Michael Vick

OK, I'll bite.

There have been somewhere in the neighborhood of 947592374092374725973049857 articles posted on Michael Vick since he was signed with my beloved Philadelphia Eagles. For me, the news broke when my bro-in-law called last Thursday when Missy and I were driving home from my mom's birthday dinner. Let me throw in my two cents along with every other person who owns a keyboard.

I couldn't believe it. Michael Vick? Here? In Philadelphia?

I remember watching an interview of Eagles head coach Andy Reid two days prior to the signing where he said that he was "very happy with the quarterback situation". So why the change?

Frankly, I have no idea. Not because he is an ex felon and that he did horrible things to dogs. If I can throw that out the window for a minute, it doesn't make a lot of sense when you consider that the Eagles just signed their overly-sensitive-doesn't-want-to-hear-that-his-job-may-be-in jeopardy franchise quarterback to a two year extension and they spent a high draft pick to get the supposed heir apparent to said quarterback two years ago. You don't drop $2 million on a third string QB. I could be the third string quarterback on the Eagles. So from that standpoint, it is an odd choice. And hearing that McNabb lobbied for it; that is either McNabb being extremely secure, self-confident and mature or being mind-blowingly stupid and potentially shooting himself in both feet.

Now to the part about the dogs. I love dogs. I balled my eyes out as a 29 year old (or was I 28?) when our family dog died. I cried for months after Cody died. We still have pictures up of him in our house. And I forgive Michael Vick. I think that people are so passionate about Michael Vick because people are passionate about animals and dogs specifically. Let's say you are in a room of 20 people and are watching the news. If a story about someone being shot and killed comes across the screen, no one will look up from their coffee. However, if a story about an abandoned dog comes up, people will be leaving the room and crying. Dogs are not people. However, they can instill an emotion that is as strong if not stronger than people can.

I don't understand the world of dogfighting. It doesn't make sense to me. It is a culture that I can't wrap my mind around. However, it exists and apparently Vick got into it at a young age. This idea that because he killed dogs he is on the same plane as a psychopath or serial killer - whose distinguishing feature is cruelty to animals - is absurd. Michael Vick is not a psychopath. He was (and it will remain to be seen if he still is) a stupid, immature, spoiled brat with horrendous taste in friends. And he paid dearly for it. Just because he did something horrible and did it specifically to dogs which people love doesn't mean he shouldn't be forgiven. And it doesn't mean that he can't move on with the rest of his life.

Michael Vick is not a doctor. He is not a lawyer. He is not even a burger flipper. He is a football player. He has a God-given ability that few on this Earth possess. He can do things with a football that no one can do. If he was any of the other things, I would think he should get a chance to be them again. It just so happens that his gifts are in the most popular and media-crazed occupation in the country. I give the Eagles props for sticking their neck out for him. Like with McNabb, time will tell if the move was made from a secure, confident stance or a desperate press of the panic button.

Of course, as an Eagles fan, I hope this works out. I hope NFL Films is running hour long specials in 20 years about the greatest offense in history featuring McNabb, Westbrook and Vick. The Michael Vick experiment will start in a few weeks. Here's hoping it works out better than the T.O. experiment. Because I sure would love a Super Bowl trophy to go along with our World Series ring.....

Our Late Night Visitor....

They say that the home is a sanctuary. It is a place of refuge. It is the place where you can be yourself. Home is where the heart is.

And within that sanctuary is the bedroom. The place where you sleep. The room you wouldn't allow anyone into when you were a teenager. The sanctuary within the sanctuary.

So when Missy woke me at 2:00 in the morning a few nights ago saying there was something in our room, my heart stopped. Initially, I thought it was a bug. Missy hates bugs. Especially ones that fly. And especially ones that crunch when you squeeze them. However, a flutter of air and dark wings right past my face confirmed my biggest fear.

There was a bat in our bedroom.

And it was 2:00 in the morning.

Frankly, I was impressed with my quick thinking. I knew there was a trash bag in our hallway waiting to replace the one in Riley's room. I instantly crawled over Missy, who screamed from her hiding spot under the covers thinking I was the bat trying to attack her. I ran into in the hallway and grabbed the bag before the bat had a chance to make a break for the rest of our house. I had Missy run down and get a broom from the porch.

Missy, in her nightgown, postured herself ready to strike or swat away our winged intruder. I, in my gym shorts and bed head, had an open Hefty bag ready to snag the flying rodent.

We were armed and ready.

After making a few trips around our room, the bat made a home in the corner of our room next to a curtain. It gave us a chance to strategize and position for our first attack. I moved our tv cabinet and slid a chair next to the vermin's hang out spot. The plan was to cover the area and have the bat fly into the bag. Unfortunately, he (or possibly she) had a counter attack already planned. The bat dropped down below the bag and then buzzed past my left ear.

Missy did her best to swat at it but to no avail. The bat flew around the room a few more times and then settled on another curtain.

This gave us another chance to plan attack number two. Attack number two consisted of Missy attempting to knock the bat to the ground and me trying to cover it with the bag. (Once again, I was impressed with our clarity of thought when we had been sleeping only five minutes earlier). However, once again, the plan failed. Missy had a swing and a miss at the bat and it was off again.

At this point, all plans were out the window. It was time to stab and grab as best we could. Fortunately after a few attempts, I believe by the grace of God, I snagged the bat out of the air in mid flight. I promptly rushed to our bedroom window and tried to throw it out. However, the screen was still down so the attempt failed. I quickly threw the screen up, tossed the whole bag out the window slammed the window shut.

We had won. Our visitor who, according to the investigative committee report, got in through a gap in our bathroom closet ceiling, was gone. However, the aftershock had just begun.

Missy and I were both shaking. Everytime we closed our eyes, we had that sensation of fluttering wings above our heads. We ripped the house apart. We looked in every corner of the place for a friend of our visitor. Finally, we were satisfied that the only living things in our house had the last name of Delp.

But we couldn't sleep. And it was 2:30 in the morning. So we started talking; trying to take our minds off of the bat. I came up with some of my best college prank stories. Missy came up with her one college prank story. We discussed how much we missed our college friends.

Finally, 4:00 came around and we did our best to fall asleep.

But we left the light on.

Since then, Missy has checked our room every night for bats. I am planning to cover that gap as soon as humanly possible. In talking to our neighbors, almost everyone one of them has had ONE run in with a bat.

Here's hoping this is the only one we ever have to run into. I don't think my heart or my hand-eye coordination could handle another visit.