Trying to sort out the conflict of cheering for a man with a checkered past.
I want to care.
I want to think of Ray Lewis, standing outside of that bar in Atlanta 13 years ago, and the juxtaposition of the splattered blood that, according to witness testimony, covered his white suit each time his story of redemption is told this week.
I want to think of Richard Lollar and Jacinth Baker, the two men stabbed to death that January night, and how, at best, Lewis obstructed justice by impeding the police from finding their real killers. At worst, well ... we won't go there.
I want to roll my eyes and become sick to my stomach each time an image flashes across my TV screen of the Baltimore Ravens linebacker gesticulating on the field, biting down on a piece of sod or delivering a speech to his teammates.
I want to be upset over the fact we've spent the last month celebrating Lewis' career and reducing the lives of Lollar and Baker to a mere sentence in those stories, typically introduced in an "ohbytheway" manner, the details of their murder case discussed only in veiled terms.
I want to be enraged Lewis' role in that case is now viewed as a positive event in his life, and how he's celebrated for evading the darkness that chased him after that night. As the narrative goes, he's become a better man because of it.
I know nothing about Lollar's or Baker's personal lives, or who they were as men, but I do know they were robbed of the opportunity to find their own moments of growth.
I want to care about all of these things more than Lewis' achievements on the field, and I want to believe I do. But the truth is I can't remember the last time I looked at Lewis and contemplated his role in the double murder until recently sitting down to evaluate his career and place in history.
I only think of Lewis in terms of football, and I quantify his value to society in tackles and sacks figures, not by statements given and prosecutions assisted. I know that's wrong, but in America, the public will never convict you as long as you keep recording hits on the field, in the recording booth or at the box office.
Provide us with entertainment and your transgressions will remain footnotes instead of headlines.
That's how someone like Ryan Leaf comes to be known as a drug addict (a legitimate illness), while others such as Michael Vick and Lewis remain heroes.
I'm not alone in my assessment of Lewis.
Many fans and media members disclosed that they felt chills and teared up while watching the linebacker do his trademark dance before his final game in Baltimore. Those same folks will likely cry again when they watch Lewis take the field for the last time in Sunday's Super Bowl in New Orleans.
Like me, most will note they aren't applauding him as a man. They only see and interact with Lewis as a football player. What we fail to realize is the applause only makes it easier to hide the truth.
As we cheer, the families of the victims will look at their TVs – assuming they can stand to turn them on – and see Lewis serving as the object of America's adulation.
His image will remind them the man who killed their sons may be out there somewhere living his life, growing as a man, and possibly watching his children do the same.
It's entirely possible Lewis has told the whole truth, but doubts remain for the families. So they will once again wonder if Lewis knows more, and wonder why he refuses to alleviate some of their suffering and bring closure to this traumatic event.
Lewis' image will go away soon, only to be seen on ESPN, where he will begin his second career as a analyst. But it will return in five years when we pause to celebrate his induction into the Pro Football Hall of Fame.
The victims' families likely still won't know what really happened that fateful night in Atlanta. That's something we should all keep in mind Sunday.