.vresize.36.36.medium.0.png){kind=small}
.vresize.36.36.medium.0.png){kind=small}
The redemption of Yemi Babalola begins here, behind two tall chain-link fences topped with ribbons of barbed wire, past two guarded checkpoints at the maximum-security Clemens Unit, and into a long, narrow, unlit room. The barrel-chested young man walks through a metal door and sits on the other side of the reinforced glass, ready to tell you why he deserves a second chance.
A second chance? Hell, this kid had it made once, a bigger chance than most of us can dream of: a blue-chip recruit at Bryan High School, courted by the likes of Florida and Texas A&M; a freshman All-American at left tackle for his hometown Aggies, blocking for one of the top rushing attacks in college football. Yemi Babalola was so respected by his Texas A&M teammates that they began to call pancake blocks “Yemis,” and so athletic for a big man that coaches made him the lead wedge blocker on the kickoff return team. The NFL was licking its chops at the kid’s potential: 6-foot-4 and well over 300 pounds, with solid blocking technique and quick feet from his days playing soccer.
But that was then. This is now. Now prison guards know little about the football potential of this man. Now this son of a Pentecostal preacher walks among murderers and rapists, and nobody knows the difference.
Now the metal door slams shut, and Yemi Babalola, offender No. 01579817 in the Texas Department of Criminal Justice, tells of when life took a wrong turn.
But more important than admitting the facts of what happened — a felony aggravated robbery conviction after a harebrained idea concocted with teammates — is how Yemi tells it: honestly, regretfully, yet knowing he can’t change the past. He’s done making excuses.
Yemi knows all this is his fault: His fault that scheming to get free marijuana sent potential NFL millions up in smoke and shamed his Nigerian immigrant parents. His fault a friend had to stand as his proxy before a justice of the peace at Yemi’s own wedding just so Yemi and his girlfriend could get full visitation rights. His fault that when he first tasted what it was like to be caged up — in a transfer facility where he’d wash his T-shirt in his toilet — the big man lay on the floor of a crowded jail dorm and cried himself to sleep.
Oddly enough, as the 25-year-old felon admits he did some bad, bad things, you feel sorry for him.
Even in a place like this, Yemi finds hope. He talks of seeing other football players find redemption: Michael Vick, who returned to the NFL after 19 months at Leavenworth for a dogfighting conviction. Plaxico Burress, who returned to the NFL after 20 months in prison on a weapon charge. Yemi hopes that, like these men, his crime will not define his future. He hopes he, too, will have a second chance.
But from behind those chain-link fences, from inside this place where failure seems tattooed on your forehead, redemption feels far, far away.
“One situation doesn’t define your whole life and define your character,” Yemi says. “My dad says he’s proud of me. I know he means it. He says he’s proud of me. But I’m in prison. How can you truly be proud of me? When my dad says he’s proud of me, I want to feel like he has a reason to be proud of me. Right now his son’s in prison — his son who was a star at Texas A&M University, who could do all these things with his life. And he’s in prison.”
So now the question that defines Yemi Babalola is this: When he does get out — and at some point he will — who will he be? Will he be the ex-con forever stained by his crime and his time among murderers and rapists? Or will he be the young man who, football or not, still makes his father proud?
The facts, Yemi knows, are as ugly as they are embarrassing.
On Nov. 27, 2007, Yemi and an A&M teammate, Brandon Joiner, set up a drug deal with students from a nearby college — the same college where Yemi’s dad teaches geology. They were to buy three ounces of marijuana for $1,200.
When the two got to the drug dealer’s College Station apartment, Yemi punched the man who answered the door, prosecutors said at Yemi’s 2009 trial. Joiner took duct tape and tied up the other two men. Yemi, carrying what he said was an Airsoft BB gun but what prosecutors presented at trial as an actual handgun, scoured the apartment and found the marijuana. (Prosecutors alleged the two also stole money, keys and a cell phone, though Yemi denies this, as well as punching the man.) The perfect crime, they figured: What drug dealer would tell police somebody stole his drugs?
Except that’s exactly what happened.
Even though he had no prior arrests and was eligible for probation, Yemi was sentenced to five years in prison. (After Yemi’s conviction, Joiner sprung for a plea bargain. As part of the bargain, Joiner received deferred adjudication probation for one of his two aggravated-robbery charges, which required serving intermittent jail time at a county facility; the other charge was dropped to simply robbery. He’s been playing football at Arkansas State but will serve two years in prison for the robbery charge after the GoDaddy.com Bowl on Jan. 8.)
Ten character witnesses testified for Yemi, yet their combined testimony couldn’t overcome Yemi’s ex-girlfriend’s emotional testimony for the prosecution. His ex-girlfriend portrayed Yemi as abusive, saying she attempted suicide after Yemi called her worthless. Prosecutors said they wanted the ex-girlfriend’s testimony to show Yemi’s sense of entitlement, that as a big-time Texas A&M athlete in his hometown, he felt he could get away with anything.
"He would grab me," she said in her testimony, according to published reports. "He would hit me. He picked me up one time and threw me across the room." (Yemi admits he was a bad boyfriend but said he never hit her.)
You might think Yemi got off easily. He could have received nearly 20 times the five-year sentence he got. And consider the circumstances: Yemi was an intimidatingly large black man tried before an all-white jury. The drug dealer and Yemi’s ex-girlfriend were white. The ex-girlfriend’s testimony made Yemi look like a bad man and made the robbery look like it wasn’t some one-time lapse in judgment. Brazos County, where Texas A&M is located, is one of the most conservative in Texas, notoriously tough on crime.
Yet those close to Yemi describe the incident as so intensely out of character for Yemi that they were shocked at the sentence. They didn’t think of him as the college kid whose near-addiction to marijuana meant smoking the drug almost daily, needing to get high to eat or fall asleep — even as he delivered anti-drug messages at area schools.
"Just a sweet tender heart and a great football player, and in terms of second chances, this is a guy you’d want to bet on," said Marty Criswell, Yemi’s football coach at Bryan High School. "I’ve coached a lot of kids in my career who were right on edge or just over the line. He was never like that."
"There was this kid in high school, slightly autistic or mentally handicapped, who was on the football team but didn’t play," said Cody Waller, a high school teammate. "Yemi took him under his wing. He made him feel a part of something. . . . One day sophomore or junior year, I remember some guys giving (the boy) a hard time, and Yemi made it clear that wouldn’t go on. He got in their face, told them to quit messing with him. After that, no matter what was going on, the kid would always hang around back behind Yemi. There’s not a lot of guys that’ll do that."
"If you were to look at him and somebody would tell you he’s going to do this crime, you’d say there’s no way," said Travis Bryan III, Yemi’s original attorney before recusing himself when he was elected district judge. "He’s the kind of kid that will be rehabilitated by this whole valley that he’s gone through. Just the brokenness of going through it all is enough for him."
"On campus, football players are like gods," said Tony Moninski, a retired Air Force lieutenant colonel and a longtime family friend. "Sometimes it’s hard for a kid to absorb that and live responsibly. They think they’re on top of the world and can never come down."
"I wasn’t trying to be a thug," Yemi said. "I wasn’t trying to rebel against my parents or anything — that’s the last thing I’d want to do is disappoint my parents. For a while I was disgusted with myself, kept beating myself up. But it’s all about God’s grace. If God can forgive me, I should be able to forgive myself."
Yet there’s one more thing, beyond forgiving himself, that gnaws at Yemi: Will others forgive? And will he get a second chance at his dream since age 5, of playing in the NFL?
"Time is a cruel mistress in this business," said Mark Tommerdahl, a former Texas A&M assistant coach who recruited Yemi. "It’s hard to take time off. But Michael Vick and Plaxico Burress are testimony that a guy is able to do it."
And Burress himself says Yemi’s time in prison will make him tougher, perhaps even a better NFL prospect.
"You have certain people in this world that want to keep you from doing well," Burress told FOXSports.com. "If you believe deep down enough in yourself, somebody will give (Yemi) a shot. . . . You have owners and coaches out there who are looking at talent alone. They evaluate talent first. And then the next thing they’ll ask is how this guy will perform under pressure. And with him going through what he’s been through, and coming out of that situation, there will be somebody who gives him a chance, who knows that he’s a tough-minded guy."
Burress’ words matter. This is a man who understands as well as anyone how dreams of the NFL can prod you through long nights inside prison walls.
"He’s made it through a situation that a lot of people can’t even fathom, can’t understand what it’s like to be behind that wall," Burress continued. "So I think somebody will give him a chance."
All of this means NFL teams must ask themselves some difficult questions when Yemi gets out:
Do you believe in second chances?
Do you believe a man can make things right after going so wrong?
Do you write it off as jailhouse religion, of finding a God of convenience when there’s nowhere else to turn? Or do you believe Yemi Babalola when he tells you he’s a new man?
"Royal Priesthood Christian Fellowship," reads the sign. "Jesus Reigns."
Stephen Babalola unlocks the front door. It’s a beat-up former restaurant in an industrial part of Bryan, Texas, converted for his 25-person congregation. Three men are sitting in a tiny cinder-block room for a Wednesday night prayer meeting.
"Aaaaamen, Jesus," Stephen begins. "Oooooh Father. Loooord Jesus. Oooooh Lord of all. Jeeeesus Christ."
The men fall to their knees. In his booming voice, Stephen reads Bible passages. Soon, the men are speaking in tongues. It’s an expressive, emotional faith, based in the Pentecostal tradition, jarring to outsiders, yet the foundation of Yemi’s life.
The men nod, shout, sing. And then, just for a moment, Stephen Babalola becomes something other than a pastor. He prays as a father.
"In Yemi’s life, oh God, may you be glorified," he prays. "We pray that you create situations that will cause us to praise you."
The faith of the father has been tested through this. No, Stephen Babalola hasn’t doubted God. He’s always believed this must be part of God’s plan, even if he can’t explain why. But he’s racked his brain to figure where it was when Yemi went wrong. Where he did wrong as a father. And whether things will be made right.
After the prayer service, we return to Yemi’s childhood home for dinner. Stephen speaks with certainty about how, in prison, his son has righted himself from the devil’s influence.
But how does he know? How does he know Yemi hasn’t just found religion to comfort him behind bars and will revert to his old ways when he’s out? When I ask this, Stephen Babalola laughs. He’s done prison ministry for nearly 20 years. He knows when it’s authentic. When he visits his son in prison, he sees a calm, confident, different young man. He shows a letter Yemi sent, saying how he started a daily Bible study and prayer circle in prison. Both father and son believe this is part of God’s plan.
"He told me once, 'It is good for me to be here,' " Stephen Babalola says. "He said it would be bad for him to go straight from college to the NFL. Because the lifestyle he was leading wouldn’t put him in any good destination."
Beside him, his wife nods vigorously as Stephen Babalola smiles and says, "It’s very obvious God has turned his life around."
Yemi’s sad, brown eyes stare through the reinforced glass. A prison guard watches over him. Our time is almost up. But first, Yemi wants to talk about something else. Not just about what happened four years ago. Yemi wants to talk about what’s happened since.
He speaks of how prison humbled him. Humbled him like he never knew he could be humbled before. Inside here, he’s seen things he never imagined: homosexual activity between prisoners, prisoners using drugs, prisoners masturbating on guards. He’s learned to appreciate the little things that typify life on the outside: Taking showers alone. Using a regular-sized toothbrush. Sleeping in a bed bigger than he is.
Yes, he wallowed when he was first in prison, ballooning to 360 pounds. But then Yemi decided something: He would be positive and would ready himself for the NFL. He read his Bible. He went to church. He lost weight.
At Yemi’s first facility, he was allowed only two days a week at the rec center. So every day in his prison dorm, he filled trash bags with water, put those in commissary bags and tied them with bed sheets: An improvised gym. He did curls, squats, upright rows with the water bags. He jogged in place an hour a day. He made his own workout schedule: 2,000 pushups Mondays and Thursdays, legs and shoulders Tuesdays and Fridays, arms Wednesdays and Saturdays.
He bought protein shakes in the commissary. He befriended kitchen workers, who gave him 30 raw eggs a day. Like Rocky, Yemi drank them down, five whole eggs and 25 egg whites a day.
"You get discouraged at times — the days are all the same," Yemi says. "Sometimes I just wanted to give up, to stop it all, to sit there, lay in bed, say screw it all and do nothing."
That’s when he would open his Bible to Romans 8:28: "All things work together for good to those who love God." Even this. Even if his dream of the NFL now seems like such a long shot. Even if he hasn’t played football since 2008, when he walked on at Texas Southern and played two games before the school kicked him off the team after learning of the pending criminal charges. Even if people think there’s no hope for him, that he’s forever stained as a felon.
Behind the reinforced glass, Yemi pulls up his white prison uniform to reveal his new six-pack abs. He smiles. He’s in the best shape of his life, having lost nearly 100 pounds and adding muscle. The bench press at this prison goes up to only 300 pounds, but he can do 15 reps at that weight. Yemi will look good when he gives his new wife the real Christian wedding she deserves, not just that formality before the justice of the peace in which a friend had to stand in for the imprisoned Yemi.
Outside, just out of his reach, longhorn cattle graze on grassland. Brown dirt is upturned from the recently harvested cotton crop. The morning mist lifts off the Brazos River. And a sign reminds passers-by that Yemi is not one of them: "PRISON AREA: DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS."
Soon, though, his freedom will come.
"I just really have this dream," Yemi says, "of after the draft, a team calling me and offering me a free-agent deal. Just being able to prove myself, man. Just really getting my opportunity to show my ability. To show my talent. I just want to be given a chance. If I don’t make it, I don’t want it to be because I got in trouble and came to prison and I never got my opportunity. I just want it to be because I wasn’t good enough. As long as I get that shot."
It’s time. Yemi stands and turns toward the metal door. He pauses next to the prison guard and turns back. He knows I’ll soon be visiting his father.
"Just tell him I love him," Yemi says.
Then he disappears, and the metal door slams shut.
EPILOGUE: Stephen Babalola picks up the ringing phone at his home one morning last week. It’s Yemi, calling from prison. He doesn’t have long to talk, but his voice is tinged with excitement.
After serving half of his five-year sentence, Yemi has earned parole on his first appearance before the parole board. There are no tears as he tells his father. He’s more even-keeled since he went to prison, fewer highs, fewer lows. The two thank God for Yemi’s second chance.
A few days later, Yemi’s father, his little brother, his wife and his in-laws pick him up at prison. They’ve hidden his homecoming from Yemi’s mother, saving it as a surprise for her birthday the next day. Yemi’s mother jumps up and down and screams at the sight of her son. The whole family will be together for Christmas.
It all feels surreal to Yemi, how completely normal everything is after coming home. Like the past four years have been a bad dream, and he’s just woken up. He’s applying for a job at a gym near his wife’s Houston apartment. He’ll clean bathrooms if he has to, just wanting a chance to prove himself. Maybe he can be a personal trainer if football doesn’t work out.
As for football? Well ...
It’s possible Yemi would face an uphill battle. A pro personnel director for one NFL team told FOXSports.com’s Alex Marvez that they had no record of Yemi, which isn’t a good sign.
But Yemi is contacting old football friends and coaches on Facebook, asking for help in getting a tryout. As soon as he gets a cell phone, he’ll contact his old agent. He thinks his new, leaner frame could make him a great tight end, but he’ll play anywhere, and for anyone: the NFL, the CFL, the AFL. Yes, he’s scared of failure. He’s worried how people will perceive him, the ex-con. He just wants to prove himself, and prove that he isn’t defined by his crime. He wants to stay right by the Lord.
There’s no way of knowing, not just yet, whether his newfound virtues will last. But all Yemi wants is a second chance.
You can follow Reid Forgrave on Twitter @reidforgrave, become a fan on Facebook or email him at reidforgrave@gmail.com.
