Can Ray Rice Go Home Again?

The newlyweds stood together on the sidelines, smiling. It's hard to recall the last time they had done so publicly. He was dressed in all black. Black sneakers, black sweatpants, black V-neck T-shirt, black hat, and tight black pullover, which could barely contain his bowling-ball biceps. She wore black pants and a black hat, too, but her shirt was gray, like the hazy sky above them. He held their 2 1/2-year-old daughter, Raven, in his arms.

Ray Rice and his wife, Janay, stood and watched as New Rochelle High School, Ray's alma mater, raced out to an early lead over Ramapo on this Saturday afternoon, Sept. 13, 2014. Old friends and coaches came over to talk and offer handshakes and hugs and to share laughs. Some kids migrated to their hero, too, and locals gazed and flocked nearby. Throughout the crowd and down on the sidelines you could make out a few fans in purple Ravens jerseys with the name "Rice" and the number "27" written on the back.

Lou DiRienzo, New Rochelle's longtime football coach, had invited Rice to attend. DiRienzo, 54, is in his 23rd year with the team. He's a man respected and beloved within the New Rochelle community for the work he does on the field, as well as off it, where he stays involved in his players' lives. DiRienzo played a major role in Rice's life, and Rice in his, and the two remain close. For DiRienzo, Rice has always been a former player that he could hold up to his current ones, an example of what was possible and what they could become if they worked hard and made good decisions. For Rice DiRienzo presented him with a way to give back to his hometown. Every offseason Rice could be found around the high school, working out with the football team (and anyone else in the weight room) and offering to pass along any wisdom — on football, or life — that he could.

Rice had the Midas touch — even transgressions could be turned into gold. Janay and Ray Rice on the sideline during the Sept. 13 New Rochelle football game. (Andrew Dallos / Flickr)

When Rice won the Super Bowl with the Ravens in New Orleans in 2013, DiRienzo was there. When New Rochelle won the New York Class AA State title that same season, well, Rice couldn't be there (though he had visited with the team earlier in the season) — but 55 Nike duffle bags, compression shirts and Beats headphones, courtesy of Rice, were.

In June, four months after Rice was arrested in Atlantic City, and after the release of the first TMZ video, DiRienzo had come to Rice's defense. "You don't just become an evil person," DiRienzo said in a phone interview then. "Whatever mistake Ray made, he recognized and admitted it and he's going to learn from it and never do it again, and I guarantee you that the next time he talks to a group of kids he's going to talk about whatever mistakes he's made and turn it into a positive." In DiRienzo's eyes, Rice had the Midas touch — even transgressions could be turned into gold. In the three months since that conversation, the coach's view had not changed. If anything, he had become even more entrenched, as if he had taken it upon himself to serve as the public shield for his former star.

"Ray is a part of our family and a part of this program," DiRienzo said to reporters after Rice's public appearance. DiRienzo is not very tall, and most of his hair is gone, but his deep and commanding New York accent gets the attention of everyone around him. "He made a terrible mistake but I know the character of the man and he will rise from this. The mistake he made will be erased by the good deeds he will continue to do and by the good deeds he's done. New Rochelle High School will always be Ray Rice's home. Having him here today means the world to me."

Rice graduated from New Rochelle in 2005, but he never left it, or the city, behind. He has "914" — New Rochelle's area code — tattooed on his biceps. When the Ravens opened up the 2013 NFL season on a Thursday night, after winning the Super Bowl the year before, during NBC's player introductions Rice chose to give a shout out not to Rutgers University, his college alma mater, but to New Rochelle. And then there were all the events he's attended in his hometown, and the time, and money, he has given. So it was fitting that his first public appearance since the video, that video — the one which shows Rice knocking out his then fiancée and now wife, Janay Palmer (the two married in late March), with a vicious left hook to her face, the one that turned his dream into a nightmare — would be on this football field, the very place where he had forged the skills that carried him to the NFL. The very place where Rice had earned his reputation as a person that the kids could look up to, someone who would never let his hometown down.

Except he did, by not following his own advice, the warning that he's passed along to countless New Rochelle kids, a countless number of times. This, though, was worse than "a couple of bad decisions." The footage released by TMZ — from the elevator of the Revel, an Atlantic City casino currently closed — was harrowing. The brute force with which Rice unloaded onto Palmer as he knocked her out with his fist. The calmness that Rice displayed after doing so. The casual manner in which Rice attempted to drag his now-wife's limp body out through the elevator door, as if she was nothing more than a heavy equipment bag.

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), one in four American women have experienced domestic violence, and with the release of the video five days earlier, Rice had become the face of this epidemic. Now he was standing in the only public space where he was still welcomed. Baltimore, Rice's adopted hometown, had abandoned him. The Ravens had released Rice just a few hours after the TMZ video went online. A short time later, over a two-day period, more than 7,000 fans stood in line outside Baltimore's M&T Stadium to exchange their Ray Rice jerseys. M&T Bank, the Ravens' top sponsor, took Rice out of its ads. The former Face of the Franchise had become a pariah, and toxic, and no one, it seemed, wanted anything to do with him.

No one, that is, except New Rochelle.

You can find these words about 2 miles south of the high school, painted in white letters on a purple sign in the shadows of the Hollows Courts, just off Main Street. Above them is a heading that reads, "Where Dreams Become Reality." Across the street is Monroe College. Up and down the block are car dealerships and various chain stores. A CVS. A Staples. A Baskin Robbins. There are some small run-down buildings every few blocks. The entrance ramp to I-95 is right around the corner.

(Yaron Weitzman)

This is where Raymell Mourice Rice grew up, 345 Main Street, in the projects known as the Hollows. New Rochelle, which is located a little more than 16 miles north of Manhattan in Westchester County, is mostly affluent (median household income of $66,656), but it is a city, with a population of more than 79,000, and includes public housing and pockets of lower-income homes. The Hollows are known as one of city's rougher projects. "Like any public housing unit, we have our share of problems there," says a veteran New Rochelle police officer. "But we get more calls for it because it's right next to Monroe [College]."

Rice lived on the sixth floor, with his mom, Janet, and three younger siblings. Making matters worse, Ray grew up fatherless. Calvin Rice, who dated Janet on-and-off for six years, was killed in a drive-by shooting in nearby Mount Vernon, an innocent bystander walking down the street. Ray was only 1 year old. Ten years later, on St. Patrick's Day, a drunk driver killed Myshaun Rice-Nichols, an older cousin of Rice's and the man who Ray had turned into his adopted father. Rice-Nichols was just 24.

"There were certain times in my life when I didn't know whether to revert to good or bad," Rice told ESPN's "E: 60" in 2011. "That was one of them moments."

Still, Rice overcame and persevered. As a kid, he got a job sweeping floors at a barbershop up the block to help his mother, a special education teacher, pay the bills. And then there was football, which Myshaun had taught his little cousin how to play. Ray honed his skills by running around on the concrete courtyard outside 345 Main. He built up strength by doing pull-ups on the monkey bars. Calvin Reed had been a bodybuilder, and Ray inherited his dad's physique. "He had muscles at 5," Janet Rice once told The Baltimore Sun. At the age of 6, Ray started playing organized football. He was a star from the start. Not only was he faster than everyone, but Ray, who by middle school would reach 5'7 (he's listed at 5'8, but those who know him say he's shorter than that), was stronger than all the other kids, too.

"One of our coaches played him at nose guard when he was 11," says Joe Fosina, the president of the New Rochelle Youth Tackle Football League. "I remember asking him why he was doing this — Ray was one of our best athletes. The coach told me to come watch for five minutes and I'd find out." Fosina did. "He was stronger than the center, and faster than the entire offensive line." The next year, during the first quarter of a game in Virginia, a coach of the other team asked that Rice be removed. "He had hit a couple of quarterbacks really hard," Fosina recalls. "None of them wanted to come back in."

By high school, Rice had developed into one the greatest football players, and athletes, that Westchester County had ever produced. "Absolutely the best player that I ever covered," says Josh Thomson, who's been the high school football reporter for the Westchester daily, The Journal News, for 10 years. "By far."

Everyone else had gotten bigger, but it didn't matter. Rice could run past defenders with his 4.4 40-yard dash speed, and over them with his wide-as-tree-trunks legs, which, by his senior year, could already squat 450 pounds (he could also bench press 295 pounds). "He loved to get physical and run people over," says Ray Rhett, an assistant coach at New Rochelle and a friend of Rice's. In 2003, Rice led New Rochelle to a Class AA state title, running for 1,332 yards and 21 touchdowns, while also roaming the secondary on defense (most of the Division I colleges that recruited Rice viewed him as a defensive back), and even making a game-saving stop on two-point conversion in the state semifinals. He kicked extra points, too. "With his toe," says Thomson. "Like an old-school kicker."

It was around this time that the Ray Rice Legend began to take form. "He would always come into class on time, sit in the front, and have his notebook out ready to work," says Bruce Zeller, an astronomy teacher at New Rochelle High School who helps out with the first down chains during home games, "to be as close to the players as possible." He still has pictures of him and Rice pinned to a bulletin board in his classroom and hanging on his fridge at home.

The following year, Rice's last at New Rochelle, added to Rice's stature. Ridiculous numbers, myriad highlight plays, another run to the state finals (which this time ended with a loss). That Rice, in DiRienzo's words, "wasn't fucking shy" didn't hurt his appeal, either. Rice was charismatic, effervescent, and always knew how to use his personality. During his first camp with the varsity team, as a freshman, Rice put on a dance show for his teammates while wearing a diaper. "He was the biggest jokester on the team," says Rhett. "Always pranking people."

Rice was not heavily recruited — 5'7 players, no matter how talented, usually are not — but he did have an offer from then-Syracuse head coach Paul Pasqualoni, which he accepted. Then, on Dec. 29, 2004, Pasqualoni was fired. Rice decided to play for Greg Schiano and Rutgers instead. "They made me feel wanted," he explained to The Journal News afterwards. When he first arrived in New Brunswick, Rice was the sixth running back on the depth chart. Three weeks later, he claimed the No. 1 spot. In three years at Rutgers, Rice led the Scarlet Knights to three bowl games and their first bowl win, a 37-10 victory over Kansas State in the 2006 Texas Bowl He also set school records for rushing attempts (910), yards (4,926), and touchdowns (49). After that, it was time for the NFL.

(Getty Images)

Six running backs heard their names called before Rice, who the Ravens selected in the second round with the 55th pick of the 2008 NFL Draft. No matter — a little less than two years later, in his second NFL season, Rice earned Pro Bowl honors. Two years after that, on July 16, 2012, with one more Pro Bowl season under his belt, Rice put pen to paper on a five-year, $35 million contract with the Ravens. Seven months later, he celebrated a Super Bowl victory. The kid who grew up — without actually growing — in the projects, with no father, and no money, surrounded by crime and gangs and numerous other potential obstacles, had cemented his status atop the football world. He fit the cliché of the local hero, someone who came from nothing and became something while never forgetting where he came from or those who he knew way back when.

There was also something else about Rice. He was approachable; you could stand next to his 5'7 frame and look into his eyes. It made his success seem replicable, and Rice told everyone that it was. Work hard, do "the right thing," and anyone could "make it out," he said. This made him more than a hero in New Rochelle. It made him an icon, and one with which everyone in the city could identify.

The sign outside his boyhood home talks about, and calls out, those who told him he "couldn't accomplish" things. Rice wanted to be the one to tell kids that they could.

It's a cool, gray September afternoon, and the Hollows housing project is bustling with activity. There's a five-on-five game going on the basketball courts and a couple more teams wait to play. Kids of all ages and a few older males watch while a few younger children are on the playground. About 30 feet to the side, on a bench under a tree, three teenagers smoke weed. In the courtyard, a group of boys, and a girl, who all look to be in their early-20s, play blackjack.

The Hollows housing project. (Yaron Weitzman)

New Rochelle is not a small town, but at times Ray Rice has made it feel like one. Like much of New York City, New Rochelle is largely segregated by neighborhood. On the north side of the city, known as the North End, you'll find mostly white residents, who make up 48 percent of New Rochelle's population. The houses are big and surrounded by huge green yards. The streets are quieter. A Starbucks, some nail salons, a 16 Handles frozen yogurt shop, and some kosher restaurants line the streets of one two-block stretch. There's a bagel store that everyone loves, and early morning customers there are dressed, in button-down shirts and ties.

Twenty-eight percent of New Rochelle is Hispanic and 18 percent is black, and the majority of these residents live on the south side of the city. "Downtown" New Rochelle, locals call it. It's home to the train station, library and the bars, Iona College, landmark diners and the movie theater, where Rice used to hang out. The houses and yards are smaller. In the mornings, the bagel shops are filled with workers in worn out jeans and old T-shirts coming in before work. The area has a hard-working, blue-collar vibe.

Prior to his arrest, Rice had the hearts of both sides of the city. New Rochelle High School is the only public high school, and, as its current enrollment of 3,364 shows, is the school that most of the city's kids — even those from the North End — attend. If you grew up in New Rochelle, you mostly likely ended up at the high school, and if you ended up at the high school, you most likely came to know, and love, Ray Rice. His pictures were on the walls. His jerseys hung in the gym. Sometimes he dropped by. It didn't matter if you were rich or poor, black or white. Rice was a legend and a star, and everyone, from everywhere, wanted to lay claim.

Now things are different. No longer is Rice someone who connects the two sides. Today most of Rice's support comes from Downtown New Rochelle, where he is still a hero. There, his story is familiar, sometimes even personal. Everyone knows him or knows someone who knows him or went through what he did or knows someone who went through what he did. Just ask those in the Hollows.

"We're on Team Ray," is what the kids playing blackjack say. That's all they'll say, no matter what the question. Do they know Ray Rice? We're on Team Ray. Do they have stories they'd be open to sharing about Ray Rice? We're on Team Ray. They can be positive stories. We're on Team Ray. How do they feel about how New Rochelle, as a city, has been reacting to the whole situation? We're on Team Ray.

Two older women talking to a maintenance man say they "just don't" want to talk about the incident. "We all know him, and his family," one of them says. "His sister could be upstairs."

"He's a good guy," says the other. "I have nothing else to add."

Even positive stories?

"We don't want to see our names in print."

You don't have to give your names.

"He's a good guy, we have nothing else to say."

Over at the basketball court, one kid turns away with disgust when asked if he'd be willing to talk to a reporter about Ray Rice. He stands 50 feet away from the sign with Rice's words on it. Two men who look to be in their late-20s claim they're not from New Rochelle and have nothing to say. A few minutes later, they enter the building that Rice grew up in.

One young man is there playing football with a little boy, playing on the same concrete Rice used to play on. His name is Michael. He's wearing jeans and a denim button-down shirt. He says he doesn't want to talk, but when he's met with silence, he begins to ramble. His speech seems recited, as if it has been given many times before. "We all make mistakes," he says. "No one wants to, or should be judged by the worst thing they've ever done. This, the way Rice is getting attacked in the media, is too much. It's overkill." He repeats the "we all make mistakes part" a lot. "Especially when alcohol is involved," he adds. Michael only talks for a few minutes. He won't answer any questions directly or share more memories or thoughts. He sounds like he's tired of having this conversation. Soon after, he's throwing a football with the little boy again.

About a mile south is another one of Rice's childhood hangouts, Lincoln Park. He used to play basketball here with some of New Rochelle's best. St. Paul Fire Baptized Holiness Church, where his aunt, Denise Campbell, is the pastor, is across the street. There are men in sweatpants hanging out in a circle on the steps near the basketball court. Some others are sitting on a playground bench. None of them wants to talk about Ray Rice or New Rochelle's relationship with him. A few feet away, near the swing set and the slides, there's an empty vial on the ground.

A woman named Denise brings her child into the park and sits on a bench. She's from the Bronx but says she has lived in New Rochelle for eight years. She also thinks Rice deserves a break. "It's disturbing," she says of the video of Rice knocking out his wife, "but there are a lot of worse things going on and we don't hear as much about that stuff."

"Right over there," she points to a rundown building across the street, "there was a murder about six months ago and they still haven't solved it. We don't ever hear about that."

Denise doesn't know Rice, but she has friends who do. She says everyone was talking about the video after it came out. "Pretty much everyone felt the same way," she says. She clarifies that she's not condoning what Rice did, but adds that when alcohol is involved, things can get out of control. And, after all, it was just one mistake. You can't erase a guy's history.

"A lot of my friends that know him say he did lots of good things for the high school, as far as equipment, donating money, even just his time, and you can't knock that. Some of this stuff coming against him is just too much."

Josh Eagle grew up in New Rochelle's North End. He's an Orthodox Jew from an upper-class family. He never went to public school and never played tackle football. He's never stepped foot in the Hollows or in Lincoln Park. He doesn't need an athletic scholarship to go to college. He doesn't need a football player to show him that his life can amount to something.

Nineteen months ago, March 2, 2013, Eagle was at services at the Young Israel of New Rochelle, the local Orthodox synagogue. It was a Saturday morning. A month earlier, Ray Rice and the Baltimore Ravens had defeated the San Francisco 49ers in Super Bowl XLVII. Rice hadn't played very well in the game — he ran 20 times for just 59 yards, and also fumbled — but it didn't matter. Baltimore had hung on for a nail-biting 34-31 win in New Orleans' Superdome. The Ravens — and every player on the team, including those with subpar Super Bowl performances — returned home as champions.

New Rochelle wanted to celebrate Rice, and Rice wanted to celebrate in New Rochelle, and so a rally was scheduled to take place at 10:30 that morning. After morning services ended, Eagle, a high school sophomore at the time, and some friends walked the 1.5 miles to City Hall (Orthodox Jews don't drive on Saturdays). He wore a Ray Rice Rutgers jersey pulled over his dress shirt and tie. He couldn't take any pictures because he wasn't allowed to carry his phone. But he didn't come for that, for an autograph or for mementos to show off to friends. This was a pilgrimage, a chance to pay homage to a man whom he had always looked up to.

"He was one of my heroes," Eagle says today when asked why he decided to attend that rally. "Just us being from the same town, and him being a real superstar, and real contributor to that Super Bowl win, I wanted to be a part of that day. This was a guy who was probably always told he was too small, and he didn't care.

"I didn't grow up the same way he did, but just knowing that guys like him can make it, and can go somewhere, it makes me feel good about where I'm from, and it helped teach that we're all capable of accomplishing great things."

Eagle still remembers all the details. The banners with Ray Rice's name draped over City Hall. The high school marching band. Ray's speech and his mom's speech and the mayor's speech. Purple and black — New Rochelle's colors — everywhere. Thousands of fawning fans packed into the lawn in front of the building, many of them wearing New Rochelle varsity jackets. There were people of all races, the North Side and Downtown standing side by side.

"He looked so happy to be with everyone," Eagle recalls. "I think he high-fived every single person there and said, ‘Thank you for being here' to every one of them."

But before doing so, Rice, dressed in black jeans, a black jacket and a black hat with the word RAVENS written in purple on it, took the microphone and, from the City Hall steps, addressed those who had come out. The Super Bowl trophy stood on the podium directly behind him.

"As I look into the crowd, I see many different people, including those from 345 Main St. where I grew up," he said. "I can't forget my own football battles that happened across the street and my travels along North Avenue." He then proceeded to thank certain individuals whose names he read off a list on his cellphone. Joe Fosina, of the New Rochelle Youth Tackle League. "All my" Pop Warner coaches. Kelly Johnson, New Rochelle's Youth Bureau Director, and a former basketball coach of Rice's. "The whole Boys & Girls Club." Nina Gainor of the Parks Department. Rice referred to her as "Aunty Nina." Lou DiRienzo, the high school football coach, and his entire staff. "All my" teachers.

"I just want to thank you all for turning me into the man I am today," Rice said. The crowd answered with applause and everyone smiled. New Rochelle was thanking him back.

Ray Rice has a day named after him in New Rochelle. He received the honor in 2009, at a ceremony at City Hall, where he was bestowed a key to the city. There, the 22-year-old Rice, then with just one year of NFL experience under his belt, heard the New Rochelle mayor, assistant to the city manager and other local dignitaries talk about how great a person he was. He then stood up at the lectern, in a fitted black suit, blue shirt and blue tie, and spoke about his journey and goals. He thanked New Rochelle, and promised to repay the city for helping him accomplish all he had.

He had always "given back." Now Rice decided that coming back in the offseason to work out with students at the high school and handing out fliers in the projects urging residents to vote on library bills and making classroom visits to his mother's special needs students wasn't enough. No, Rice wanted to do all that, and also be more: A symbol for good, a beacon for how to act, a lodestar to be emulated. He had a message that he wanted to share, and he was very upfront about it: If children who grew up like Ray Rice acted like Ray Rice, they, too, could one day be like Ray Rice. The fame, the fortune, the adulation — it could all be theirs, too. Even if you weren't blessed with literal one-in-a-million athletic gifts, you could still succeed. All it took was some hard work and some good decision-making. Social barriers and shackles — those could all be solved with some hard work and a role model. The formula was simple.

"Tomorrow, I present to you ‘Ray Rice Day,' where I'm gonna be a great ambassador to the town, to these kids, because I grew up looking at role models," Rice said. "I needed a role model. I wanted to grow up and say I want to be like somebody. So, I had a dream, but your dreams can become nightmares if you don't have everything in order."

Ever since, Ray Rice Day has been an annual holiday for the town. Every June, Rice would come to New Rochelle and run a one-day clinic for local kids. Sometimes he'd come up with NFL players, like Ravens' quarterback Joe Flacco and Michael Oher (the lineman Michael Lewis profiled in "The Blind Side") in tow. There, at New Rochelle High School's McKenna Field, Rice could be seen teaching kids — in 2013 there were more than 700 of them — how to properly hold a football, and then also tackling them afterwards. He would give speeches, and talk about how important it was to do schoolwork and to "respect the head of the household." If kids fought, he'd break it up. If someone had a question, he was there to answer. "It wasn't just some guy putting his name on the thing and showing up," says The Journal News' Thomson. "He was completely involved."

This past June there was no Ray Rice Day at the high school. The day wasn't officially canceled — there was no announcement or press release — as much as ignored. Three months later, New Rochelle High School removed Rice's photograph from its Wall of Fame.

Whether New Rochelle was being guided by morals, politics, or a little of both, was unclear.

What was clear was that a decision had been made: Officially, New Rochelle had decided to distance itself from its favorite son.

On the Sunday night that Ray Rice turned into a Super Bowl champion, the Boys & Girls Club of New Rochelle held a viewing party for local kids at its Remington Clubhouse, next to Lincoln Park, where Rice often played basketball, right across the street from the church where Rice's aunt is the pastor. Tucked away in his comfort zone, the Remington Clubhouse was another home for Rice when he was growing up. Here's what Quay Watkins, executive director for the Boys & Girls Club of New Rochelle, told the New Rochelle-focused website Talk of the Sound at the time:

"Ray is proof positive that the right attitude and support system can motivate a child to dream big and achieve high goals. Given his humble beginnings in public housing and the numerous temptations that youth fall prey to, the odds of Ray's success were not favorable. But we at the Boys & Girls Club of New Rochelle are committed to helping children beat the odds with mentoring, positive reinforcement and offering a safe place after school for any child that needs one. Ray is truly an inspiration to all of our children, employees and benefactors."

(Getty Images)

Today, Quay Watkins won't talk to reporters about anything related to Ray Rice. This is the case for nearly every one of the individuals whom Rice thanked by name during that Super Bowl celebration. Now most of them seem to shudder at the mere mention of Rice's name.

"We don't really have anything to add to the story," is what Rudy Breedy, the Boys & Girls Club of New Rochelle's chief development officer, said in a recent phone conversation. When asked if Watkins would be willing to speak about her or the club's relationship with Rice, or how the club is handling the fall of a New Rochelle hero whom many of New Rochelle's youth have always looked up to, Breedy declines. "It just hasn't really come up," he says of Rice.

The kids aren't asking about it? "No," he says. No one at the club thinks this is an important conversation to have with the kids? "It just hasn't come up," he says again. Is there anyone at the club who can discuss the relationship between Rice and New Rochelle's youth? "Try Kelly Johnson," Breedy answers.

Johnson, the city's youth bureau director, Rice's former basketball coach, and an individual whom Rice thanked by name during the Super Bowl celebration at City Hall. He appears to be the perfect person to sum up all the different emotions — anger, betrayal, sadness, but also the paternal instinct to defend and protect one of its own — that New Rochelle is currently feeling.

"I have nothing to add," Johnson says, sternly, over the phone. Forget Ray Rice; what about the kids with whom you work, how are they dealing with all this? "I have nothing to add," he says. The head of New Rochelle's youth bureau won't talk about an important issue concerning New Rochelle's youth? "I have nothing to add."

The Parks Department's Nina Gainor, another name mentioned by Rice during the Super Bowl celebration — "Aunty Nina" — a woman who has worked with and known Rice for years, also declined an interview. So did the high school's principal and athletic director, who didn't return numerous messages left for them.

The only member of the New Rochelle's government open to talking about Ray Rice is, Noam Bramson, the mayor of New Rochelle since 2006. Bramson, 44, is a Harvard graduate with a master's degree in public policy. He's a skinny man, with a young face and thin dark black hair. He's run for Westchester County Executive and many assume he'll one day run for a congressional seat. Bramson is a serious politician with serious career goals. He's also a New Rochelle native. When he talks about Rice — who he says he's "gotten to know over the years" — he chooses his words very cautiously. His hesitation perfectly sums up the tightrope that many of his constituents and colleagues seem to be walking.

"Past good works and achievements do not excuse a serious mistake," he said in a phone interview in June. "But, at the same time, a serious mistake does not erase past good works and achievements.

"Ray's been a hero to many people in New Rochelle, and not just youngsters, but people of all ages. They've all looked up to him and regarded him as a role model. But we also know that domestic violence is very serious business, and needs to be treated as such."

Bramson is asked if he thinks New Rochelle will, at some point in the future, be open to welcoming Rice back?

"I think it depends on how he conducts himself going forward," he says. "If he takes responsibility for his mistakes, in an honest and thorough way, and demonstrates that you're capable of moving past those mistakes, then it can be an inspiring example. If, on the other hand, someone attempts to downplay a serious incident and error of this kind ... it's very much up in the air now."

That was before the second TMZ video, when Bramson, and the rest of the public, had only seen the aftermath of Rice's knockout blow — him dragging Janay Palmer out of the elevator — but not the actual blow itself. The video showing that image was posted by TMZ on Sept. 8, 2013. Nine days later, Bramson released the following carefully worded statement:

"Past good works cannot mitigate or excuse something as serious as domestic violence, and any actions or statements that suggest otherwise send a message that is both wrong and dangerous. For Ray, redemption can only be earned through a long and difficult process of understanding domestic violence, working with advocates in the field, coming to grips with what he has done, and demonstrating over time that it is possible to change. It is this process that deserves the support of those in New Rochelle who have known Ray and admired his contributions, and if Ray chooses to walk this road, then many in our community will be there to walk with him."

One mistake had turned the dream into a nightmare.

But was it really just one mistake? To many who have seen the TMZ video, this question is irrelevant. Some even find it offensive. There are individuals, though, especially residents of Downtown New Rochelle and people connected to the football program, who feel differently, who feel the answer to this question — which most of them claim to know is yes, it was just one single, out of character incident — is an important one.

Was Ray Rice ever the saint everyone thought he was, and that he purported himself to be? (Getty Images)

According to the National Domestic Violence Hotline, 76 percent of women between the ages of 25-34 who have been violently attacked by an intimate partner have been previously victimized by the same offender. In the case of Ray Rice, this statistic raises a set of obvious questions. Was this really the first time Ray had hit Janay? Was this the first time he had hit any woman? Was he a violent person? More to the point: Was Ray Rice ever the saint everyone thought he was, and that he purported himself to be, or was he just an illusionist who ran out of ways to keep the audience in the dark?

"I've never seen Ray do anything violent off the football field before," says a longtime friend and former teammate of Rice's who asked not to be identified. No one interviewed for this story answered "yes" when asked if Rice had an alcohol problem. "I've been on the force for 22 years, and I've never heard of anything," says the veteran New Rochelle police officer. "It doesn't mean nothing has happened, and I don't know everything that goes on, but I would like to think that, had he been involved in something around New Rochelle, I would have heard about it."

Up until six months ago, the only blemish on Rice's record had been an incident in the eighth grade when he brought a pellet gun to school. Rice was suspended for a week, held out of his middle school's graduation and handed 100 hours of community service. Since then? "He wasn't a choir boy," says another childhood friend, "but he never did anything really bad."

If you really push, you can get a few negative anecdotes out of some of Rice acquaintances. But all of them are later contradicted by the statements of others. One friend says that before the elevator incident, Rice had been partying a lot, "like once every weekend." Another friend says he's not a big partier at all, and never has been. One friend says Rice began talking about God and religion less frequently. No other friends bring religion up. Says one of childhood friends, "I felt like he got away from who he was and from the people who were always there for him." Another friend says, "Ray hasn't changed one bit," and most of those who know Rice best say the same thing.

Does any of this matter? It depends who you ask.

It's Sept. 12, Week 2 of the 2014 NFL season. The Ravens are taking on division rivals the Pittsburgh Steelers, and for the first time in more than five years, Ray Rice isn't on the team's roster. He was cut three days ago; the public pressure from the release of the second TMZ video had become too strong for Ravens owner Steve Bisciotti, and now Steve Morris is annoyed.

Morris, the 59-year-old co-owner of Spectators, a sports bar in Downtown New Rochelle, has known Rice for years. His daughter was the same year as him in the school system. Rice's uncle, Biggie Hollis, works as a bouncer for the bar. When Rice wanted to celebrate his Super Bowl win with friends, he did so at Spectators. When he just wanted to blend in, he'd do so at Spectators. Sometimes he'd buy shots of Patrón for the entire bar, and then leave the wait staff a $300 tip.

Morris has literally seen Rice grow up, and so the past week has been a tough one for him. "We all make mistakes," he said, "and this is a serious mistake." He's wearing a Ravens hat and drinking Miller Lite while sitting at the bar. His eyes occasionally glance up at one of the TVs to check out the score. "You just hope that single mistakes don't define you as a person. It's really just a shame. Ray does so much good, and he means so much to the kids in the community."

The bar is mostly empty, and one of the patrons is listening in. He says his mom is a nurse in the New Rochelle school system. He says she knows all the kids. He says she always used to talk about how nice Rice was. "Everyone's making it seems like he's a gang-banger," he says, "and that's just not the case."

Every athlete has a hometown, but few make theirs a part of who they are the way Rice did. The place in the New Rochelle gym where Ray Rice’s Ravens jersey was once on display, below his retired No. 5.

Travel to the North End and you'll hear a different story. On the soccer fields there, residents who just recently moved in, or who don't have any connection to Rice or the city's football program, don't understand. "He fucking knocked her out," says one father as he watches his daughter play soccer on a recent Sunday morning on one of the fields that Rice used to play football. "What's there to talk about?"

"You don't look up to individuals that beat people," says Eagle. But to many in New Rochelle, the equation is not that simple. Every athlete has a hometown, but few make theirs a part of who they are the way Ray Rice did. "He's done so many good things for the football program that run deeper than public appearances and charity,' says The Journal News' Thomson when asked if he's been surprised by New Rochelle's reaction. Are you supposed to just forget that? Rice still has a lot he'd like to give to his hometown — are you supposed to prevent him from doing so? Are you supposed to ignore what happened to the man who was once the city's shining knight? Are you supposed to judge a man by his worst deed? Are you supposed to tackle the issue head on? These are complicated questions, and small towns, no matter how large, don't do complicated well.

"You really don't know the specifics of the situation," DiRienzo, said in June after the first video was released. "I think there's parts of the story that no one knows about yet," Rhett, Rice's former running backs coach at New Rochelle High School, said at the same time. "No one's really talking about it around here," is what Zeller, Rice's former astronomy teacher, said.

Then the second video came out, and suddenly New Rochelle had to confront everything. It needed to answer these tough questions, and decide how it wanted to move forward. Zeller says that in the weeks after that video's release, and leading up to Rice's appearance at the football game, he noticed a change inside the walls of the high school.

Suddenly, everyone was talking about Rice. Students asked about him. In the teacher's lounge the faculty debated what the high school should do. Those connected to the football program felt one way; those who had never met Rice felt another. "It was like a funeral around here," Zeller says. "The video forced everyone to confront it."

For the North End of the town, that meant putting Rice out of mind, or holding him up as a beacon for what not to do. For the football community and those Downtown, that meant embracing Rice. "He made a huge mistake, but the people of New Rochelle who know Ray support him," says the New Rochelle Youth Tackle League's Fosina, who was with Rice on the football field sidelines when Rice showed up at his alma mater's game in September. "It's a forgiving area and we judge his entire body of work." And for the high school, fully confronting the Ray Rice Incident meant making a choice, and making that choice visible.

Rice's picture would be removed from the building's Wall of Fame. His Ravens jersey would no longer hang in the gym. Take a walk through New Rochelle High School today, and you won't find any signs of the Baltimore Ravens, or mementos from Rice's time in the NFL.

Funny thing, though: On the gym wall, behind one of the baskets, a remnant of Ray Rice remains. You can find it near the banners that celebrate the school's championship football teams, above the blank space that used to proudly display Rice's Raven's jersey.

There is another jersey, a purple one, with the No. 5 on it.

That’s the number that Ray Rice wore in high school. It’s been retired for two years now. There is no name on the jersey, only the number and the words “New Rochelle” across the front. It remains there, hanging in a black frame on the white wall, high up and out of reach, for everyone to see.

(Attempts to contact Rice through his manager were unsuccessful.)