by Michael Vick
Again, I went back to my roots—back to the start.
Chapter Two
Seven’s Heaven
“It fit me.”
My No. 7 Philadelphia Eagles jersey became one of the NFL’s best-selling jerseys again in 2010 after topping the charts at times during my stay in Atlanta. I guess you could say the number is as much a fixture on me as No. 18 is on Peyton Manning and No. 12 is on Tom Brady.
I like the fact that the number has biblical significance. Someone told me that it’s considered God’s “perfect” number by many theologians. For instance, there are seven days in a week, making the number symbolic of completion.
I didn’t start out with 7 as my number during my high school days, however. I wore No. 11 playing for Coach Reamon during my freshman and sophomore seasons at Ferguson High in Newport News and initially was given No. 1 when I transferred to Warwick High with Coach Reamon when Ferguson closed down in 1996.
At first I liked my new number. My archrival was quarterback Ronald Curry at nearby Hampton High. Ronald received more fanfare than I did back in those days, so when Coach Reamon gave me No. 1, I saw it as a vote of confidence that he considered me the best quarterback around.
It was nice, but something about the number didn’t seem to fit me (yes, I admit to being just a bit superstitious). The entire time I wore No. 1, things just didn’t go right for me. I couldn’t complete any passes, and I remember having a really, really bad scrimmage.
The next week in practice—and I’m the team leader, remember—I was lying on the ground thinking, How can I get better? How can I gain the confidence of my teammates entering my junior year? I looked over at my friend Andrae Harrison, who was our top receiver at the time, and said, “Andrae, let’s exchange jerseys. Let’s switch numbers.”
He said, “Are you serious? I thought you wanted to wear No. 1.”
I told him, “Yeah, I just need a change.”
So we switched, and I put on the No. 7 jersey that Andrae was wearing. I’ve kept it ever since.
My career took off from that exact point. I had a great practice that day, and I felt like a totally different person. The number actually looked good on me! It fit me. Everyone told me, “I like you a lot better in No. 7 than in No. 1.”
Coach Reamon just laughs at the memory.
One thing No. 7 could not do was make me the No. 1 high school quarterback in Newport News. That belonged to Hampton’s Ronald Curry. All through high school, I lived in his shadow. The newspapers routinely had a huge picture of Ronald, and at the bottom, a tiny picture of me about the size of a stamp.
My whole high school career can be described as me trying to emulate someone who, I believe, is the best to ever play high school football. After every game, I read his stats in the newspaper. I looked at his picture—saw his socks, his uniform, what kind of shoes he was wearing. Anytime I had the opportunity to watch Ronald play, I went to Hampton’s games. I dissected his style of football—his leadership, his moves, his stats. Everything he did was engrained in my memory bank. He probably didn’t do the same with me—he was No. 1.
Living in Ronald’s shadow ended up being great for my career. He made me a better player. Made me dream bigger. Made me play harder. Made me want to improve. Made me want to be the best. The best ever.
In football, you need people to push you. You need a backup quarterback to push you. You need coaches to push you. Ronald was my push. I saw his stats and knew they were better. I saw his team’s record and knew they were better. But I could not say to myself that he was better than me. I was always struggling with that internally, but I never let it out. I didn’t want anyone to catch the vibe that there was any form of hatred, jealousy, or envy toward Ronald. Though I was jealous, I admired him too much to let that out.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Though Ronald Curry was Virginia’s main attraction, I still stood out—especially to Coach Reamon.
Even back in my days at Ferguson—in my first two high school seasons—Coach Reamon saw something special in me. He marveled at my arm strength and a throwing motion that featured a flick of the wrist.
“It’s unique,” Coach Reamon told me. “There are very few players who do that.” But we both knew that it worked.
I spent most of my freshman season at Ferguson with the junior varsity but was elevated to varsity for the final three games of the season. I remember throwing for over 430 yards with four touchdowns in my second varsity start, a 41-14 win over Gloucester.
After transferring to Warwick for my last two high school seasons, my skills improved and I became more successful. My favorite play came in a game against Denbigh High. I remember it vividly. I scrambled to my right and I had three guys coming at me. I made a move that was so “freaky” that Coach Reamon was like, “Son, when I saw you make that move right there, I knew you were going to play in the NFL.”
He said he had never, in his history of watching football, seen anyone make a move as quick and as agile as I did. The truth is, it was actually a bad play—an incomplete pass—but the way I improvised, I guess, just made people see that I had potential.
Coach Reamon began to utilize my speed at other positions too. In 1997 at Warwick, I bookended my senior season with a pair of punt returns for touchdowns. In our first game of the season against Phoebus, I returned a punt 70-some yards for a touchdown, and in my high school finale against Woodside, I had a 35-yard punt return for a touchdown.
My running ability became more noticeable in my junior year and really blossomed my senior season. Hundred-yard rushing games became more common. I noticed I was faster than other players. The game slowed down for me. Teams changed their defenses just for me. People said I was “elusive.” They said I was a “new kind of quarterback.”
Even though I accomplished a great deal, one of the disappointing aspects of my high school career is that I never played in the Virginia state playoffs. I don’t dwell on it, though. I knew we didn’t have the same talent or size that some other teams did, and I couldn’t change that. However, I’m glad that I never played on a team with a losing record in high school. We were 5-5 twice at Ferguson, and we were 6-4 and 7-3 at Warwick. But I wanted to be better. I wanted to win. I wanted to be No. 1.
During our senior season, I had the chance to play my rival, Ronald Curry. The game drew a lot of attention. Eight thousand people came to see us play. It was an opportunity to emerge from Ronald’s shadow.
Before the game, Coach Reamon talked to me. “Virginia Tech called and wants to offer you a scholarship,” he said. “But it’ll probably be based on this game and how you react.”
This was my chance.
Though our team was outmatched, losing 34-16, I threw for nearly 300 yards and a touchdown, and also rushed for about 40 yards and another score. I had one of my best games ever. I put on a show that night. And finally, for once, my stats were better than Ronald’s.
As my senior year approached, Coach Reamon oversaw my college recruitment and made it known that schools had to choose which quarterback they wanted—me or Ronald Curry—and that recruiting both of us simultaneously wasn’t an option.
He told them, “You make that decision. Michael has been ‘second fiddle’ long enough. He’s not going to go to a place that Ronald is considering.”
Once we made it to college and the pros, I caught up with Ronald. It was great to move past our rivalry and support each other in the next stage of our careers. He battled injuries at the University of North Carolina and wound up playing wide receiver in the NFL for seven seasons with the Oakland Raiders. But in high school, I remained in his shadow as he led his Hampton High teams to three state championships and beat my team three consecutive seasons.
After his senior season, Ronald was named National Player of the Year by Gatorade and the Atlanta Touchdown Club. He was honored as a first-team Parade All-American and as the McDonald’s National Player of the Year in basketball. He was every school’s prized recruit in the Class of ’98.
For four years, I was second-best. But it made me want to be the best—the best ever.
Chapter Three
Blacksburg’s a Blast
“This is it. This is all I ever dreamed of.”
Everything changed in college. I was no longer living in another quarterback’s shadow. My career launched.
I was being recruited by schools all across the country, but I narrowed it to five for my official visits: Clemson, East Carolina, Georgia Tech, Syracuse, and Virginia Tech. Going on all of my official visits and seeing different campuses was a great experience for me at the time. Aside from traveling to high school games and football camps, visiting the schools took me out of Newport News and showed me so much of what I never knew. Life was definitely different away from Newport News.
The visits provided Coach Reamon and me an opportunity to evaluate all of my options and the possible scenarios that were ahead. Clemson wanted me to come in and play immediately as a true freshman, whereas Georgia Tech had a standout quarterback, Joe Hamilton, who had two years remaining. I definitely didn’t want to wait that long. And East Carolina was moving to Conference USA and had a freshman quarterback named David Garrard already waiting in the wings. In the end, it came down to Syracuse and Virginia Tech, two schools that were in the Big East Conference.
Coach Reamon urged me to attend Virginia Tech. The Hokies were nearby and also were willing to allow me to redshirt my first season in order to develop as a player before competing for the starting quarterback position. This would be a great chance for me to sit back, learn, and adjust to college.
The same opportunity was available at Syracuse because Donovan McNabb—whose career has been closely linked to mine—was entering his senior season. Donovan hosted my campus visit to Syracuse and hoped to convince me to join the Orangemen. He said I became his “little brother” during the recruiting process.
For some reason, our paths have always seemed to be intertwined. In 2010, Donovan was traded to the Washington Redskins after eleven incredible seasons with the Philadelphia Eagles. He was the starting quarterback for the Monday night game in November 2010 that my Eagles won, 59-21. During his tenure in Philadelphia, Donovan and the Eagles beat my Atlanta Falcons team twice in the playoffs, ending some exciting seasons for us.
Donovan is a great player and an underappreciated quarterback. More importantly, he has been a great trailblazer for other African-American quarterbacks, redefining the role and image with the likes of Doug Williams and Randall Cunningham. If not for Donovan, I might not have been signed by the Eagles when I was seeking reentry into the NFL, nor would I have been so well-mentored in my first year back. He played a huge part in getting me signed in Philadelphia and in my rehabilitation as a football player. But our friendship began not in the NFL, but on my recruiting trip to Syracuse.
I had a great time on that official visit. Donovan was a terrific host. We went to a Syracuse basketball game together at the Carrier Dome. But Syracuse also had twelve inches of snow on the ground with single-digit temperatures, and I was a ten-hour drive away from home. That let me know it would be tough for my family to get there on a consistent basis to see me play, which was important to me.
So it was either go play at Syracuse and fill Donovan McNabb’s shoes, or go to Virginia Tech and create my own legacy. Both seemed like a challenge and a good opportunity, but I believed in myself and really wanted to mark my place in college football history. I knew I could do it.
I prayed about the decision. I asked God to guide me, and it became clear that Tech was the right choice. I loved the idea of playing for Coach Frank Beamer, who impressed me not only as an excellent coach but as a highly admirable person I could respect and follow as a leader. He was like a father away from home for all of his players. I was a kid coming from a completely different environment—not used to being away from home—and I clung to him and picked his brain about different situations in regards to growing up and becoming a man. He helped me adjust to the college environment and told my mother he would take care of me.
When I went to Tech, I wasn’t thinking about what I needed to do to put the program on the map; all I was concerned about was winning football games.
I knew it wasn’t going to be easy adjusting to both the playing level of Division 1-A (now Bowl Championship Series) college football and the college atmosphere in general—going to class, being responsible, and living a totally different life. The academic side demanded so much more than high school; that alone would be a challenge for me. Then add the life of a college football player—practicing three hours a day, lifting weights for about two hours a day, and traveling most weekends.
Plus, if I wanted to attain my college football dreams—well, I had a lot to learn.
The redshirt year is invaluable. Many parents today want their kids to play now. They want them to pick a college where they can play immediately.
I could have done the same thing. Believe me. I could have played right out of high school. Physically, I certainly could.
Football, however, isn’t about what you can do physically. A running back, for example, also has to know how to block. He has to know what to do against a full blitz or an assigned linebacker. It’s not just about taking the handoff and shaking the guys in front of you. It’s about routes. It’s about coverage conversions.
The game is first played from a mental standpoint—then the physical. Without the mental, you don’t know where to go. All you are is a good football player—with no knowledge—so what good are you? You’re just sitting there like a bump on a log because you don’t know what to do. You’re nothing but wasted talent because you don’t know how to think and process. A redshirt season will help you maximize your opportunity to go to the next level.
Virginia Tech kept its promise to Coach Reamon and me: they gave me the opportunity to sit my true freshman season. They had a good football team and senior quarterback Al Clark, so I think they felt like they could hold on for a year without playing me, and it paid off. I really wanted things to be in perspective before I started playing regularly—to understand the game. I wanted to mature and make sure I was ready to handle everything.
Physically, I improved exponentially. I had never gone through anything like the regimen they provided. It was hard, but so rewarding. I went from being just a fast player to having elite speed that is said to be unparalleled at the quarterback position. I also gained about twenty pounds, increasing from 190 to 210.
The difference? Lifting weights. It was all muscle. It’s what happens when you lift three times a day.
Tech had a weight room as big as a hotel ballroom. Between the squats, clean and press, and bench, I was doing leg weights and upper-body weights in addition to drinking protein shakes and eating three square meals a day in the cafeteria. As a result, I just took off as my physique matured.
Most importantly, I improved mentally. Our offensive coordinator and quarterbacks coach, Rickey Bustle, always made me come to the film room. Practice didn’t start until 3:30 p.m., but I was in quarterback meetings at 2:00 p.m. When the other redshirts were out socializing and starting their weekend, I was in the film room with Rickey. The playbook was thicker, and there were defensive concepts I hadn’t seen in high school. I had to learn. They had plans for me to play. And they were going to make sure I was mentally prepared.
The first thing to being a good quarterback, you see, isn’t about learning the offense, believe it or not. It’s about learning how to read defenses.
All through summer camp my redshirt season, I looked lost in practice. Even through the regular season, I looked lost. But I’ll never forget it: I was sitting in the film room before our bowl game—the Music City Bowl against Alabama—studying and watching film. That’s when it clicked.
Cover 1, you can do xyz.
Cover 2, you can do xyz.
For each defense, I finally understood the things I could do. And that was pretty much the game. Up until then, it was all clou
dy; I didn’t understand. From that point forward, going against the scout team, I looked for two high safeties or a single-high safety, and I read the defense. From that point forward, all I had to do was learn the offense because I had already learned the defense.
Between my physical and mental maturation, coaches told me I started to look like the best scout-team player to ever play the game. I learned how to be a leader. I learned how to be the best. And it all came down to that day in the film room when it clicked. It’s when my raw abilities came to fruition because they were combined with a refined physical and mental game. It’s when it started to show.
During the spring of my redshirt freshman season, I was competing with junior Dave Meyer for the starting quarterback position. I had an opportunity to lead the team come fall if I earned the position in spring practice. Virginia Tech could be my team. My college football dreams could become a reality.
I’ll never forget the day I found out I was No. 1 on the depth chart.
I spent January, February, and March learning the offense. And on the first day of spring practice, I put everything I learned together. In the fall, I had felt lost. But now, the game felt easy.
Dave and I started out dead even. We each had two weeks with the first-string offense and two weeks with the second-string. We had full practices on Saturday and were evaluated on Sundays.
On one of those Saturdays, I remember going 8-for-10 with 133 passing yards. I specifically remember a touchdown pass I had to our tight end on a broken-arrow route against a cover 3 defense—which was rare. But because of my vision, I saw it in the drop back.
That night, I went home to Newport News. People don’t realize this, but I used to get incredibly homesick. It felt so good to see my family, and when I came back for practice, I had completely forgotten about the depth chart. When I saw it, I got butterflies: “Vick—No. 1, Meyer—No. 2.” The first person I called was my mom.
