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Today, he gets his pads back.
Today, he takes off that stupid nonplayer's T-shirt, gets away from that infernal sideline and is excused from the exile of the inactive list. Today, they return his jersey and his helmet and his career. Today, they point him toward the field.
Today, John Lynch gets to play again.
Frankly, he doesn't feel any better than, oh, Hercules did back when they took the chains off.
It has been a difficult time in Lynch's career. For two weeks, he has been a bystander, pacing and prowling, frowning and fuming, driven to inactivity by repeated neck stingers. He has watched as other players have tried to take his place, make his plays and answer his questions and, yeah, he's sick of it.
For a player such as Lynch, who has spent the greater part of his career thrusting his head into the nearest pileup, this is the worst place you can imagine. It is somewhere between purgatory and limbo, somewhere you can see but cannot touch, where you can hear but cannot help.
Today, Lynch is released. And, man, is he relieved.
Before you welcome Lynch back to the Bucs, take a moment to acknowledge how much he hated being gone. For some players, this game is a job. For others, it's a stage. For still others, it's a means to a nice paycheck. For players such as Lynch, however, the game is an act of passion. Through 11 seasons, through the journey from throwaway player to star, from Pro Bowl to potentially the Hall of Fame, he has not lost that. The inactivity, in a word, stung.
"It was tough on the sideline," Lynch says quietly. "It's a helpless feeling. You pride yourself in being there for your teammates, in being accountable, and you're not out there doing your part."
Lynch's absence wasn't lost on anyone. Not even on Lindsay, his 2-year-old daughter, who looked at him and said, "Why Daddy no play?"
Today, against the Panthers, that changes.
In a game that could help salvage a season, Lynch returns to the starting lineup. Between you and him, he's expecting a long day. The last time the Panthers played the Bucs, Lynch had 13 tackles.
"I'm expecting 15-plus," he says of this matchup.
Oh, you know what's going to happen. The Panthers are going to try to run at the Bucs with Stephen Davis (who had 142 yards last meeting). The Bucs are going to stick Lynch in the box to try to stop it. Why not? Over the past five seasons, opponents are 12-1 when they have a 100-yard rusher against the Bucs.
In other words, it will take one play, maybe one series, to see whether Lynch is over his stinger problem.
For three consecutive games, it happened to him. Lynch would hit someone, and there was an electric current loose on his spine, racing down his arms and into his fingertips. It happened against Indianapolis, and it cost him one play. Against the Redskins, it happened in pregame warmups. "I'd never felt a pain like that," he said.
Against the 49ers, it happened again. This time, he lost all the strength in his right arm. After the game, you could see the worry in his face.
"Mostly, what I was feeling was annoyed," Lynch said. "We had just had our butts kicked in a game where I thought we were going to do that to the other team.
"But, yeah, there was some worry. You think, "Is this going to be all right?"'
Others were asking the same question. Lynch is 32 now, the age an NFL player is timed with a calendar instead of a stopwatch. Throughout his 11 seasons, he has been involved in a few collisions. For some time now, Lynch's teammates have kidded that when he shows up for reunions, he's going to do it with a walker. After three consecutive weeks of neck problems, it was easy to wonder if Lynch's body was beginning to lose parts.
Lynch shakes his head at the suggestion. He isn't buying.
"I truly believe that before this started, I was playing my best football," he said. "I think I've got a lot of time left."
That's why Lynch does all that accursed stretching, right? Every day, 90 minutes to two hours' worth, he goes through his exercises, trying to align his body to get as many miles out of it as possible. The teammates give him a hard time about that, too. One minute, he's Captain Crunch, and the next, he's Stretch Armstrong.
His is a simple job description, really. He has to play centerfield like Willie Mays, cutting off anything deep, and he has to play like Dick Butkus in the box. He has to find the five biggest, angriest guys on the field and pick out which two the rampaging rhino is going to run between. Then he has to stick his shoulder into the nearest thigh pad.
Just that.
"The first time we played the Panthers, it felt like they came in here and took something away from us," Lynch said. "I have a lot of respect for them. They play tough, physical. But now, we have the same opportunity to do that to them."
Know this about Lynch. He's the biggest optimist in the locker room. You think the Bucs' slow start confuses you? Try looking at it through his eyes.
"I thought we were going to take a run at the Dolphins' 17-0 record," he said. "I really did. I still think we're going to end up in Houston with another ring."
If that's going to happen, the Bucs need to stop Davis. If that's going to happen, Lynch is going to have one of those dirty-work days when he's more linebacker than safety.
After all, the old guide map has been found again. Once more, teams are saying that to beat the Bucs, all they have to do is run straight at them.
"Come on, then," he said. "Run the ball."
Lynch grinned.
This week, maybe he'll do the stinging.