs on a crucial third down during a Sunday night game in Indy.
I’ll warmly recall the way Reed broke the Dolphins’ spirit during a playoff game in Miami. On January 4, 2009, Reed intercepted two Chad Pennington passes, returning one for a score with a trademark mazy interception that probably covered twice the ground for which he’ll be credited in the record books. Pennington holds the 2nd-highest career completion rate in NFL history (66 percent).
The story, I trust, will continue through a post-playing career that will surely include more impactful work in his adopted community of Baltimore, and perhaps someday on an NFL sideline, where his wisdom and instincts (if not his penchant for freelancing) would be of great value to any team.
But for me, Reed’s tale reached a fitting apex on February 3, 2013. At the New Orleans Superdome, a few short miles from his hometown in St. Rose, Louisiana, a blissful Reed cradled the Lombardi Trophy amidst a shower of purple and yellow confetti, gazing at the polished silver as though it was some far-off destination he’d feared he’d ever reach.
The path he took was as beautiful and unpredictable as one of his circuitous returns.
And I, like so many in Baltimore will be forever grateful for having witnessed each thrilling step.
Thank you, Ed.
Submitted by guest columnist Joel Tracy
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