"Hell, where I grew up, you take a lot of risk. You risk your kid going out hanging with the wrong crowd, selling drugs. You risk your kid hanging out with the wrong crowd, getting killed. You risk your kid hanging out with the wrong crowd, joining a gang. So, which one are you going to take? I'll take football any day out of all of that.
"It'll take us less than 15 minutes to get there. Follow me."
And off we went. Never mind that it's another chaotic day in Lewis' world. Mr. Mom…meets Silicon Valley…on a NASCAR track. He needs to show you his 'hood. This trip will help all understand why he has zero regrets. Why he's equipped to fight this. Sure enough, right when an "Adamsville" sign appears off the I-20, so does Lewis' Jeep, and he veers off the exit. Past homes on the brink of collapse. Past abandoned buildings tucked inside the woods.
Right to the old neighborhood park. This is where everything will crystallize, Lewis promises, now walking across the street.
The first thing he notices are the lawnmowers. Those weren't needed when he played here, because there was no grass. Only dirt, rubble, shards of glass. So much glass. Lewis never wanted to get tackled because it meant gashing up his skin—the main reason he's always been so fast for his size.
Lewis turns around. See that hill? It wasn't covered by trees then. He'd run that hill religiously. And at eight, nine, 10 years old, all kids here took out their aggression on each other. Kids limped home bleeding every day.
"You're a warrior," Lewis says. "This is what it comes back to right here. This is where I was trained right here. To be violent. My dad used to tell me, 'You better hit them before they hit you.' That's where that attack mode came from. You better be on the attack. Be the hitter. That's what it was more about. You have to be physical.
"You have to seek and destroy. Because if you don't? This is your community…"
Translation: Your rep was always on the line. If you didn't make it very clear, very fast you were a badass, you were in trouble.
Every hitting drill was ruthless.
"We had so many kids getting knocked out with concussions," Lewis says. "You can't lay down. That wasn't even a thought. It was, 'Get your ass back in there.' Because you had to be tough. It was hard-nosed, straight-up, nose running, crying, if you're weak you won't survive out here."
Reliving the gore, Lewis cannot stop smiling.
This field was an escape from the hell surrounding kids. From the crackheads and prostitutes and drug dealers who lined a street right over our shoulder. (Still do, too.) Going to the store, Lewis says, was "an adventure." And at night, he'd often wake up to the sound of gunfire, of murder. You have two options in life here: sell drugs or join the military. That's it, he assures. Nobody here could visualize hope outside of the drug lord cruising through town in a Mercedes.
Lewis lived in a two-parent household, but his mom (a warden at a prison) and dad (a railroad worker) fought constantly, and there weren't many "I love you"s thrown around. Says Lewis, "Later on in your life, you see you did need that." The fighting combined with the imminent danger around him took a toll.
So he turned to football. So he built a monster. So he created a third option.
The moment Lewis looks down at his feet and sees a reddish shard of glass, he feels those butterflies return again and relives those "Bull in the Ring" drills. That separation of man from boy when fights broke out and you had to fend for yourself. Friends became enemies. Enemies became friends. Many of his childhood friends are now dead or in jail. Lewis is still standing.