by Michael Vick
Some may question my sincerity or say, “Of course he found God in prison,” as if it is a crutch or an excuse or an easy way to show remorse or reform. But in reality, I didn’t find God; He found me. He put me in a place to be alone and to have conversation with Him. And I needed to listen.
As I look back on it, I had to come out of jail and take baby steps to get back to where I wanted to be. There was so much that needed to change, including breaking ties with longtime friends and associates who weren’t the best influences on me in my pre-prison days.
God knew that I couldn’t walk away from the dogfighting situation without my friends saying, “How are you just going to walk away from it? How are you not going to do this anymore?” God knew that in some ways I was arrogant, and He also knew that when I was younger, I used to pray. God gave me the strength to get through the prison sentence. He knew that I didn’t have the strength to say no—that I didn’t have the heart to tell people that they had to go their own separate way, that they couldn’t be a part of my life anymore, that I needed to start a new life and it would be family-oriented—family first.
As I thought about it, I was reminded how I had lost sight of everything, of all the good people who helped me reach the pinnacle of my career. I just had no strength—no strength—to say no to those who were negatively influencing me. Being in that moment—being in that situation—was so surreal because I knew that what I had done and what I had worked for really didn’t matter anymore.
As a part of the prison system, you almost feel like you’re a nobody. You don’t exist to the world at all. You’re just a guy with a name and a number.
I had so much downtime when I was in prison, I had to think about how I arrived at the point where I was. How did I reach a level of success that I had wanted and had always dreamed of? How could I resurrect all of that?
I thought about my walk with God and how I used to read the Bible when I was in high school. I thought about the steps I took to get to the NFL. And I thought about who was in my life that was most important. I realized that without God, I couldn’t do it; and that without God, I couldn’t get out of prison. He’s not a crutch, a temporary fix; He is the rock.
In January 2008, I was transferred to the famed US penitentiary at Leavenworth, Kansas. I no longer lived alone in a cell, but was in a large pod with about fifty other men.
My character was tested almost as soon as I arrived at Leavenworth, when it was made to look like I had some contraband. A guard walked up to me and threw a whole half-ounce of tobacco at my foot, trying to get me in trouble. I snapped and lost my cool with everyone. I’m not that type of guy, but at that point, I was ready to fight. I didn’t care. I couldn’t believe I was being set up.
All the inmates were pointing to the guard, saying the guard did it. The guard ended up coming and apologizing to me. So from that day forward, I knew they were out to get me.
Because I failed a drug test a few months earlier, I hoped to participate in the facility’s drug treatment program. Being in the program would allow me to be released from prison up to a year ahead of schedule. I was led to believe that I qualified for the program, but I never was actually admitted. Thus, I had to serve my full sentence. It was one of the most frustrating aspects of my stay at Leavenworth.
I wasn’t looking for shortcuts; I knew that what I had done was inhumane and wrong. But I was disappointed because my attorneys and I believed I was fully eligible for the drug program and the possibility of early release.
Repeatedly, I would have interviews to enter the program, only to be rejected. I won’t say I was treated differently. The guards treated me fairly—well, some did, and some didn’t. I just don’t think the prison officials wanted to let me go early. I think they wanted me to max out my time and show me they weren’t going to do me any favors—that there weren’t going to be any shortcuts and that I was going to do every day until the last day.
I think it was to make a statement. I don’t believe it had anything to do with me personally, because when I was in prison, I wasn’t a hardhead; I didn’t give anyone trouble. I did get mad at myself for allowing this to happen to me and my family, and mad at the prison authorities for not letting me enter the drug program. But I never let myself get to a point where I was feeling depressed. I knew that wasn’t my life. I knew I wasn’t going to spend my whole life in prison. I couldn’t fault the prison system—I shouldn’t have put myself in prison in the first place. And if you’re there, you have to abide by their rules.
I had a motto: “Tough times won’t last, but tough people do.”
No matter who was there or how much money they had on the outside, an inmate was only allowed $70 a week ($300 a month). We couldn’t spend any more than that on things like phone calls and commissary purchases. Those are the parameters that you have to stay within. It was very humbling.
I had a job in the prison earning twelve cents an hour working as a late-night janitor, which fit well with my “night owl” ways. The entire compound was locked down, and everyone was asleep when I’d be up mopping the floor. I slept during the day. By the time I woke up, which was two or three o’clock in the afternoon, it was like the day had already passed. It helped the time go by and helped me through the tough times. It helped to keep me isolated.
At the end of the month, my check was $11. I took pride in it. I was happy because I earned it. Having a true blue-collar job was something I’d never experienced before. It was hard work. Every three months, we had to buff the floors and strip them—me and two other inmates I worked with. We took pride in doing it because we wanted to make sure it was done right. I am actually glad I had that experience; I appreciate what I get to do for a living so much more now.
Kijafa hung in there with me. She was so supportive in my journey through prison, and she pulled me through that whole situation. She came out to visit me and wrote me letters. She let me know she was thinking about me—which meant a lot because I knew she had every reason to leave.
Without her, I don’t know how I would have made it through. She was my confidant. There were days when I was sad and I was down. She gave me a sense of belief and stayed optimistic. She kept believing, and that helped keep my spirits up. I just couldn’t ask for a better person in my life. That continues to this day.
One of my most difficult days at Leavenworth came when Kijafa brought our two daughters and my son, Mitez, to visit for two days. We weren’t able to spend time together the second day, a Monday, because prison officials canceled visitation.
I visited with my family on Sunday and looked forward to seeing them the next day. On Monday, I sat in a waiting area and—through glass windows—watched Kijafa drive up in a truck and then saw Mitez run across the street toward the door. Everyone looked happy. But because someone else created trouble, the officials canceled visitation for the day. There was no more visitation that week until the weekend. When they canceled visitation, man, I cried so hard. I was so mad.
It was early in my sentence, which made it harder to deal with. There was nothing I could do. I’ll never forget that a prisoner named Mr. Harlin came and found me. He was in his fifties. We called him “Old G.” There was nothing he could do to make me feel better, but he made me look at it from a realistic perspective: “It’s their prison, and they can do whatever they want to do. You’re in here, but you can’t be mad at them. What are you going to do?”
It was one of the longest days of my life.
Your family is all you have when you’re in prison. Other than that, it’s like being dead.
The most difficult thing to deal with in prison was the death of my grandmother.
I remember calling my mother for her birthday. When she answered, I could hear a different tone in her voice.
“I wish I wouldn’t have to tell you something like this in prison,” she said, growing quiet, “but your grandmother is in the hospital. And it doesn’t look good.”
I dropped the phone.
; Soon after, my grandmother died—the lowest moment of my time in prison. I’m still convinced that my grandmother’s early departure from this earth is because of me—because of how heartbroken she was over my situation. The day I told her I was going to training camp—that was the last time I saw her.
What made it hurt even more was that I was not allowed to leave prison to attend her funeral.
It was devastating. I wanted to be there to support my family, but I couldn’t. I was sitting in a jail cell.
Before I went to prison, I told my grandmother I was going to training camp. After the faith and the foundation she instilled in me, I couldn’t bear to tell her the truth—that I was going to prison. And walking away from her house, I remember praying, “Please let me see my grandmother again.”
But it’d be the last time I saw her.
In a way, however, God did answer that prayer. When I look at my youngest daughter, London, I see my grandmother. Now, I see my grandmother every day. I still can’t believe London looks exactly like her. It’s amazing. And it’s a blessing that comes straight from God.
Twice, I was transported from Leavenworth back to Virginia for court hearings—first, for a state dogfighting case in November 2008, and later to appear in bankruptcy court in March 2009, less than two months before my release. (I’ll describe how I got into money troubles in the next chapter.) Because of those times of transit, I spent time in eight different prisons, counting Northern Neck and Leavenworth. I spent short stints in two Petersburg, Virginia, facilities—one state and one federal; in Oklahoma City; in Suffolk (Virginia) Regional; in a small penitentiary in Leavenworth; and in the Atlanta Penitentiary. The various stops gave me a unique perspective on the diversity of prisons in America.
They all look different. They all have their own sort of serious mystique about them—their own personal feel—as you walk in. Yet all of them were just big and dirty. It was weird.
Some prisons, the inside may be green. In other ones, the inside may be orange. But they all had the same setup as far as the pods and the tiers. It was just scary, really scary. Those prisons were the worst.
It was kept private that I spent five days in the Atlanta Penitentiary—in my former NFL city—while in transit back to Leavenworth after my bankruptcy court hearing. My hands and feet were shackled for the bus ride from Petersburg to Atlanta, which lasted about eight hours. I’ll never forget the Atlanta Penitentiary, seeing big rats running through it during the night. It was just nasty.
No matter the prison, they were all such unsanitary environments. There might be eighty guys sharing three bathroom stalls. It’s uncomfortable, very uncomfortable. Roaches crawled on my bed and on me at night, and I had to sleep with earplugs and with a skull cap. There were mice under my bed. I had M&M’s under my bed, and I had little mice eating my M&M’s. I couldn’t sleep for anything; it was impossible.
You heard those doors slamming all the time. But as loud as the doors were, and as unsanitary as the prisons were, I remember specific smells the most. If I smell a certain shampoo now, it brings back the memories.
It was only by the grace of God that I made it through all that and didn’t break down. I knew I had to stay strong and stand tall for my family.
While at Leavenworth, I’d gather with other inmates in TV rooms and watch NFL games. Beforehand, we went to the commissary for pizza, chips, popcorn, and other game-day snacks, just like fans all over America. And that’s what I was in those days—a huge fan.
What better way to spend time than watching the game you love? I’m a big fan of football, even when I’m not playing. I make my own evaluations of guys. It was sort of like being a coach.
Despite being in prison and unable to play in the NFL, it wasn’t overly hard to watch the games—except for the fact that I was surrounded by a room full of self-proclaimed experts.
I laugh about that now, but those guys thought they knew what they were talking about—thought they knew more than me. Seriously, they were just an unbelievable group. Some of them had played some level of football before, and there were guys you never expected who knew a lot about football. Sometimes, I think they knew too much.
I would get hounded with questions. I found myself having to explain certain plays. Again, it was like being a coach, and it helped somewhat to keep my football mind sharp.
My friends and I also watched 106 & Park every day, college football, Dancing with the Stars, Entourage, various documentaries, and SportsCenter. It’s what guys do every day in prison. But that’s a small glimpse of the good.
In the meantime, there’s the bad. The crime. The danger. The rats. The roaches.
At least I had God and football.
Despite the difficult environment, the people who befriended me, and those who I befriended, made it bearable. I hung out with Antoine from St. Louis, Cornell from Chicago, and Huey from New Orleans every day, and all three made me laugh, letting my mind escape for a while.
They were all guys who helped me get through. They helped me because each day is a struggle and is stressful. You just want to go home. You need people to pass the time with. You need people to walk on the track with. You have to be able to find ways to get through the tough times.
We found a way to make a positive out of a negative. We all kind of stuck together. We all ate together and lived the prison life together. Antoine and I would stay up for hours some nights, talking. We talked about what we were going to do, how we were going to live when we got out, and really just anticipated getting out.
I also did plenty of autograph signing for the other inmates and even for some of the guards—even though that wasn’t supposed to happen. When I first came in, it was like, “No autographs!” If they caught anyone with my signature, they were going to consider it contraband. But when I left, I had eight or nine pieces of paper or memorabilia in my face, with guards asking me for my autograph.
Despite playing in a prison basketball league and being in good enough shape to help my team to a championship, there was no way I could stay in NFL playing shape. But I tried to stay as fit as possible.
There were times at Leavenworth when I had access to weights and exercise equipment, but other times they weren’t available—depending upon whether inmates were following the rules. Whenever someone got in trouble, those privileges would be taken away. It could be because of any incident. If someone got caught with alcohol or cigarettes, or if someone got caught with a cell phone, the item would be taken away—and everyone else’s privileges along with it.
When I did have weights, I tried to do upper-body exercises and also squats to keep my legs in shape. We had to make a squat bench. When we had weights, we squatted. When we didn’t have the weights because they’d been taken away, we started squatting with sandbags. Then they took the sandbags. We had to be creative to work out.
We also sometimes had access to two treadmills, and I regularly ran on those pretty intensely. I had to work my lower body, but I couldn’t keep it in shape. No matter the obstacle, I always thought, I’m still going to be one of the fastest quarterbacks in the league. When I get out, I’ll have some time to get in shape.
Most of the time I worked out with a guy named Dino. He was from Chicago, and there was a smile on his face at all times. Dino would liven up your day. He was around fifty years old—just a great guy. He would do anything for you.
He would drink diet sodas every day, and I started drinking them when I worked out too. My favorite was Diet Coke, and my favorite snack was grapefruit—not the typical food of an elite athlete, I know, but you take what you can get.
Overall, the food was bad. When I first went to prison, I lost twelve pounds. So, they had to up my portions. Some of us went on a no-carb diet and did a lot of abdominal work and had pictures taken of our abs. The pictures were hung in the commissary for a competition we came up with. Inmates had to pay six dollars anytime they wanted a photograph taken, whether it was with a family member, a friend, or just of themselv
es. But we never got our ab photos back, apparently because the prison officials didn’t want guys taking their pictures with me. They didn’t know who was going to sell them or what was going to happen.
Even though we never got our pictures, guys were ripped up. And I still had twelve-pack abs!
As much as I worked out, and as much as I believed I wouldn’t get so far out of shape that I wouldn’t be able to play in the NFL again one day, there were times I wasn’t so convinced. Honestly, there were days—a lot of days—that I wondered if I would play again. However, I thought the prospect was good because I’d been put in the NFL substance abuse program by the league. I think they did that mainly because they believed I had a future in the NFL. But I didn’t know when that future would be. Would it be 2009? Would it be 2010? I kept thinking, My skills may erode by then. I just didn’t know what my future held, which made it hard sometimes to stay positive.
When I was a teen, my faith and relationship with God kept me focused. While in prison, I was blessed and fortunate to gain very strong support from a somewhat unexpected person: Tony Dungy.
I’m thrilled and honored that it didn’t take Coach Dungy long to say yes when my attorney, Billy Martin, called to ask if he would visit me in Leavenworth. Coach Dungy and I had met in Japan nearly four years earlier in August 2005, when I was with the Falcons for a preseason exhibition against his Indianapolis Colts. We didn’t get to spend a lot of time together in Japan, but we learned that we shared an interest in fishing and agreed to try to plan a get-together in the future.
The fishing expedition never happened, which Coach Dungy says he regretted, especially after my legal troubles began surfacing. Coach Dungy says it hurt him that we never got together to fish, because perhaps our conversation would have led to me sharing some of my problems with him. “That’s what runs through your mind,” he told me. “But it didn’t happen. We missed our time.”