One twitch and he's gone. Opposing players ankles and knees ache as they stretch and grasp for the slightest piece of jersey. Coaches scream. Fans gasp. A flash of helmet and cleats streak down the field. Weaving...dodging...spinning away from would be defenders. Touchdown.
As the defenders pick themselves up, they feel the roar from 50,000 fans. "Wait...they think to themselves...this is a home game for us."
Enter the ugly details of a cruel dog fighting ring and a once destined for greatness superstar was just another multi million dollar athlete with legal trouble.
Approximately two years later in April 2009 the Philadelphia Eagles gifted Vick a two year contract worth $6.7 million. $1.5 million non guaranteed, $5.2 million guaranteed if he was picked up the following year. Ironically, if not eerily, everything came in two's signifying a second chance.
But redemption is only as reliable as the company you keep. On June 30th Quanis Phillips, a co-defendant in Vick's dogfighting case that landed him in prison, managed to slither into Vick's 30th birthday party uninvited. News of Phillips being shot at the party is nauseating, yet strangely fitting.
Functions like these always have plenty bouncers, bodyguards, and buff yes men. But somehow with his legacy hanging like a crusted toe nail Vick allowed a seeming enemy and known felon to marinate at his party long enough to allegedly smash cake in his face.
Electrocuted dogs, prison grub, and negative bank accounts should've flashed like thought bubbles above Vick's head the moment he knew Phillips was in the building. Not to mention Roger Goodell, Eagles owner Jeffrey Lurie, and Tony Dungy for facilitating a chance to put his life back together.
With the past looming like maddening defensive linemen, why not throw a private soiree? That way nonsense, party crashers, and celebrity leeches don't show up. And you let your brother Marcus Vick - criminal extraordinaire - host the party? Was this a birthday celebration or "Celebrity Apprentice: Ex Cons"?
I must admit, I wasn't one calling for Vick's spleen when all of the sordid details of his dogfighting ring were uncovered. However, after this latest incident I would like to examine his brain to see if I can find those suppressed thought bubbles. Something tells me I'd find a huge one that reads: "Hell, I'm Mike Vick".
Quite comforting to know it's not his name on the popular stuffy cold remedy Vick's Vapor Rub. We'd all have permanent sinus block.
In the case of Michael Vick, the only thing being vaporized is his once seemingly great footall legacy.