All the Time In the World
He once wore No. 7. He now wears No. 33765-183. He is Michael Vick, presently residing in Leavenworth, Kan., with plans to relocate to the National Football League next year when his current lease is up. From his small desk in his small room, the 28-year-old former dogfighting devotee has kept a journal; here now a week-long excerpt from "The Michael Vick Diaries":
Monday: This is Leavenworth, man. And they used to tell me Lambeau Field was a tough place to play. . . . You ever try a 7 1/2 -hour shift washing pots and pans? Makes you pine for two-a-days. . . . First thing I do when I get on the outside, I'm eating a meal without a spork. . . . I never go to the inmates' TV room -- can't take Jerry Springer no more. . . . Nobody likes to take a shower around here, but at least they switched to Zest. . . .
Gotta learn to say no to my mother.
Tuesday: Sheesh. They put me in wrist-and-ankle shackles when I go into a courtroom. Trust me -- I got no white Bronco and I don't know Al Cowlings. . . . I could live with a bad passer rating, but the suits say I can't live with a bad credit rating. . . . Dogs are man's best friend? I guess I was sick the day they taught that in Blacksburg. . . . I'm scheduled for a July 20 release, but I might want to stay on the inside a little longer so I can miss training camp. . . .
I'd rather be an ex-con than an ex-quarterback.
Wednesday: This is what the media won't tell you about my dogfighting operation: The top dogs had a carpeted locker room, Bose sound system, bottled water dishes and T-bones. . . . The line for the payphone is a killer, but Marcus sneaked me in a Treo with unlimited nights and weekends. . . . When I got here, I wanted uniform No. 77777-777, but it already had been retired. . . . I love my fiancée Kijafa to death, but I don't need more self-help books, I need some sweet potato pie. . . .
Back in the day, I had more cribs than John McCain.
Thursday: I know a guy who knows a guy who might get me into the cockfighting game next year. But I've got to be smart about it. . . . If I knew Vicktory Dog wine was going to take off, I would've invested some chump change in it. . . . When I go in front of the parole board, I guarantee you I won't mention the dead pool I'm running out of Cell Block 8. . . . Just in case, my cousin's checking for me on a Canadian temporary resident permit. . . .
Lights out at 10 p.m., so I've got to TiVo Letterman.
Friday: The more things change, the more they stay the same: I'm the only black quarterback in our prison flag football league. . . . We finally get HBO, and "Inside The NFL" isn't on it anymore. . . . I'm the only one in my cell block with a Nike blue prison work shirt. . . . I don't kiss nobody's butt, but I'll dance the Continental for Roger Goodell. . . . I'll tell you what a late hit is: The IRS knocking on my cell door every three days. . . .
Last night I gave the warden Chargers -7 1/2 ; tonight, chateaubriand and collard greens!
Saturday: This is how screwed I am with sportswriters: I could bust out of here and they'd say, "Yeah, well, it wasn't Alcatraz." . . . If the NFL doesn't take me back, Deion says he can hook me up at NFL Network. . . . Every time I try to take a nap, the axe murderer in the next cell starts to play the ukelele. . . . I keep playing phone tag with Al Davis. . . . These prison guards are more bulked up than Ed Hochuli.