by Michael Vick
I look back now and realize I was not taking full advantage of the physical skills God gave me. I should have been spending extra time in the classroom and weight room, but I wasn’t. I never devoted any part of Tuesdays—typically our weekly day off—to things such as studying film to prepare for the upcoming opponent or evaluating my past performances. It’s something a lot of the best quarterbacks, like Peyton Manning, do. Often, I would go home to Virginia on Tuesdays and put time into things I should have left alone.
Back then I told myself, Down the road, when I turn twenty-eight or twenty-nine—that’s when I’ll study the game. That’s when I’ll get better. That’s probably around the time I’ll win a Super Bowl anyway. Nobody is expecting me to win it at such a young age right now.
You know, I was twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, and I was looking at guys like Chris Chandler, when he was thirty-seven, and Randall Cunningham, who was in his last year with Baltimore. Those guys were older; they knew the game; they understood it; but it took awhile for them to experience success in their careers. Because of that, I thought it just came in time. I hoped it wouldn’t take as long for me, but nothing would change my mind about how I was approaching things.
Sadly, I remember all too well how Randall Cunningham and Steve Young extended themselves to me and were willing to help mentor me at the outset of my career, but I quietly and firmly pushed away their assistance and advice.
I had outlets, good outlets. I had people to talk to, but I chose not to take their advice. I chose to do it my way, not necessarily the “right way” like Coach Beamer taught. I never thought I would have to experience the things I went through, nor the adversity I had to face.
The Falcons organization provided me with so much support throughout my time with them. Mr. Blank, the team owner, treated me extremely well. I should have been more willing to build the mentoring relationship—even a father-son kind of relationship—that he wanted to have with me.
He wanted to be a great friend to me: a man of support, and someone I could count on in times of need. I never took advantage of the opportunity to learn from him—a strong leader, a successful businessman, and a man of integrity. I enjoyed him as a person, but I think there were so many more situations where I could have relied on his knowledge and wisdom. I failed to do that, and I think it caused me to venture down dark paths during certain times in my life.
When he extended a helping hand, I walked away from it. I took everything in my life for granted. I felt like I was old enough to make decisions on my own, and I didn’t need other people’s counsel or advice.
Once I got used to being in the NFL spotlight, I really felt like I had arrived—that I had made it. I became complacent.
It could be said I was a bit like Icarus of Greek mythology. The myth says that he attempted to escape from an island by flying to freedom with wings made of wax and feathers. He was told not to fly too close to the sun or sea; the sun would melt the wax and the sea would add water and weight to the feathers, making the wings useless. He didn’t heed the advice, flew too close to the sun, and fell from the sky into the sea.
When you’re young—twenty-two or twenty-three years old with the world at your fingertips—you feel like you’re a grown man. You feel like you know it all. But as I would later find out, I certainly didn’t know it all.
I was flying high in the NFL. But I took shortcuts and built weak, fake wings. I didn’t listen to advice, and I too fell from the sky.
Part II:
The Fall
Chapter Five
Warning Signs
“The lifestyle I was leading … would soon be revealed to the world.”
I thought 2007 was going to bring great things for me. It was my seventh year in the NFL, it was ’07, and my jersey number was 7.
I had built a strong image, which was evidenced by the fact that global corporations such as Nike, Coca-Cola, and AirTran had made large endorsement deals with me.
We had a new coach, Bobby Petrino, who tailored his explosive offense around my abilities. I had learned the system quickly and put myself in position to be successful with it. The system, coupled with my abilities, had Coach Petrino so enthused and encouraged, he told his coaching staff I was going to be the league MVP that year.
Instead, I didn’t even make it to the season. My problems began to surface and multiply, all by my own doing.
I can’t say I shouldn’t have seen my fall coming. It’s not as if I just instantaneously plummeted, though that’s how it appeared to the public. Mine was a slow, steady fall, with many chances along the way to notice some glaring warning signs that I was headed in the wrong direction—down.
Whether I was too proud or too stubborn to see what was happening, I’m not really sure. What I do know is that I was too selfish to care about what anyone else thought, or even really care about how my actions affected them.
A lot of my poor decisions and subsequent mistakes can be attributed mostly to two things: my weak resolve in telling people no, and the people I chose to be associated with. I had an entourage of pretty questionable characters—some with their own criminal records—and I was surrounded by them almost all of the time whenever I wasn’t playing football.
I acknowledge I was influenced by those around me, but I take full responsibility for my actions and the image they eventually conveyed. Like I said, it was my decision to have that entourage, and it wasn’t a good one. It was the first in a series of bad decisions.
My group of friends began to assemble the moment I left Virginia Tech for the NFL. It was some locals from Newport News, their friends, and guys who approached me with something to offer. Even before I took a snap in the NFL, I had the opportunity to lead these men in a different direction. But my immaturity and youth failed us all.
I spent late nights out with the guys at nightclubs, making a myriad of bad choices. Rather than lifting weights and running, I was out drinking and partying. The Falcons had concerns about the people I was hanging around, but I don’t believe team officials knew the extent of what I was doing until it was too late. I was a bad leader off the field for those guys. I had become a manipulator and a master illusionist.
The games I was playing were well hidden from the Falcons organization, the NFL, and the public for a long time. And though hidden, my lifestyle and decisions soon caught up to me and began issuing warning signs that I was taking a dangerous path.
A series of embarrassing public and not-so-public incidents began damaging the façade I had built. Some are very well documented. I tell you of these incidents now, not to glorify them or bring up bad memories for others, but to simply clear up false information and reveal the truth. Mainly, the truth about the man I had let myself become—a selfish liar who was too weak to say no to my friends and lead them.
The warning signs started to appear in 2004.
The first incident is not well known, and truly was a result of an honest mistake made by one of my associates. However, my attitude caused me to be caught in an awkward and embarrassing situation.
It happened while traveling with some of my entourage on a Tuesday—my day off during the season—from Atlanta back home to Virginia. As we passed through the security checkpoint at the airport, a member of my party inadvertently picked up a watch off the X-ray conveyor belt, believing it was mine. He put it in his pocket, we flew home, and he gave it to me. However, it was not my watch; it belonged to an airport screener. He had put his watch through the machine but left it on the belt as he finished something else. After noticing it was missing, the screener contacted his supervisor. They reviewed the surveillance tapes and saw what had happened, saw who it was, and reported it.
A call was made to the Falcons, who then reached out to me. I told them I had the watch, it was an honest mistake, and I would bring it back when I returned to Atlanta on Wednesday. But I didn’t return it on my way back; instead, I went straight to practice. This caused several back-and-forth phone conversations be
tween me, the Falcons, and the airport. I eventually gave the watch back six days later, but only after I had caused considerable headaches for everyone involved and frustration for a man who just wanted his watch back.
The situation affected others more than it did me, so I didn’t think it was a big deal. And although it all worked out and was minor in the big picture, I should have been paying attention. More importantly, I was not a man of my word.
On my way through Miami International Airport security in January 2007—shortly after the postgame incident in New Orleans (which became known as “dirty birds”), and after our 2006 season ended—I got myself into a precarious situation. TSA authorities confiscated a water bottle from me that had a secret compartment that appeared to have remnants of marijuana.
The incident created quite a stir for the Falcons, who were extremely upset that their star quarterback was once again making negative news.
Here’s what happened: entering the airport that day, I was not in the best frame of mind. As I approached the security checkpoint, I was oblivious to the numerous signs telling passengers they are prohibited from taking liquids or containers through the screening process. Yet I was carrying a water bottle, with what could be viewed as liquid in it, to the checkpoint.
When I approached the screeners, they said, “You can’t take that bottle.”
I replied, “This is my bottle, and I like it and don’t want to throw it away.”
They took it, so I said, “Give it to me,” and opened it up. “It’s not even a water bottle,” I remarked as I exposed the compartment to them.
They saw it and responded, “That’s even worse. Give it to us.” Then they took it and threw it in a recycling bin and let me pass through security.
I boarded my flight and returned to Atlanta. But evidently, because of my odd behavior, they went back and got the bottle from the bin to inspect it. Upon inspection, they thought it smelled funny, and they saw a black substance in the compartment, which led to a police report being filed against me on suspicion of possession of an illegal substance and drug paraphernalia.
When they confiscated the bottle, though, there was nothing in it, and that was proven by the Metro-Dade crime lab. No charges were filed, and the incident was dropped, but only after causing more heartache for the Falcons, the league, and my sponsors.
I was thinking that 2007 was going to be the year of my life—and for that incident to happen three weeks into the year—it was really like a blinking light saying, “Your wings are coming unglued.”
The water-bottle incident and the Falcons’ publicly stated disapproval still didn’t cause me to stop and think about what I was doing.
On April 24, 2007, I skipped a scheduled appearance on Capitol Hill in Washington, DC, at which I was supposed to lobby before Congress for after-school programs. I had spent the previous day participating in Warrick Dunn’s charity golf tournament in Tampa, Florida. My AirTran flight from Tampa to Atlanta was delayed, causing me to miss my connecting flight to Washington. Even though there was a later flight to Washington that I could have taken, I inexplicably decided against it. To this day, I really don’t know why I didn’t take it.
I ended up being a no-show in DC.
Of course, it became a public matter.
I gave my publicist, Susan Bass, incorrect information—blaming the airline—which made her account of the circumstances conflict with the statement AirTran released. I feel bad that, because of me, my publicist looked like she was being untruthful in the press release she issued on my behalf. She believed what I was telling her, so that’s what she wrote. She asked me numerous times if it was the truth, and I told her yes. Obviously, it wasn’t.
The situation was key to the breakdown in my business relationship with the airline, eventually leading the company—which once had my image adorning its billboards—to end its endorsement contract with me. It had been a sweetheart deal for me; among the perks was that I got to fly for free.
It was very immature of me to blame missing the event in Washington on the airline when it was entirely my fault. Even on my ride home from Atlanta-Hartsfield, my friend Adam Harris said, “You need to get your butt in the car and drive to DC and be there in the morning.”
I said, “You know what? It’s really not that big of a deal.” I talked to him for about fifteen minutes about why I shouldn’t go, and finally he just said, “You know what? Forget it.”
I should have taken the responsibility and shown everyone that I could be accountable for important meetings and events. It was just another situation where I let my pride get ahead of me. Things that mattered to me once, like helping others and being involved in the community, no longer mattered. I thought I was bigger than it all. I could have been very instrumental in helping out a group of kids. I just didn’t want the hassle, nor did I really care at the time. The only person I cared about was me. And though my teammates and those around me didn’t really see it, I’d become something I never wanted to be: I had become a “me” guy. Truth is, I just cared about my own time and not much else.
The DC incident was the last warning sign. The lifestyle I was leading, my lies, my entourage, and the illusion I had constructed would soon be revealed to the world.
I changed when I arrived in the NFL. I started to decay.
Chapter Six
Dog Days
“One phone call on April 25, 2007, changed my life forever.”
One phone call on April 25, 2007, changed my life forever. I was out playing golf with D. J. Shockley—a backup quarterback for the Falcons—at Sugarloaf Country Club, near my home in the Atlanta suburb of Duluth, Georgia, when my cell phone rang.
My cousin and longtime friend Davon Boddie, who was part of my posse that concerned the Falcons, had been arrested by police five days earlier outside a nightclub in Hampton, Virginia, on charges of possession and distribution of marijuana. He told authorities that his home address was 1915 Moonlight Road in Smithfield, Virginia—a home I owned.
The caller informed me that police had raided the property, discovering evidence of dogfighting and mistreatment of animals, which might potentially lead to felony charges for me and my friends. Suddenly, “dirty birds,” water bottles, and missed congressional appearances paled in comparison.
I sensed at the time that this was way bigger than me. In the days that followed, my lawyer asked numerous times if I had any involvement, and I told him no. But I knew I was lying and, at any given moment, it could backfire in my face.
The subject matter I’m about to discuss is highly controversial and sensitive—and understandably so. I want to make it clear from the outset that in no way do I mean to glorify dogfighting or my involvement in it. But I do want to be candid about what happened, and my background with it, to answer any lingering questions that might exist. It needs to be shared because it is part of my story. And I will make it clear that such activity and behavior should be strictly avoided and not tolerated.
I grew up loving animals and had a passion for them. As a boy, I had two parakeets, a few gerbils, and a pet dog named Midnight.
Midnight had a really pretty black coat with brown dots above her eyes. She was a beautiful dog; I fell in love with her. I would go to the local grocery store to help people with their bags, and they’d give me fifteen or twenty cents. At the end of the day, if I could leave with two dollars, I’d have enough to buy two cans of dog food for Midnight. It was like my summer job as a little kid. It let me provide for her.
Midnight was my companion, so I didn’t want to do with her what I heard the other guys were doing with their dogs because I was emotionally attached to her.
I saw my first dogfight when I was eight.
One day, a friend and I stepped outside the building where I lived in the Ridley Circle housing project and saw kids and their bicycles surrounding a grassy area where we usually played football. But instead of a football game, about eight pit bull terriers were gathered. Most people don’t know this
, but back then, just as is the case now, I am scared to death of dogs I don’t know. So my friend and I jumped on top of a mailbox to give us spectator seats at a safe distance from what was happening.
We saw guys putting their dogs’ faces right in front of one another. The dogs would grab and fight. I remember two of them were fighting when a third, smaller dog jumped on the back of one of the larger dogs to make it two-on-one.
I didn’t know what to think of it all. In a way, it captured my attention. But it also seemed mean, even cruel.
The bottom line, however, is that right there, on that very day, my fascination with dogfighting began. It’s something I wish had never, ever happened.
I cringe at the brutality of it all now. I didn’t realize how wrong dogfighting was at the time. It’s the one thing about growing up in the area that I wish I could change. It was just a way of life in the neighborhood. It wasn’t out of the norm to walk up and see two guys fighting with their dogs, or to hear a dog in the bushes barking. You knew it was somebody’s dog that was being kept to fight. There was no other place to keep them.
It was going on almost every day. Either you would see guys fighting their dogs against one another, or against dogs belonging to guys from other neighborhoods.
Jamel, my childhood friend, recalls that informal dogfights would happen randomly in the neighborhood. The fascination, he says, would be comparable to lions fighting. It captivates you.
Over the next two years, my friends and I sometimes hid dogs in the bushes around our neighborhood, and we’d let them fight one another.
An older boy, Tony, was one of the first people to teach me about dogfighting. He was about ten years older than me. My friends and I would play basketball with Tony and other older boys. I guess I had impressed them with my athleticism because when I would go to the court, Tony used to pick me to be on his team. He would come to the basketball court with a nice pit bull—always. He was around a lot of the older guys and dope dealers in the neighborhood who had dogs as well.
