Ed Reed policed the Hurricanes. He led. He won a National Championship at Miami, something that Ray Lewis would never be able to say. And when he got to Baltimore, the men in purple already had a leader — a leader so strong that even attempting to dispute that authority would look foolish.
But they always found a way to make it work – Lewis and Reed — and perhaps, if anything, they were a lot more alike than they’d care to admit. Praising God. Taking care of their families. Having adults around them who showed them light when darkness was a fast, easy, and accepted path. Both driven, passionate and very team-oriented. Both honed and raised in the same system at Miami.
Lewis preferred the spotlight. Reed valued his alone time.
They both loved football. But they didn’t always agree on methods and direction or coaching. And in a business that’s about money, there’s only so much to go around, and they both can claim at different points that they were as instrumental and “valuable” as any player on any team in the history of the sport. Cut from the same cloth, they were side-by-side legends, perhaps more appreciated by the fans than by each other.
And when you consider the value of their positions vs. the traditional mindset of big money positions in the NFL, it’s remarkable what they did to keep the Ravens defense amongst the league leaders for the duration of their tenure in Baltimore.
Most teams look at seven key positions as the most important roles on the field. On offense, it’s quarterback, left tackle, wide receiver, and running back. On defense, it’s an edge rusher, defensive tackle, and cornerback. Those are the places where the big money goes in the modern NFL. Lewis, a middle linebacker, and Reed, a safety, were the exceptions to the rule. The traditional pay scale didn’t accurately reflect their unique contributions.
They were both trying to get the biggest contract in the NFL from positions that didn’t generate that kind of cash. The Ravens’ position with Reed, while complimentary, was “How much money can we pay you, Ed? You’re a safety?”
But no safety in the history of the game was more electrifying or feared by opposing quarterbacks than Reed in his early days in Baltimore.
On the field, Reed was almost instantly electrifying. His penchant for finding errant throws and jumping routes by reading the eyes of the opposing quarterback was only surpassed by his unending desire to pitch the football after an interception or pester his teammates to pitch it to him if they got it first.
Ed Reed treated every turnover like a pickup game of rugby on a Louisiana playground.
And as much as he might excite the fans with his highlight reel returns, he annoyed coaches with his freelancing. But even the coaches would marvel at his ability to find the football all the while being aghast at what he did with it once he got it. He was exasperating but so gifted that you couldn’t chide him because some of the time his indiscretions ended up with him holding the ball in the end zone, dancing like he did in the streets of St. Rose.
