Finally Free

by Michael Vick

  At the age of twenty-two, I faced off against the Green Bay Packers and already-legendary quarterback Brett Favre in the wildcard game. The Packers had never lost a home playoff game at Lambeau Field, or in their earlier days in Milwaukee, going 13-0 dating back to 1933.

  I can vividly remember being out there on the field during warm-ups. The snow was gently falling. There was no wind, and it was cold, but not too cold. There was an eerie feeling in the air that something special was going to happen that night.

  We were happy that we made it to the playoffs. For us, that was overachieving. We knew we could play with any team in the league, but really, we didn’t stack up that well with some teams, like Green Bay. We were big underdogs heading into the game, but we played exemplary football that night. Right from the beginning, we could tell it was going to be special. We scored on the opening drive—something Green Bay hadn’t given up all year—en route to a 27-7 upset win.

  It was Favre’s first home loss of any kind when the temperature was 34 degrees or below. In a very uncharacteristic move, he didn’t talk to the media after the game.

  My statistics weren’t sensational—117 passing yards, one touchdown, and 64 rushing yards—but the victory was exciting beyond description, and much more important and memorable. Everything went right for us that night. It was my best moment in Atlanta.

  The next week, we were matched up against my old friend Donovan McNabb and his Philadelphia Eagles. Unfortunately, we lost 20-6. But it was still a successful year—even a surprising year. We flew under the radar and accomplished things that people didn’t expect.

  Individually, I had a solid season and was selected by my peers and the fans to go to my first Pro Bowl. I was happy. I felt like my career was headed in a good direction—up.

  After all the success in 2002—the eight-game unbeaten streak to finish the season, the upset against Green Bay at Lambeau, the culture change and excitement in Atlanta—2003 was a huge disappointment for both me and the organization.

  My hopes of building on 2002 ended before the 2003 season began—when I broke my leg in a preseason game against the Baltimore Ravens. Sitting on the sidelines as we went 2-10 through the first twelve games was excruciating.

  The preseason injury had an impact on more than just me. It exposed a lot of weaknesses in the team, and Coach Reeves was relieved of his duties three days after my return in Week 14—when we beat Carolina 20-14 at home.

  Coach Reeves will always hold a special place in my heart. I remember watching him on television when I was eight or nine years old. He was in a suit, Elway was his quarterback, and he was giving Elway a hard time. I had never seen someone look so distraught and upset during good times. But now I understand. It was just him demanding greatness. I remember telling myself at the time, If I make it to the NFL, I don’t want to play for that coach right there.

  Go figure; I ended up getting drafted by him. But I loved playing for him and connected with him. Coach Reeves gave me my first set of golf clubs. He gave me advice about how to study and become a better player. I talked to Coach Reeves on a personal level more than any other coach. And I still do.

  When he got fired, I felt partially guilty. I felt like I could have done more to speak up for him, but I was only twenty-two or twenty-three years old. I didn’t know the business. I didn’t know if Mr. Blank would listen to me. I knew things needed to change on several levels, but I didn’t want to overstep my boundaries.

  We finished the year with an interim head coach, Wade Phillips, and a 5-11 record. I was hoping the year was a small bump in the road for a team that was on the rise.

  After the season, and three years into my professional career, the Falcons made me the NFL’s highest-paid player with a $130 million contract, further testing my self-discipline and money management. Again I was in the spotlight. In addition to my new deal, I had other earnings from corporate sponsorship deals with companies like Nike, Coca-Cola, Kraft, Hasbro, and AirTran.

  The team got back on track in 2004. We had a new GM, Rich McKay, and a first-year head coach, Jim Mora. Coach Mora was what I’d call a “player’s coach,” someone who looked out for his guys and went out of his way to cultivate relationships with them.

  We started the season 4-0 and never really looked back. We finished 11-5 while earning the second seed for the NFC playoffs. I was healthy again and put up some good numbers. Even though we lost the regular season finale, we still had a lot of confidence heading into the playoffs.

  We won the divisional playoff game against quarterback Marc Bulger and the St. Louis Rams; and again, we found ourselves matched up against Donovan and Philadelphia in the NFC Championship game.

  I wanted to win that game. I wanted to win that game bad. On a personal level, I knew that one of us—either me or Donovan—had the opportunity to become only the third black quarterback to start in the Super Bowl. From an African-American standpoint, that was important to me.

  Donovan and I didn’t speak leading up to the game. But I remember talking to him on the field before the game. It was in Philadelphia, and I was all bundled up in several layers. All Donovan was wearing was a T-shirt. He looked at me and said, “You lost already.”

  I laughed.

  “You lost already,” he joked.

  Perhaps he was right. We went on to lose to Donovan and Philadelphia, 27-10. Again.

  Now I’m in Philly. And I can deal with the cold.

  We were changing the culture of the Falcons. There was excitement in the city. Ticket sales were up. And we were becoming a prominent contender.

  The Falcons were relevant again.

  My endorsement career was also skyrocketing. Being a part of the Nike family was one of my coolest experiences as a young athlete. Nike represents the best—whether it was Michael Jordan, Tiger Woods, or Derek Jeter—and it was rewarding to be a part of that.

  The commercials they produced were amazing, and it was weird to think that they were about me. One, called “The Michael Vick Experience,” featured a young boy getting on a roller coaster. It was really clever. Another was a Nike Gridiron commercial, featuring Terrell Owens and me, which had some of the coolest graphics I had ever seen.

  I was also honored and humbled to go on the cover of Madden NFL 2004. I’ve always been a Madden NFL football fan, and it was neat to work with EA Sports on my favorite game.

  I was flying high in Atlanta; Atlanta loved me, and I loved Atlanta. I loved everything about it and never wanted to play anywhere else.

  I loved driving on Interstate 85.

  I loved all the restaurants. My two favorite places to eat were Stoney River and the Tavern at Phipps. You went to Stoney River strictly for the steak, which was outrageously good. The Tavern was known for their honey croissants and awesome fried shrimp.

  I even loved just being at Lenox Square.

  But most importantly, I loved all the people. Atlanta is a diverse city—a melting pot. There is so much tradition and even growth. Like the No. 7, Atlanta fit me.

  During my time there, I sincerely tried to make a difference in the metro Atlanta area by reaching out to others and serving the community. Though football was keeping me busy, and the Falcons organization had us involved in the community, I felt it was very important to give from my heart to others. It was important to me because now that I had so much, I needed to share it.

  I volunteered at an orphanage. It was a chance for me to love on those kids and give them hope. I also ran a Christmas toy drive for them each year that I played in Atlanta.

  During that time, I didn’t just try to make an impact in Atlanta; I tried to give back in Newport News too. I did a lot of work with the Boys & Girls Club in both places. As I have said earlier, the Boys & Girls Club was a great place for me to go as a kid, and it provided me with opportunities to grow. Working with the clubs allowed me to make that same positive impact on a new generation. Also, back in Virginia, I made it a priority to help feed people at the homeless shelter. I grew up arou
nd poverty and understood its impact.

  But my giving wasn’t limited to my time. I tried to use my financial situation to help less fortunate people as well. I bought toys, backpacks filled with school supplies, clothes, and general necessities to give away at the orphanage and homeless shelter. I also gave to my home church in Virginia.

  One opportunity stands out more than any other. In 2002 Susan Bass, the Falcons’ community relations director at the time, approached me about a young boy, a twelve-year-old. She shared that he was in need of a heart transplant and that his family was in a very difficult situation. She wanted to know if I would help. There was no way I wouldn’t.

  I briefly met the boy and his family and decided to make a considerable contribution to assist them. I didn’t want the press behind it because it wasn’t about that. I just wanted to give someone a chance to live so that he could dream like I was able to dream. I wanted to have an impact on him so that he could go out and have an impact on someone else. I wanted to give him a chance so that he could give someone else a chance.

  The game in Green Bay may have been my best moment, but helping that young boy’s situation was my proudest.

  Like the 2003 season, the 2005 and 2006 seasons were frustrating, and we regressed as a team.

  In 2005 we started out great, winning six of our first eight games, but then we lost six of our last eight to finish 8-8 and miss the playoffs. Oddly, though, we sent six players to the Pro Bowl, the most for the franchise since its Super Bowl season in 1998. It was my third and final Pro Bowl as a member of the Atlanta Falcons.

  We started strong again in 2006, going 5-2, but then lost our next four games en route to a 7-9 record. My mounting frustrations were evident after the fourth consecutive defeat, 31-13 to the New Orleans Saints. The loss made our record 5-6 and, just as importantly, was a huge loss to one of our NFC South division rivals.

  Individually, my season was going well. I was on the way to what would be one of the best statistical years of my career, with a career high in touchdown passes (20) and an NFL record for rushing yards by a quarterback (1,039). In many ways, I was finally playing the type of game I wanted.

  But losing, particularly that Saints game, really burned me up. While walking off the field, I heard a fan telling Alge Crumpler—my teammate and one of the best tight ends in the league—that he sucked. The guy was wearing a New Orleans Saints jersey; he wasn’t one of our fans. But he was with a guy who had on a Falcons jersey. They were together, and both of them started yelling to us, “You guys stink. You guys suck.”

  It was an odd situation. I was like, There’s a Falcons fan with a New Orleans Saints fan, and both of them are screaming that we suck. I just felt something wasn’t right with that picture.

  I became so infuriated that I put my middle fingers up at both of them, as if to say, You know what? If y’all feel that way, then @#$% y’all. And I didn’t even think anything of it. I just reacted.

  Right then, I didn’t care. My attitude was, So what? I stuck my middle fingers up. I didn’t think about who was watching or who was around.

  I got a call about an hour later. The team’s public relations guy, Reggie Roberts, asked me if I stuck my middle fingers up. My response was, “Nah; well, yeah, I did, but there wasn’t anybody out there.” He was like, “Man, you lie. There were cameras all over you.”

  And the next thing you know, that was the hot topic.

  I was sternly reprimanded by the team owner, Mr. Blank, and was fined $10,000. I contributed an additional $10,000 to charity—$5,000 to the family of a fallen firefighter and another $5,000 to then-teammate Warrick Dunn’s foundation that helps single mothers become homeowners.

  I look back and wish I could apologize to those two men and to everyone who witnessed the incident. I wish I had donated even more to charity, and not just money but also my time—because I so deeply regret the incident.

  I would never do that now. I had always been a fan-friendly guy at Virginia Tech and in Atlanta. I am embarrassed that I took it there. I was really upset with myself after that because I knew better.

  The moment showed my immaturity and was probably a symptom of greater issues in my life. It was the first of many lessons I would soon learn.

  I learned that you can’t react; you have to respond. I reacted negatively out of emotion; I let my emotions, not the truth, control me. I let those guys get under my skin, and they saw me sweat. They won. For them it was: Oh, he stuck his middle fingers up at us! We made him mad! He noticed us!

  Instead of letting them win that moment, I should have recognized the truth: Alge and I were Pro Bowl players, excellent at our jobs, and public figures open to criticism. Rather than reacting, I should have simply responded with a “Thanks” and a wave, and then let my play on the field speak for me the following week.

  The incident was damaging for me and the Falcons organization, but I think it also demonstrated what kind of emotions players wrestle with during and after a game. We play with a lot of passion. And for all that has ever been said about me, no one can ever say I didn’t play with my heart. However, I think if things in my life were different, I would have made a more sound decision in that situation. The incident kind of set everything off. It was as if I hung a black cloud over my head.

  Six weeks or so later, at the end of the 2006 season, Coach Mora was dismissed. Little did I or anyone else know at the time, but that season would be my last with the Falcons too—and with the NFL for two long years.

  Through much of my time in Atlanta, I was dealing with a personal struggle that no one knew about—one that affected my concentration on football.

  I had dated Tameka steadily for a long time. Six months after I was drafted, we learned that we were pregnant. Just before my second season in Atlanta, Tameka gave birth to our son, my first child, Mitez.

  My relationship with Tameka had become strained, and it eventually fell apart. It turned into a custody battle that exhausted me emotionally.

  The situation really took a toll on me one season when there was a period of time I didn’t know where Mitez and his mother were living. I never wanted to be away from my son, but I found a way to manage. We went back and forth, and I finally got joint custody.

  Before that, though, it was a struggle. I was in Atlanta playing football, and I was really frustrated because I was in a situation that money couldn’t buy me out of. Like I said, there was half a season when I didn’t know where my son was, and that really bothered me. I didn’t want to complain to anyone and I didn’t want to say anything to anyone, so I kept it all to myself. It was painful.

  This is one of the first times I’ve ever really talked about the situation. It affected more than my time off the field; it carried over to the field of play as well. It hurt. Being a part of Mitez’s life was extremely important to me, yet I couldn’t talk to Mitez on the phone, couldn’t leave him a voicemail, and couldn’t find him or his mom. There were days that I went to play a game, and I expected him to be in the stands watching, but he wasn’t there. I don’t think it changed me as a player or as a leader, because on the outside I was still happy, but on the inside I was hurting.

  I realize you can’t trap personal struggles inside and allow them to fester; you have to talk about them. It’s one of the things I wish I had done differently in Atlanta. I could have reached out to a lot more people for help. I didn’t have to struggle alone.

  Regardless of what transpired, I appreciated and still appreciate Tameka for what she has done and is doing for Mitez. Tameka and I have an amicable relationship today, and I know Mitez is well taken care of.

  Though my life was lived in the spotlight, the situation with my son was not the only thing hidden from public view.

  My entire experience in Atlanta could have turned out differently. Regrettably, it can be summed up in two words: unfulfilled potential.

  The Falcons drafted me expecting more than the two playoff berths (and no Super Bowls). As much as I accomplished, I
look back and see that I should have been more committed to my sport.

  There is no doubt in my mind that I could have done more. I mean, I was a Pro Bowl quarterback, and I did what was asked of me. I wasn’t a slacker, and I did work hard. But there were important things I didn’t do.

  My life and career began to waver off course in the days, weeks, and months leading up to the 2001 NFL draft. The slippage—hidden from public view—escaped the detection of the league’s ultra-thorough background checks. Looking back, I believe if the NFL had known the full truth about what was happening in my life, it’s very likely I never would have been the first overall pick in the draft.

  Yes, I had issues off the field; and on the field, I relied strictly on my natural physical skills to carry me rather than trying to hone them. The crazy part was that from the time I left school in January 2001 until my Pro Day in March, I did not work out one time. I ate fast food every day—every day! I didn’t lift weights, didn’t train, didn’t run, didn’t study any football. I had not thrown a ball since the Gator Bowl game. And yet I ran a 4.33 forty-yard dash at my Pro Day.

  It’s a marvel that I was sharp and performed so well for the scouts, given my inactivity. I don’t know any way to explain it other than the natural ability God gave me kicked in for some reason. I went into my Pro Day like I had been throwing the ball for three months. Still, I can’t help but wonder how I would have done if I had prepared and applied myself.

  Unfortunately, I continued that trend when I got to Atlanta. Instead of trying to better myself in the game of football, I felt like what I was doing was enough. I mean, I practiced hard and did what the coaches asked me to. I thought my athletic ability was enough.