Let's talk about second chances. Specifically let's talk about second chances for two Philadelphians; one by birth, one not, both bought, both cons. Vincent Fumo, the power and glory of gravey-stained South Philadelphia Democratic politics, is off to the pokey by the end of the month to serve a stretch in a federal pen for getting caught doing what his downtown kinsmen have done since the Latin phrase "quid pro quo" was Americanized to mean "wetting my beak." Fumo was Don Vincenzo accepting the obvious tribute, both offered and expected, from grateful subjects under his harsh yet benevolent reign. Fumo walked among princes, both elected and appointed, and proved himself to be the most Machiavelian among his political peers. He served his interests well.
Michael Vick was a kid from the low-slung housing project neighborhoods of North Philadelphia, except his neighborhood was located in the vague desperate sprawl of urban poverty found in Virginia's tidewater sewer towns. Vick grew up in a culture where it was acceptable to murder puppies as sport and to drop to the ground at the sound of a pop. Followed by, "Pop. . . pop, pop, pop!" Both men made millions. Both men were famous. Both men failed to learn the larger meaning of the millions or the fame or life before doing what they did to get themselves hauled off to jail, a fair trial, a guilty verdict and years in prison.
In this transition of Philadelphia's embarrassment from being the lifelong home of yet another corrupt politician to being the canine-killer rehab facility for NFL felons, the eyes and barks of America will be directed at us. Fumo will go away quietly (what with all the Xanax and Ambien he says he's addicted to) and be nothing more than a Pennsylvania curiosity. But all football season long America will be reminded that Michael Vick plays for the city of Philadelphia. I foresee shaggy costumed Santa's being pelted like snowballs by stuffed puppy dolls. I can already hear "Who Let The Dogs Out" blaring from the sound systems at away-game stadiums when Vick enters the game. I'm beginning to feel sorry for him -- and for us -- already. Which of course makes me mad. So now I'm rooting for Michael Vick to prove me wrong. You got a second chance, Michael, now earn it. As for you, Vince? No excuses. You went to the Prep, man. You let everyone down.
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