Finally Free (4 page)

My favorite Scripture passage growing up was Psalm 23, which, in the King James Version of the Bible, says:

The L
ORD
is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:

he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of

righteousness for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of

death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me;

thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of

mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil;

my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days

of my life: and I will dwell in the house of

the L
ORD
for ever.

My favorite verse of Scripture, Jeremiah 29:11, is one that my grandmother always told me to read:

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the L
ORD
, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

I know the other kids in the neighborhood weren't sleeping with the Bible under their pillows; they weren't reading their Bible at night. None of my friends were doing it. I was probably the only kid in Newport News who was. The reason I say that is to highlight
my solid foundation. Though gunshots echoed through the night in Newport News, my personal foundation—thanks to my mother and grandmother—was rock solid.

I practiced this discipline from when I was about fifteen until shortly before I was drafted into the NFL. For me, in connection with my grandmother's support, reading the Bible provided me a solid center and balance for my life. It kept me focused. Turning away from that practice and no longer sleeping with it under my pillow was symbolic of my turning away from God and leaning on my own understanding, which was a huge mistake.

Later in life, when I went to prison, the Bible returned to its rightful place—under my pillow. But it never should have left.

I don't know what would have happened to me during my youth if I had not had the local Boys & Girls Club as a place to spend my time productively, participating in sports and other group activities. It was a sanctuary for me. It may have saved my life.

The man who was in charge of the club, Mr. James “Poo” Johnson, was a key mentor early in my life. He was an outstanding man for any kid to have in their journey through life. He kept everything on even ground and even keel. He was there for us. He was very inspirational and encouraged us to do our best. He wanted us to, and hoped we would, come to the Boys & Girls Club each and every day.

Realizing that many of us didn't have father figures in our lives,
he felt a sense of responsibility to take on that role. He was a loving guy, but he was also a disciplinarian in a sense. He was stern and didn't allow us to do whatever we wanted.

One thing I remember about Mr. Johnson was that he had a box of yock—a type of beef noodle soup—from the 18th Street Chinese food store every Friday. When I was a kid, a box of yock was seven bucks. My mother could only get it on Fridays too—when she and my dad got paid. When Mr. Johnson had his, I wanted to ask him for some, but I couldn't muster the courage because I thought it'd be disrespectful. But I wanted it
so
bad. To this day, every time I see a box of yock, I think of Mr. Johnson.

Mr. Johnson remembers me as being not only highly athletic at a young age but also very competitive. He says that he remembers sitting me down a couple times and telling me, “You can't win everything.”

His goal then was the same as it is today—for the Newport News Boys & Girls Club to be a safe haven for children from the negative influences all around them. He understood that, because of where I was living, I had a lot of distractions that could've been disastrous for me if it wasn't for the Boys & Girls Club.

Mr. Johnson had high expectations for me and tried to be a “tell it like it is” mentor. He gave it to me straight—whether I liked hearing it or not. I'm glad Mr. Johnson did. I needed it that way.

After my prison sentence, I returned to the Boys & Girls Club to work for Mr. Johnson.

I went back to my roots—back to the start.

Another very important mentor over the years was Coach Tommy Reamon, a former professional running back who became a high school coach in the Newport News area. When I was in the eighth grade, he saw early glimpses of raw talent that needed to be developed and thought that I could become a special player.

Even then, I possessed a desire to escape the projects by playing pro football someday. I asked him if he could help me get a college scholarship like my cousin—quarterback Aaron Brooks—who played at the University of Virginia and later in the NFL with the New Orleans Saints and Oakland Raiders from 2000 to 2007. And Coach Reamon willingly and sacrificially helped me.

Like me, Coach Reamon grew up in the rough East End of Newport News, and he knew what it took to escape. He played college football at Missouri before being drafted in 1974 by the Pittsburgh Steelers of the NFL and the Florida Blazers of the World Football League, where he had an MVP year his rookie season. He later told me, “You had to dream to get out of that neighborhood.”

Coach Reamon provided a tremendous amount of support and guidance for me. He believed in me so much that, when I was a sophomore, he took me to the University of Virginia football camp, paying out of his own pocket. He was trying to help me become the best quarterback I could be, and that experience—being around the best players in Virginia—helped catapult me to a different level.

I had only known him for a year at that point, and he had a son of his own, but he
chose
to make personal sacrifices for
me
. He didn't have to drive me two hours to UVA. He didn't have to help me become a better player. But he did. It was scary, because those four days at UVA were my first time away from my family. But at the same time, I wasn't away from family. That's because Coach Reamon became a dependable father figure for me that weekend. I had family with me.

When I made it to the NFL—something that would not have happened without Coach Reamon's help—I began to neglect our relationship and focus on myself. He called me his “son.” He treated me like a son. And I recklessly abandoned our relationship because I was becoming a “me” guy.

Not talking to him once I made it to the NFL was one of the worst things I could have done. It's probably one of the reasons things ended up the way they did. Upon my release from prison, we rekindled our father-and-son relationship.

Again, I went back to my roots—back to the start.

Chapter Two

Seven's Heaven

“It fit me.”

 

M
y No. 7 Philadelphia Eagles jersey became one of the NFL's best-selling jerseys again in 2010 after topping the charts at times during my stay in Atlanta. I guess you could say the number is as much a fixture on me as No. 18 is on Peyton Manning and No. 12 is on Tom Brady.

I like the fact that the number has biblical significance. Someone told me that it's considered God's “perfect” number by many theologians. For instance, there are seven days in a week, making the number symbolic of completion.

I didn't start out with 7 as my number during my high school days, however. I wore No. 11 playing for Coach Reamon during my freshman and sophomore seasons at Ferguson High in Newport News and initially was given No. 1 when I transferred to Warwick High with Coach Reamon when Ferguson closed down in 1996.

At first I liked my new number. My archrival was quarterback Ronald Curry at nearby Hampton High. Ronald received more
fanfare than I did back in those days, so when Coach Reamon gave me No. 1, I saw it as a vote of confidence that he considered me the best quarterback around.

It was nice, but something about the number didn't seem to fit me (yes, I admit to being just a bit superstitious). The entire time I wore No. 1, things just didn't go right for me. I couldn't complete any passes, and I remember having a really, really bad scrimmage.

The next week in practice—and I'm the team leader, remember—I was lying on the ground thinking,
How can I get better? How can I gain the confidence of my teammates entering my junior year?
I looked over at my friend Andrae Harrison, who was our top receiver at the time, and said, “Andrae, let's exchange jerseys. Let's switch numbers.”

He said, “Are you serious? I thought you wanted to wear No. 1.”

I told him, “Yeah, I just need a change.”

So we switched, and I put on the No. 7 jersey that Andrae was wearing. I've kept it ever since.

My career took off from that exact point. I had a great practice that day, and I felt like a totally different person. The number actually looked good on me! It fit me. Everyone told me, “I like you a lot better in No. 7 than in No. 1.”

Coach Reamon just laughs at the memory.

One thing No. 7 could not do was make me the No. 1 high school quarterback in Newport News. That belonged to Hampton's Ronald Curry. All through high school, I lived in his shadow. The
newspapers routinely had a huge picture of Ronald, and at the bottom, a tiny picture of me about the size of a stamp.

My whole high school career can be described as me trying to emulate someone who, I believe, is the best to ever play high school football. After every game, I read his stats in the newspaper. I looked at his picture—saw his socks, his uniform, what kind of shoes he was wearing. Anytime I had the opportunity to watch Ronald play, I went to Hampton's games. I dissected his style of football—his leadership, his moves, his stats. Everything he did was engrained in my memory bank. He probably didn't do the same with me—he was No. 1.

Living in Ronald's shadow ended up being great for my career. He made me a better player. Made me dream bigger. Made me play harder. Made me want to improve. Made me want to be the best. The best ever.

In football, you need people to push you. You need a backup quarterback to push you. You need coaches to push you. Ronald was my push. I saw his stats and knew they were better. I saw his team's record and knew they were better. But I could not say to myself that he was better than me. I was always struggling with that internally, but I never let it out. I didn't want anyone to catch the vibe that there was any form of hatred, jealousy, or envy toward Ronald. Though I
was
jealous, I admired him too much to let that out.