As Heroes, Lewis and Defiant Ones Are a Tough Sell

In your face, America.

You don’t like the best player on your best football team grabbing a piece of the field and rubbing it all over his writhing body and shouting, “This is our turf!” before the opening kickoff?

Dance on this.

You don’t like him strutting with every hit, taunting with every blocked pass, chasing down nice little running backs from behind with a smile and a forearm?

Go tackle yourself.

You don’t like a man who last year admittedly lied to police in an investigation for a still-unsolved double murder being honored as the outstanding player in the most important sporting event in the country?

Put a handcuff on it.

Grow up, America.

This is football, not life, as one muddled and manners-splattering Sunday night at Raymond James Stadium so vividly illustrated.

On the field, linebacker Ray Lewis led his loud and unlovable Baltimore Ravens to a Super Bowl championship with a 34-7 victory over the New York Giants.

Off the field, he couldn’t even get a hug from Mickey.

It is customary for the mouse’s people to film a commercial in which, immediately after this game, the MVP says he is going to Disneyland.

Lewis, with five tackles and four tipped passes and the MVP award, wasn’t asked.

Trent Dilfer, the Raven quarterback who was teary and thankful and completed less than half of his throws, was asked instead.

“I want to be with my kids tomorrow,” Lewis said. “I don’t want to go to no Disneyland.”

On the field, Lewis was on every juicy replay, on every inch of the field, on a three-hour tear in leading one of the best defenses in NFL history to a performance that amazingly backed up its boasts.

Off the field, he couldn’t even get on a Wheaties box.

Shannon Sharpe, Lewis’ teammate, was in the middle of a postgame address when somebody plopped the newly-festooned cereal package in front of him.

There were photos of five Ravens on the box. Sharpe was one of them. Lewis was not.

“I can’t believe Sugar Ray is not on here!” Sharpe said, shaking his head, rattling the box, banging it on the table.

At which point, he became arguably the first winning player in Super Bowl history to storm from the postgame interview session because of a breakfast food.

The Ravens won the championship Sunday, but here’s guessing that’s all they won.

Their cockiness will prevent them from being embraced like Kurt Warner’s Rams.

Their history will prohibit them from being loved like John Elway’s Broncos.

Their middle linebacker’s still-questionable past will cling to him like a soiled and sweaty shirt.

The people of Maryland will throw them a parade. But elsewhere, don’t expect them to be selling like crab cakes.

“We don’t play for sentiment, we play for championships,” Sharpe said. “We don’t care if the country is against us. We know they don’t like our trash talk or the way we conduct ourselves. But people liking us, that doesn’t win games.”

He’s right about that. Rarely in football history has one game proved just how right.

Lewis rubbed the grass on his chest and performed a dance during nationally televised introductions.

O.J. Brigance strutted for nearly 10 yards after making the first tackle on the kickoff.

Jamie Sharper picked up a fumble on the first play from scrimmage and, even though a penalty had caused an early whistle, he ran the ball into the end zone and then angrily threw it to the other side of the field.

The crowd of 71,921 fans booed steadily. It didn’t matter.

The Ravens held the Giants to one first down in their first six possessions, allowed them to take but three snaps in Raven territory during the first half, and . . .

“Once we scored seven points, that was it,” Sharpe said. “That was all it took.”

A championship team. Not a cuddly team.

“I played a helluva game, but that’s what I do anyway,” said Lewis. “I didn’t expend any extra energy today.”

A great defense. Not a dignified defense.

“We proved that we are . . . the best team of all time,” said Sharper, who perhaps should be introduced to somebody from the 1972 Dolphins.

Deserving of on-field respect. But hold that dinner invitation.

“When I get my ring, I’m looking for a dwarf or midget,” tackle Tony Siragusa said. “[The ring] is going to be so heavy, when I walk around town, I can rest my hand on his head.”

Insensitive even in victory, tacky to the end.

“We’re world champions, and if people think we’re trash talkers, we’re going to be doing it again next year,” cornerback Chris McAlister said.

Many of the folks here couldn’t bear to see them even finish this season.

For one of the first times in the history of a game that has experienced many similar blowouts, fans fled their $400 seats with 8:29 left in the game.

By the time the Ravens bounced to their midfield celebration amid confetti and fireworks, the place was two-thirds empty.

The early departers missed, of course, the emotional acceptance of the Lombardi Trophy by Art Modell, the Ravens’ owner.

We’re guessing the scene also didn’t draw big numbers in Cleveland, from where Modell abruptly moved this franchise five years ago.

That’s OK. His old town was on his mind Sunday. Sort of it.

When Modell was asked about his only other NFL title, when his Browns won the 1964 championship, he said, “Well, the ’64 championship had a uniqueness to it . . . but nothing compared to the euphoria today, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry,” is not the word most Clevelanders will use to describe Modell when they hear that comment, but we digress.

Sunday was about football. Sunday was about a truly great defense that led a team to arguably the greatest championship in American sports.

Sunday was not a morality play, it was a helmet to the chest, an elbow to the face. It wasn’t about character, it was about a collision.

Champions are not saints. Champions do not always make us cry. Champions are sometimes no more than, well, just champions.

Sunday was Michael Tich, a Baltimore salesman, walking out of the stadium with his son, Michael Jr.

The boy was wearing an oversized jersey with Ray Lewis’ name on it.

The father was shrugging.

“Hey, the guy’s not a role model, but they’re not supposed to be role models,” he said. “This is football. This ain’t life.”

There is indeed a difference. Sometimes we are fooled. On this day, hopefully, we were not.

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Bill Plaschke can be reached at his e-mail address: bill.plaschke@latimes.com.