Upon entering the cramped and crackling cacophony that was the Ravens locker room in Adelphia Coliseum on Sunday, you had to be careful not to get steamrolled -- but not by a 300-pound lineman. No, minutes after Baltimore secured a spot in the AFC Championship Game, those behemoths were still in front of their wood-framed locker stalls helping each other yank off their shoulder pads. Instead, it was Ravens president and CEO David Modell who, intoxicated with joy, was circling the carpeted room like Buffalo Bill with his son in his arms, screaming:

"It's a VICTORY LAP! Look out everybody, we're on a victory lap!"

Inside the winner's locker room after an NFL playoff game is a wild and wonderful scene; as if for a short time the burly security detail outside the door is somehow able to keep out all the ugliness in professional sports.

And so for a brief moment there are no spoiled babies, no gazillionaire crooks, no horrific injuries or gigantic 'tudes, just unfiltered, unsoiled mirth. In this day and age it's a rare sight.

Come on, I'll show you.

As the huge double metal doors swing shut behind you, the faint sound of fans in the stands chanting Su-per Bowl, Su-per Bowl is quickly replaced by Shannon Sharpe's voice, which rapidly grows in volume -- and stays there.

The air inside the locker room is thick and steamy and the smell is a pungent mixture of grass and sweat and mud and wet carpet. There is a vibe here that is hard to describe. It's charged. It's electric. It's pure. So you don't mind that the Super Bowl could feature Trent Dilfer and Kerry Collins or that the Ravens, having won their second playoff game ever, are acting like they just retired the Lombardi Trophy.

Right now none of that matters. "This is it," says fullback Sam Gash, "this is the feeling guys will talk about for the rest of their lives."

The room is tiny, no bigger than your garage. So you can imagine the crush of humanity going on in this space. Periodically, you must duck as players toss their grass-, mud- and blood-stained uniforms into a pile in the middle of the room. The floor is so covered with discarded tape, programs, pads, gloves and towels that, at times, it's hard to see the carpet.

This stuff is continuously getting stuck to the bottom of your shoes, like toilet paper.

You duck, you weave, you sidestep, you squeeze and still, occasionally, you get whacked by a video camera, an equipment bag or a player. Sometimes all three.

Star players are hugging equipment guys, the owner is hugging a coach he came very close to canning, guys who came to blows in training camp are embracing like long-lost brothers.

Players -- bloody and bruised, their bodies twisted in odd ways to alleviate pain -- limp out of the cramped trainer's room and collapse in the chairs in front of their lockers. And yet somehow they are smiling.

You notice that Tony Siragusa is wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt that is big enough to use as a tarp for a Zamboni. (Ah, you think, a fellow Disney Cast Member!) Under his uniform Rod Woodson is wearing a T-shirt with children's drawings all over it. A tackle successfully removes his shoulder pads to reveal a Pearl Jam T-shirt from the band's '98 Yield tour.

And in a corner of the room, a barechested Shannon Sharpe yells, "We are the new beasts of the AFC Central!" No one responds. Undeterred, he continues to talk.

In the opposite corner, defenders, most of them getting dressed into full fatigues, including dog tags, are chanting along with a song on a boom box, Back dat s--- up ... back dat s--- up y'all.

Above the noise, David Modell yells to no one in particular, "Good luck trying to sleep tonight!"

Undeterred, Shannon Sharpe continues to talk.

Standing in the center of the room Art Modell kisses a TV reporter and then states that this team's defense is the best he's seen -- in 65 years. The Cleveland pariah is beaming so much his face is the same color as his custom-made pink dress shirt. "My reward for everything we went through was coming in here and seeing these faces," he says.

Dressed in a silver silk shirt and matching tie, his voice like white noise now, Shannon Sharpe continues to talk.

One by one the players push their way through the crowd. As they pass an office near the front of the room, an equipment guy hands them their jewelry. The pieces are so ostentatious they look like the fake, plastic jewels children use to play dress-up.

Ray Lewis inches his way to the door, pulling his luggage behind him as he goes. It gets stuck between a chair and a pole. He stops for a second to embrace Eddie George, who has wandered in from the Titans' locker room.

The place empties. The air cools. The noise dies down. The bus idles. The team charter awaits.

And Shannon Sharpe continues to talk.

David Fleming, a senior writer for The Magazine, shares his off-center perspective each Tuesday on ESPNMAG.com. Check out reader feedback in Flem's WHYLOs of the Week. E-mail flemfile@aol.com.