But 4:40 into the first quarter, Andrew Luck barked out his snap count, and before anyone on the field had even shifted, Ray Lewis, the stereotypical No. 52, had already taken a full stride. He covered the ground between his middle linebacker spot and the line before the center had even gotten the ball into Luck's hands. He twisted his body and slipped between the giant men on both lines untouched. It's an absurd notion, that a 250-pound man could slide through such a space and do it so quickly, so powerfully, like a Bruce Lee kidney punch, and with such ferocious grace, such consummate artistry, like Hendrix on a burning guitar, and with such absolute authority and finality, like a thunderous, two-handed dunk from MJ. Linebackers don't make those plays. Before Ray Lewis, human beings didn't make them, but how many times have we seen such plays from Ray Lewis? The eight-armed goddess Durga lacks the fingers to keep count. On the field, in the heat of the game, with elegance, authority, and mind-bending power, Ray Lewis redrew the lines of the possible and forever warped the football world.