Editor's note: This is the last in a series of holiday season columns highlighting people in the Baltimore area who exemplify the spirit of The Sun's annual Spirit of Sharing program.
IT'S A FEW days before Christmas at the Brooklyn O'Malley Police Athletic League Center in South Baltimore, a squat cinderblock building painted in a shade of Ravens purple that you could miss only if you were legally blind.
Inside on this cold, raw evening, some 75 kids ranging in age from 7 to 15 are enjoying the center's annual Christmas party.
The room is brightly decorated, and off to one side, Ravens defensive end Michael McCrary, who sponsors this center, is helping police officer - and Santa impersonator - Mike Gibson hand out presents to the kids.
The kids are raking it in, too: Each gets a gift from his or her own wish list, a $50 gift certificate and a disposable camera. Later some of them will put on a dance routine, and after that they'll all sit down to a dinner of lasagna, macaroni and cheese, chicken fingers, cookies, cake and punch.
It's a peaceful scene, though all around the room are signs that the streets outside are not so peaceful.
Posters on the walls blare "Spread the Word. Not the Weapon" and issue sober warnings about drug use. An electronic message board flashes motivational messages: "Lying means you can't handle the truth ... Every 8 seconds a tobacco company loses a customer ... Don't let your health go up in smoke."
"I wanted a safe haven for these kids, a place where they could come and enjoy themselves," McCrary said, smiling and looking around the room.
I don't know what you know about Mike McCrary, but I hope it's more than how many tackles he's made and how many quarterbacks he's sacked and that sort of thing.
He's on the injured reserve list right now, and his football career seems over, due to the fact that his knees are shot to hell.
The X-rays are so ugly they'd make you wince, which is what happens when you last 10 seasons in pro football as a quick, agile defensive lineman with way more heart than size.
But whether he comes back as a player or not, McCrary has done more for this town in six years here than most people do in a lifetime.
In addition to funding the PAL center, his Mac's Miracle Fund has sponsored tutorial programs for the kids, field trips to New York City and a two-week stay for 30 of them at a summer camp in the Allegheny Mountains of West Virginia.
A couple of years ago, he also got involved with the Special Olympics. And when McCrary gets involved with something, he tends to pull out his checkbook, too.
That time, he cut a check for $100,000, the largest donation by a professional athlete. Not long after, the National Football League awarded him the Byron "Whizzer" White Award as the league's top humanitarian.
"I've never seen anybody make the financial and time commitments that Michael makes - ever," said Kevin Byrne, the Ravens' vice president of public and community relations, who has worked in the NFL since 1977 and seen his share of incredibly generous football players.
McCrary knew his work was cut out for him the first time he visited the Brooklyn PAL center, which had all the charm of a bus station back then.
"This place looked horrible," McCrary said softly. "The city didn't have the money to keep it nice."
So McCrary opened his wallet, and they painted the place and landscaped it with shrubs and plants and mulch and put up a nice fence, and now it's like something out of Better Homes and Gardens.
"Look at it," said Joe McEvoy, chairman of the board of Mac's Miracle Fund, giving a visitor a quick tour. "And you're in the heart of Brooklyn, man."
There are 18 PAL centers in Baltimore, down from 27 two years ago, when budget restraints prompted the city to re-deploy PAL officers to law enforcement duties. Fifteen hundred inner-city kids use each center each day.
But with the economy having dropped off a cliff, donations are down, and PAL is running $800,000 short of its fund-raising goals.
Without well-heeled guardian angels like Mike McCrary, it would be very difficult to keep these centers open, and kids in tough, working-class neighborhoods like Brooklyn would have few after-school options.
"This three-mile radius is their world," said Vanessa Milio, PAL executive director, as we watched the kids excitedly opening their presents. "Their options are: You can stay at home, stay on the streets ... where there's all this violence and trouble, or come with us."
"[McCrary's] message to the kids is: 'You gotta be on the right track ... you gotta be involved.'"
To that end, McCrary has grand plans to have his PAL Center kids meet positive role models on a regular basis.
"I know a lot of influential, powerful black men," he said, and he plans to have these men speak to the kids. "Just to expose them ... to show them there are a lot of successful black men out there. And not just black men. I want them to see there are different ways to be successful, and being a drug dealer is not successful.
"These kids, they're not exposed to that because of the neighborhood they live in and their financial situations."
Just now, though, McCrary is on the move again and looking sort of stressed.
The party isn't over yet, but because of a scheduling glitch, he's due at an Annapolis car dealership for an autograph signing in a half-hour - and he's not quite sure how to get there.
He says goodbye to the kids and heads for the door. But his mom, Sandy McCrary, and his fiancee, Mary Haley, are still here, hugging the kids and talking with them, and so are officers Mike Gibson and Jesse Knight and program coordinator Gwen Swan and the rest of the PAL people, who are serving the kids drinks and making sure they have enough to eat.
As McCrary walks into the cold night, the streets are dark and quiet, and the darkness takes some of the grime out of the neighborhood, although not as much as you'd like.
Inside one purple building, though, at least for the moment, all the kids are safe and having a good time.
There has to be hope in that.