The Prison Experience
“At that moment, my freedom was gone.”
There was no more waiting for the worst. It had arrived.
I woke up on November 19, 2007, to a cloudy, gloomy day, which matched the way I felt inside. It was the day I had been dreading for weeks. It was time to leave my family to go to jail and begin serving a prison term that was still three weeks from being finalized in my sentencing hearing.
Turning myself in early was one way of putting myself at the mercy of the court. I hadn’t helped my case two months earlier when I’d failed a drug test while on supervised release.
The day I had to leave my family behind was one of the saddest days of my life. My family and I rode from our home in Hampton, Virginia, to the courthouse in Richmond, and from there I was taken to jail in Warsaw, Virginia.
The time leading up to that point meant a lot to me. Every day counted—every hour, every minute, every second—even at night, going to sleep.
I woke up that morning and I told myself, This is the day.
Jada could tell something was different about that day.
When I walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth, she asked Kijafa, “Mommy, what are we doing?” She said it with a crack in her voice, as if she sensed that something wasn’t right, as if she was wondering, Why are we getting up so early? Where are we going?
When I walked back into the room, Kijafa was lying on the bed crying because she knew it was real. We cried on the bed and finally got ourselves together. Kijafa later told me that she was so distraught, she felt her life was almost over.
My security guard, Paul Wilmeyer, drove us to the Richmond Courthouse. Off and on while we were in the car, I just kept crying. I’d cry and I’d cheer myself up, then cry some more and cheer myself up. Even in the car, every minute counted. We were forty-five miles away, so we had just under an hour to get composed and enjoy what little time we had left. Then we were thirty miles … twenty miles … ten miles away …
“Babe, let’s go back,” Kijafa would say over and over. “Let’s run away.”
When we pulled up to the courthouse, Kijafa looked me dead in the eyes. “Don’t go,” she said. “Don’t leave.”
Then she started crying.
Then Jada started crying—outraged—like there was a monster trying to get her.
Then I started crying.
The pain they felt—it was all my fault.
I had no more fight in me. I was done. Forced to walk away from the car, I shook hands with Paul and shook hands with my close friend CJ Reamon. Then I told everyone that I loved them, and I walked up to the two officers who were waiting for me. When I walked myself in, they started cuffing my hands and legs right there on the spot.
At that moment, my freedom was gone.
I was led to a car for a ninety-minute drive to Warsaw, Virginia, where I would be incarcerated at Northern Neck Regional Jail for the first two months of my term. I thought I was going directly to the penitentiary camp, but when we arrived at Northern Neck, I wondered, Why am I coming here? I thought everyone had it all set up so I would go straight to the camp; I didn’t know that I had to stay at the regional jail until I was transferred.
As I was getting checked in, they gave me a black-and-white jumpsuit. It was unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. I thought to myself, Man, I guess I’m going to be staying here for a while.
They took me to my cell—a one-man cell—and they closed the door. It was right in front of booking—right in front of everything. I looked around, overcome by the feeling. So this is where I’m going to be living? I thought to myself. This is where I have to stay? Two hours ago, I was with my family, free. Now I’m in prison, doors slammed.
I was a caged bird.
I would hear that sound many times—a prison door slamming shut. It was loud—metal on metal—and there was something harsh and final about it. Especially that first time.
Already, I wanted out. I wanted to escape. I started feeling claustrophobic. The cell room had a metal sink, a metal toilet, a stand-up shower, and a blue metal bunk bed. The cinder-block walls were white and tan. There was a bright white light in the room that I couldn’t turn on or off. They turned it off automatically at 11:00 p.m.—“lights out” time. I had a TV and a phone.
I immediately tried to call my mom because I was going into a state of panic. It was a completely disastrous feeling. But the phone wasn’t working. So I tried to distract myself by preparing my bunk bed. I got up in the bunk, and I’ll never forget it—I just lay in the bed, with my hands over my eyes, and tried to go to sleep. I was in disbelief. This can’t be, I told myself over and over. I tried to take a nap, but I couldn’t. Next, I stood up and put the TV on. There wasn’t a clock in the room, so I didn’t know what time it was. It just so happened, though, that through the crack of my door, I could look out through booking and see a clock so I could keep track of the time.
It felt like an eternity.
Eventually, it was 7:30, and the guards brought me a tray of food. The food looked awful. I was thinking, This is what I have to eat?
From riches to rags. From the NFL to a jail cell.
It was only day one, and I felt like I had been there for eight days. I’ll never forget watching Dancing with the Stars and just wishing, Man, if only I had my freedom. I’d do anything for my freedom right now.
People kept coming to the door, checking on me. Every time that door opened, I was hopeful it was going to be a guard saying, “So-and-so called and said to set you free.” I was optimistic someone was coming to get me and bail me out, but it never happened.
The first day felt like the longest day of my life, and the second day was even longer. I didn’t sleep well. I woke up continually, hoping it was all just a nightmare, but there I was, still in prison.
The first morning you wake up, you don’t know when you’re coming home. You don’t know what your loved ones are doing. I couldn’t see a light at the end of the tunnel because there wasn’t an end. All I could see was darkness. I was just in prison, knowing I had a court date, knowing I was going to get sentenced, and yet not knowing when I was going home.
I missed my family. It was lonely not being beside Kijafa—not being with Jada, not being with my newborn baby. I missed lying down with all of them. I cried myself to sleep every night.
I’ve never been so sad, so dismayed. The next day, my phone was working and I called home to my mom. I called every day, crying—called Kijafa crying, just worrying about what she was doing. It took me a couple of weeks to get strong, to strengthen up and say, “Okay, you know what? I have to do this, and I have to get through it.”
When the day for my sentencing hearing finally arrived—December 10, 2007—I woke up early, around 4:00 a.m. I felt optimistic, hoping that I’d only have to spend six to eight months total in prison.
At the time, I was still in that small one-man cell in Northern Neck Regional Jail in Warsaw. I knelt on the side of the bed, and I prayed that everything would be okay—that the sentence would be light.
The prison officials drove me approximately ninety minutes from Warsaw to Richmond for the hearing before Judge Henry Hudson. My family and friends met me there. We were all stunned when Judge Hudson announced a twenty-three-month sentence.
Twenty-three months?! I thought to myself.
It was like my whole world came crashing down. I didn’t expect a sentence that long. Everyone was in tears; everyone was distraught. We wanted explanations. We wanted to know why.
When Judge Hudson announced my term, Kijafa kept waiting for him to clarify it. She expected him to maybe say “twenty-three months of probation” or “twenty-three months of home confinement.” But not this.
She was sad that Jada wouldn’t see me for nearly two years—sad that London wouldn’t even know who her father was. Because Kijafa didn’t grow up with a father figure in her life, she wanted her kids to have a positive father figure in their lives. And here I was, sentenced to twenty-three months in jail.
Once I returned to my cell in Warsaw, I fell onto my bed and cried for about an hour. That’s when I hit rock bottom. That’s when I hit the ground—when I crashed.
All I could think was, For the next twenty-three months, I will be incarcerated. I couldn’t take care of my family; I couldn’t do anything for my family.
I remember it vividly. I cried; then I stopped. Then I stood up and said, “Okay, I’m ready to go. Let’s do it.”
Letters of encouragement or communication of any kind helped me early on.
I remember the first letter from my mother. The first thing I noticed was that she had horrible handwriting! But she really opened up. It’s one thing I began to realize—that people can sometimes express more in writing than they can face-to-face. It may be easier to write things than to say them out loud.
What she wrote about were things I wasn’t even thinking about. She was just very encouraging, very uplifting, and told me how she was looking forward to my last day.
Over time, I received personal visits from former Atlanta teammates Alge Crumpler, Keion Carpenter, and Kynan Forney; plus Curtis Martin, one of the best running backs in NFL history. It all helped me to know people cared, especially since it wasn’t easy for them to get on the prison lists to visit me.
When people came, we talked about everything—what was going on in the outside world and what the new music was, for example. We talked about working out and about all the experiences we had in Atlanta. We talked about relationships. We talked about moving forward and about how I could become a better man—a better person.
I received letters once a week from someone on the Virginia Tech coaching staff. Whether it was head coach Frank Beamer, assistant coach Bryan Stinespring, the defensive coordinator, or the head of football operations, someone wrote me a letter. They stayed in touch. It helped keep my spirits high.
Oddly, I was able to feel the family atmosphere of Tech again, and I knew they cared as much about me as I cared about them.
Slowly, painfully, I began to adapt to life in prison.
There was nothing like having my freedom taken away from me—being told when to eat, when to sleep, when to get up, or when I could go outside on the track. I was a twenty-seven- or twenty-eight-year-old man, and I was taking orders … from another man. It was just a miserable feeling that I had to learn to tolerate and accept.
I was around 500 men every day, in a place I didn’t want to be. It was rough. I had to learn how to live the prison life—how to move in prison, how to talk; and I learned when to say something, when not to say something, what to say and what not to say.
In prison you can’t show your emotions around others because, in the end, it only puts you at risk for resentment or abuse from other inmates. You just have to be strong, and you have to be able to overcome all the elements in the prison system. It can be brutal; and if you’re not strong mentally, you’ll break down. Then everyone will see you break down, and you’ll have guys taking advantage of you and stealing your commissary purchases. I saw it happen to other guys.
One incident when I had to keep my emotions in check was during a basketball game. Another inmate, who wasn’t happy with how things were going for his team, started a fistfight with me. He said, “Because you have money, you can do certain things. I don’t care. @#$% you, @#$% you, @#$% you.” He cursed at me three times, and I felt I was being disrespected. The next thing I knew, we were in an altercation. It didn’t go as far as both of us wanted it to go, and it was probably good that it didn’t, but I was to the point that I didn’t care at the time. He ticked me off.
You can’t be disrespected in front of your peers in prison because a lot of them will look at you like you can be taken advantage of. Experiences like that forced me to adapt quickly, whether I wanted to or not.
The only reason I think I was able to adapt was because of the way I grew up—my upbringing, the environment I was in, the people I was around, and the way God made me. Prison helped mold and shape me as a man. I had to have that experience in order to move forward and become the type of man I’ve always wanted to be.
I was no longer No. 7, the football player. I was inmate No. 33765-183, and I couldn’t change that, regardless of the fact that this number definitely didn’t fit me.
I had that number on every day. I had to write it on each piece of mail that I sent out. It will forever be embedded in my brain.
It was stressful. I wanted to break out, wanted to get out, but I couldn’t. I was in the same place with the same people every day, all day, with the same guards telling me what to do, what I could or couldn’t do, and sometimes, just for spite, conducting shakedowns. It was a constant mess.
There were times I was down and out and just feeling like I was the scum of the earth. But there was another side telling me I could pick myself up and make this all right. Adapting to the environment didn’t just mean properly handling conflicts. It also meant trying to stay uplifted, which is probably one of the most important and yet most difficult things to do in there.
When you’re in prison, it makes you feel like there is no hope. I was very discouraged at times. But at the same time, I held my head up high, and I knew what was most important. There was the fact that I didn’t have to spend my entire life there. One day, I was going to go home and have another chance, a chance to make amends and make things right. It was the only thing I was focused on after a while.
I never lost hope because I had so many of my fans and so many people who wrote me every day. It was like I was talking to them. They wrote back so frequently that I was able to know what was going on in the outside world. It helped me keep my mind. I felt loved by family members, people I had never met, coaches, and others.
I received about 27,000 letters, and only six or seven were hate mail. I read all of them. And I responded to most of them. People were thinking about me when they didn’t have to be thinking about me. I was humbled.
Writing letters helped pass the time. I watched television, worked out, wrote letters, made a quick phone call, and before I knew it, I had burnt five hours. So then I’d do it again.
Besides writing letters to family, friends, and fans, I read books like The Art of War, an ancient Chinese work considered a classic piece of military literature; The 48 Laws of Power, a book written in 1998 that has been compared to The Art of War; The Shack, a Christian novel; as well as various urban books and lots of magazines and business books. I once read a book in two days that was 480 pages. I never would have done that on the outside.
During my incarceration, I read more books than I had ever read in my life. I did more writing than I had ever done in my life, and I did more thinking than I had ever done in my life. I tried to stay sharp while I was in prison. I had a lot of idle time, but I didn’t want to have an idle mind. So I read, and I also learned how to play chess, some card games, and dominoes.
There’s one letter I’ll never forget. It was the first letter Kijafa ever wrote me. At the bottom, it said, “PS: Do your time. Don’t let the time do you.”
From the moment I first heard those prison doors slam behind me, I began to turn back to God—praying, reading the Bible, and recommitting my life to Him.
The only thing I could do was to have faith and stay strong, and to trust and believe that God would give me another chance. It was all I had. There were so many times that He was the only person I could call on. I could talk to my mom, I could talk to Kijafa, I could talk to my kids; but I couldn’t talk to them all night. You only get 300 minutes a month on the prison phones—an average of ten minutes a day—so you have to ration them out.
When I called Kijafa, I had so much on my mind that I wanted to tell her, and I’d have to cram it into five minutes.
I had to lie in that bunk in a cell by myself when the lights went out at 11:00—and I’m a night owl, so from 11:00 until 1:30 or until I fell asleep, I was thinking about how I could make this right. Those were lonely hours.
Just like high school, I read the Bible every night. My Bible, once again, found its place under my pillow. Scriptures from my childhood, like Psalm 23 and Jeremiah 29:11, began to bring me comfort again. It felt like I was starting my life all over again, only in a different place.
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 themselves. 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.”
As far as I was concerned, Coach Dungy’s arrival at Leavenworth on May 5, 2009, was right on time. It came fifteen days before my scheduled release to home confinement and filled me with encouragement for my future, both in life and in football.
I was very excited and, at the same time, very nervous about him coming. I mean, this was Coach Dungy—a powerful man, very smart and humble—and I knew what his life was all about. I knew the principles he was dedicated to: he was a family man and a man of God.
When I went to the visitation area, I was dressed not as an NFL player but as an inmate wearing an orange jumpsuit. Coach Dungy says, however, that he was pleased with how he found me. This is what he told others about our experience together:
I wanted to see if Michael looked like what I remembered, and he really did. He still looked like a young guy. He had bright eyes. He was excited, and he was looking forward to getting out and bouncing back as a person and as a dad. Appearance-wise, he didn’t look a lot different to me. That was refreshing to see.
I have been in a lot of prisons, so I wasn’t shocked about the environment. Even for me, Leavenworth is a place you’ve heard about. It was kind of an awe-inspiring feeling to be there. He and I talked a lot about what it meant to be in prison. He came to the conclusion a lot of people come to—that when suddenly you don’t have your freedom, you’re not able to make decisions or communicate with people, and the things you took for granted, you don’t take for granted anymore.
I think it was encouraging for Michael to see a football coach and be able to talk about football. It wasn’t something he was able to do much during his time in prison.
Coach Dungy was right. I loved the visit so much that I didn’t want him to leave.
I remember him looking into my eyes and wanting to know the truth about everything and how I felt. It was a special moment for me. Why would Coach Dungy come all the way from his home in Tampa to visit me in Kansas? I wondered. I knew there was a reason behind all of it, and I was just so thankful and delighted to be in his presence.
Coach Dungy says he remembers me being uncertain about whether NFL commissioner Roger Goodell would reinstate me and, if so, whether any teams would be interested. While Coach Dungy talked football with me, he tried to focus our conversation on a much broader scale, and we eventually came to the conclusion that the best thing for me was to continue turning my heart back to the Lord and make decisions that were best for my family. I needed to get my personal life, spiritual life, and family life back together—not worrying about the football side—because that would take care of itself if it was in God’s plan.
In the months ahead, Coach Dungy became a close mentor to me. Because of what he heard and saw that day at Leavenworth, he says that he believed I was serious about changing my life. And I was. He felt like I was leaving prison as a different person.
Coach Dungy is one of the most widely respected sports figures in the nation, but his involvement with me drew criticism, including from some supporters of his Family First organization in Tampa. However, he says he was encouraged when he and his wife met an ex-convict working at a Tampa-area restaurant after word of his visit with me was publicized.
He and his wife were ordering take-out food, and the guy behind the counter told him, “I just have to tell you that I’m so happy with what you’re doing with Michael, because I came out [of prison] four years ago and nobody would give me a chance. The only person who would was the owner of this restaurant, and I’m still here and still working hard for him. I just want to show him he did the right thing, and I’m not going to let him down. We need people to take a chance on us.” This helped Coach Dungy know that he was doing the right thing. It didn’t matter whether I would play in the NFL again. I was just a person who needed help launching a fresh start.
Let me tell you, Coach Dungy’s visit and follow-up involvement with me were essential to my new beginning. Coach told me, “Walk out of here with your head up high. Walk out of here knowing that your future is bright and that you’ve got God on your side, and you’d better keep Him close.”
When he said that, a totally different spirit overcame me.
Another special guest who visited me during the latter part of my stay at Leavenworth was Wayne Pacelle, the president and chief executive officer of the Humane Society of the United States.
I was surprised that he wanted to see me, considering the fact that two years earlier I had been viewed very negatively by his organization. I was nervous, but at the same time, excited to meet with him. I was also impressed with how sharp Wayne was and how he presented himself. I wasn’t expecting to see the type of person I saw: he was clean-cut and came in with a suit on. Immediately, I thought he was a guy who was there to help.
His visit was a great opportunity for me to hear what the Humane Society was all about and to learn more about their mission and how I could potentially help. Right there in that prison visitation area, we forged a partnership. We agreed that once I was released, I’d begin to speak at Humane Society functions. Wayne told me he believed in me and that he was going to give me a chance to change a lot of lives of both people and dogs around the world—to change the perception of pit bulls and to help eradicate dogfighting. It was a great opportunity that I appreciated more than words can express.
The days seemed to get longer as the time drew near for my release to home confinement after eighteen months in prison. I could hardly wait for the day when I would be allowed to leave, and I frequently battled concerns that something would happen to prevent it.
I was so scared going down the stretch. Those were the slowest days ever. My friends inside prison helped me through those days and were sad to see me leave.
My fellow inmates and I had so much respect for each other. You get together every day. You develop bonds. You experience the same emotional roller coaster. One guy may be up one day and down the next, and you’ve got to keep his spirits up.
About two days before I expected to be released, I was startled when guards suddenly began a shakedown raid of the pod where I lived. They were looking for contraband or any sign of trouble. I had worked late and had just gone to bed.
I hurried to put clothes on so I could leave with the rest of the men, but was ordered by a guard: “You! Stay over there in the corner.”
I was like, Aw, what did I do?! I was two days from going home, and I was afraid I had done something wrong. But it turned out to be a false alarm. They just held me back to tell me they were going to let me go a day earlier, to avoid the media and all that. I was allowed to call Kijafa, and she arrived the next day in time for me to make a 4:00 a.m. departure.
I used my last evening there to say good-bye to the friends I’d made and to exchange contact information with them for future reference—once we were all released and off probation.
The other prisoners were happy for me—happy that I was getting out, and happy that I was going home. I just wanted to make the most of my life going forward.
Most of the men were sleeping when I turned in my prison jumpsuit and was given civilian clothes that next morning. Kijafa was led to a special entrance, where I met her.
Kijafa says it was like a movie. She ran to me and hugged me. Everything felt right. We were together again—finally free.
And we quickly headed out for what would be close to a twenty-four-hour drive home to Virginia.