Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike

by Brad Stephenson

  As a result, I was paranoid about being noticed so I nonchalantly took a seat at my desk and elected not to speak or look at anyone.

  The psychedelic trip officially began when I looked at the computer screen and saw an assortment of colored circles cascading continuously towards the edge. I was captivated; I knew this wasn't supposed to be happening but somehow – it was.

  The most fascinating aspect was witnessing a spectacle no one else could see. Then my trip ventured to the dark side when I began feeling like my stomach was entangled in knots. I stood up, walked out of the computer lab and plopped down on a couch in the adjacent room; where I remained in a state of perpetual pain.

  When study hall ended, a teammate approached me with an interesting analysis.

  "Dude, what's up with you?" he asked, in bewilderment.

  "What do you mean?" I countered.

  "You sat in front of your computer staring at the screen for an hour straight and didn't move an inch!" he explained, seemingly undecided if he should laugh or be concerned.

  The hour he spoke of seemed more like five minutes to me. Although I didn't tell him I was on shrooms, I did tell myself I would NEVER take them again.

  The negative side effects were not done punishing me. I failed to wake up the following morning in time for our workout and when I showed up 15 minutes late, our coach told everyone to meet on the track at 7am – he had his own way of dealing with late arrivals.

  It was early, the air was cold, the wind was brisk and I was surrounded by disgruntled teammates. Their irritation was justified; after all, I was the sole reason they were there. The annoyance soon transformed into anger when our coach revealed what the punishment would be.

  "As you all know, Brad was late. As a result, you will all be running around this track for the next hour. That is, everyone except for Brad, he's going to stand here and watch you do it," he said, capping off his edict with a distasteful glance.

  Part of me was secretly happy I didn't have to run, but hiding it was a must. Everyone, and I do mean EVERYONE, sharply turned their attention towards me, followed by a flood of insults.

  "Asshole."

  "Cocksucker."

  "Piece of shit."

  "Dickhead."

  I stood and watched as they all took off in a pack. I assumed they were talking shit about me the entire time, but I was certain they were talking shit about me each time they passed.

  Half way through their trek, one of them decided to douse me in the face with a bottle of Gatorade; it was a direct hit. I couldn't react, I deserved it and I had to become acquainted with a new reality – I was severely disliked.

  When it was over, I walked ahead of them by myself, a lone wolf. Moments later, an upperclassman tossed a rock at me, lightly striking my back. Gatorade to the face was one thing, but they took it too far, so I reached down, grabbed the biggest rock I could find and aimlessly threw it back at them as hard as I could.

  "Hey man, chill out," one of them said, as I marched on.

  I was chilled out, I just couldn't let them think I was the guy you could throw rocks at. If I was an outcast, I was certainly going to be the crazy outcast you didn't want to mess with.

  However, it soon became clear that my reaction only made them want to mess with me even more.

  The following week, I bent down to put my right shoe on and felt a mushy object hit my toe. Upon further inspection, I realized there was a dead bird inside my shoe; the whole locker-room erupted in laughter.

  It still wasn't over; they were planning to strike again.

  This time, it was at a house party. I typically get too drunk for my own good and this night wasn't any different. Eventually, I found myself in the bed of a pickup truck parked in the front yard, slipping in and out of consciousness. Seconds later, a teammate tapped me on the shoulder.

  "Hey man, you better go upstairs, they're about to come out here and do something to you," he said, as though he was worried.

  Only I didn't know this was the beginning stage of a coup, and his monologue laced with concern was simply an act to lure me upstairs; where they were going to do something to me.

  Once my teammate closed the door to the upstairs bedroom; the trap was set. The next thing I remember was waking up to a loud hissing noise next to my ear.

  "Ssssssssssssssssssshhhh... "

  I bolted up like I was shocked with a defibrillator, moving out harms way just in time.

  "CRACK POP CRACK POP CRACK !"

  This noise came from an entire pack of firecrackers tossed directly at my head. Unfortunately, I was too inebriated to strike back and†I awoke the next morning in a different bedroom – my body completely covered in flour.

  Springtime came and my career as a college baseball player was officially under way.

  Our team was ranked top 25 in the nation and I was second string, but the starting catcher began struggling in the middle of the season and I took advantage of my opportunity – until a pregame celebration got in the way.

  Yes, a PREGAME celebration. At the start of each game, our coach met with the umpires at home plate and sprinted towards our awaiting huddle immediately after. Once he arrived, we pushed and shoved him around to get the energy flowing; it was basically a royal rumble.

  I did this numerous times without any complications but for some reason I decided to be 'Tommy Tough-nuts' and was the first to make impact with our coach, which turned out to be a season-ending mistake.

  As he neared, I built up centripetal force and lunged in, but I was shoved from behind just before making my leap. This uncalculated push jammed my hand against his chest, causing it to roll back in a very unorthodox way. I fell to the ground and proceeded to be trampled on from above. My window of opportunity to play, which only recently opened up, was now closed.

  My wrist was severely sprained; I couldn't practice and I couldn't play. Instead of being smart about my recovery, I lost interest and began spending time with a girl I met earlier in the year; we'll call her ECU Brittany.

  She was the first girl I laid eyes on after boldly entering the sorority house alone. Her long dirty blonde hair and big brown eyes complemented a warm welcoming smile. She wore a baby blue silk halter-top with black pants and strapless heels – an outfit failing to hide immaculate curves.

  I quickly advanced in her direction and began engaging the target.

  "So where are you from?" I asked, with marginal game.

  "NOVA," she said, with an unusual accent.

  "What in the hell is NOVA?† Do you mean Northern Virginia?" I teased.

  "Uhh, yeah!" Brittany replied, predictably responding to criticism.

  "Well I'm from Southern Virginia, where we have common sense and don't call it SOVA," I pestered.

  "Sothern Virginia is lame," she claimed, with her indistinct dialect.

  "You know what's lame? Your accent, did you make it up yourself?" I continued badgering.

  "Noooooooooooo," Brittany said, with a lengthy southern draw mixed with valley girl.

  Finding a girl I actually enjoyed being around was rare for me, so I kept her close.

  After the injury, she started replacing baseball as my top priority, but I couldn't see it at the time – I was blinded by infatuation (but mostly her tits).

  Three home games were coming up the following weekend and my task was simple; all I needed to do was show up.

  Brittany invited me to spend the night at her sorority house after Friday's game. We didn't drink; we just sat on the couch watching movies together until we fell asleep. I had to be at the field at 9:30am the following day – so I set the alarm for 9am.

  The sun hit my eyes; I rolled over, looked at the alarm clock and my heart sank.

  I don't know what, why, or how it happened, but I never heard the alarm go off. The time was 10:05am; I was already 35 minutes late.

  I raced down the stairs and hit the street on foot. The only thought on my mind was how strict my coach was about being late; my strides grew l
onger. I needed to devise a scheme to make my tardiness permissible; otherwise I was a dead man walking (or in this case, running).

  My only way out was by going in the training room and telling my coach I was getting medical treatment; there was a glimmer of hope, I thought.

  When I finally arrived, drenched in sweat, my hope was crushed – the training room was closed.

  Now it was official, DEAD MAN WALKING. I put my head down and shuffled down the dirt path towards the baseball stadium. I thought of every stopgap measure I could use on my way but nothing was feasible.

  My head coach was waiting for me the second I stepped foot inside the locker room. He was dressed in full uniform with a stone cold look on his face. He swallowed, causing his Adam's apple to jump out of his neck, and pointed towards his office.

  I sat down on the other side of his desk, like a movie director with the script in hand – I already knew his next line.

  "Brad, you know how I feel about my players being late. I'm sorry, but you are no longer a member of the ECU baseball team."

  Cape Cod Part I

  A few weeks later, Justin was drafted #1 overall in the MLB draft by the Arizona Diamondbacks. He was 17 years old with a multi-million dollar check waiting in the wings. I was still in North Carolina, so I called to congratulate him.

  "What's up player?" he said, clearly in a good mood.

  "Congrats!" I yelled.

  "Thanks man. Hey, I have to do an interview, let me hit you back."

  This was something I would get used to; his life was in the midst of a drastic change.

  What he didn't know is that this day changed my life as well; his success inspired and motivated me to not give up on baseball. Sure, I recently endured a self-inflicted setback, but I was going to get up and keep swinging.

  A few minutes after getting off the phone with him, I called my coach at ECU. I signed a contract earlier in the year to play summer ball in Wilmington, NC and I planned on asking him to honor it.

  "Coach, I know I messed up, but I don't want this to be the end for me. Will you allow me to play in Wilmington?" I asked, determinedly.

  "Brad, you're lucky I like you. I will call the coach and tell him you're on your way."

  He ended the call and I was beaming from ear to ear. I packed my bags and set out for a second chance on–what was to me–life.

  Wilmington was very much akin to ECU; pretty girls in every direction and parties' in every place. This time, I was cognizant of these distractions and decided to avoid them at all costs. I didn't want history to repeat itself but it was going to be tough because we were right on the beach.

  Three weeks into the season and so far, I was squeaky clean. Then I spotted a tall athletic brunette girl scaling the stairs to the front office a few hours before the game. She was dressed in skimpy shorts, a tightly fitted team t-shirt and bright white sneakers. Her legs were long, lean, fit and each step she took brandished the firm definition in her thighs. I was in a trance, briefly induced back to my alter ego, the female assassin, and I was going in for the kill.

  I walked into the office and isolated the target.

  "You're very pretty, what's your name?" I delivered, with a side of charm.

  "Nicole," she receptively replied with a smile.

  "Well, Nicole, I think we should hangout. I have to get back to the field but I don't think it would be proper to leave without your number."

  I didn't. She came over that very night, and each subsequent night until it all changed with one missed phone call.

  We were next to one another, in bed, when her phone rang. After reading the caller ID, she gave me a weird look.

  "What?" I asked.

  "You don't want to know who that was," said Nicole.

  "You're not my girlfriend, so I don't really care. But since you're making it a mystery, I kind of want to know," I told her.

  "It was your coach," she said, biting her lip.

  "Ok?† What does he want?" I questioned.

  "Well, we kind of used to have a thing."

  I discovered her and my summer coach were in a running relationship stemming from her season at UNCW as a soccer player and his as the assistant baseball coach. This was information I was not privy to, but there was nothing I could do to change it. I just didn't want him to find out about us, because if he did – shit was going to get weird.

  I showed up in the locker room the next day and my teammates were laughing behind my back.

  "What's going on?" I asked.

  "Nothing, we just think it's funny you and coach are banging the same chick!" one of them said, followed by a crowd of laughter.

  Ok, so he knew, shit was going to get weird.

  I suited up, put my catchers gear on and went to home plate to catch for the coach while he hit ground balls to the infielders. Five minutes went by and not a word was spoken; the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

  Then I dropped a ball, which normally isn't a big deal, but he took it as an opportunity to throw the first jab.

  "What the fuck are you doing?" he asked, to my surprise.

  If I were smart, I would have let it go. But I didn't; this was a territorial dispute over a girl – caveman status.

  "Why are you being a dick?" I chirped back.

  "What? Fuck you Brad! Get the fuck outta here! You're off the team!"

  He was enraged; apparently my dick comment tipped his scale. However, if he was kicking me off the team, I was going to make it a memorable exit; so I countered his rage with a rampage of my own.

  I grabbed the water cooler, tossed it on the field.

  I clutched the bucket of baseballs, chucked them on the field.

  I snagged each bat off the bat rack, slung them all on the field.

  "FUCK YOU!"

  On my way out, I plucked every promotional sign off the fence and ripped them in half; I thought my career was over.

  Believe it or not, a week later I took a 15-hour drive north to the Cape Cod League so I could play for the Falmouth Commodores.

  This was the best summer league in the country, a place where only the most elite college players came to compete and I was there as a freshman. Luckily their catcher was injured and the team needed a quick replacement to finish the last month of the season.

  My cleats clinked against the warning track gravel as I approached my new teammates, all of them wondering who I was. I already knew who they were future pro athletes. I doubt they knew me, I was the unknown guy who was kicked off two consecutive teams. I didn't feel like I belonged, and watching the opposing pitcher didn't make it any better.

  The pitcher's name was Brad Lincoln, and the team he played for was the Bourne Braves. A digital radar screen was attached to the maroon press box behind home plate, and he was lighting it up at 98-100MPH.

  I watched in awe as he methodically vanquished every batter on our team, strikeout after strikeout. Through seven innings, he held us scoreless.

  In the bottom of the seventh, there were runners on first and third base with two outs and then our coach made an inconceivable decision.

  "Brad, you're pinch hitting," he told me.

  I dug my cleats deep in the batters box and pointed my bat at the pitcher. The first pitch blew by me and slammed into the catchers' mitt for a strike. I questioned my own visual acuity because I failed to actually see the baseball pass by.

  He released the next pitch and it appeared to be destined for my head, so I frantically ducked out of the way. It was a curveball and it too was a strike.

  So far, the pitcher succeeded in making me look, well, silly. So I told myself:†'No matter what he throws, just swing.'

  He wound up and hurled the next pitch, a fastball, and again I failed to accurately spot its location, but I blindly swung.

  Amazingly, I made just enough contact to lightly float the ball over the first baseman's head for a hit. Not only a hit, but the runner on third also scored and I effectively ended the shutout.

  Th
e following morning, I was on the front page of the paper with the headline 'Stephenson Ends Lincoln's Shutout'.

  A high school teammate of mine, Scott Sizemore, was also in the Cape Cod League, and he too was in the paper that day. He called me an hour later.

  "What the hell are you doing up here?" said a befuddled Scott.

  "Taking care of business," I told him.

  It's fascinating how one hit and a little recognition can change your outlook and overall confidence. I no longer felt out of place and whether it was true or not, I tricked myself into believing I belonged.

  This conviction carried itself into our next game, against the Chatham A's. I was in the starting lineup and I came up to bat in the last inning, looking for another hit.

  The pitcher threw me a slider; I saw it out of his handlike a beach balland ripped it down the third base line. In my mind, there was no doubt this was another hit, but I was led astray. The third baseman leaped to his right with a full-extension dive and securely snow coned the ball in the tip of his glove. He then propped himself up on his left knee and fired a strike to the first baseman, just before my sluggish speed had climaxed, resulting in an out.

  This third baseman's name was Evan Longoria and he robbed me, but I would return the favor years later.

  I returned to my host family's house after the game and got dressed for a night of fun. Before venturing out, I fetched a bag of weed from my suitcase and rolled it into a blunt.

  My two housemates were riding with me, so I put the blunt in a bag of chips underneath the drivers' seat and planned on surprising them with it at the party.

  Scrub oak trees filled the surroundings while I bent and swerved through the back roads of Cape Cod. This was the last place on earth you expect to see a cop, so I pressed on the gas and what do you know a cop passes us in the opposite direction. My teammate in the passengers seat turned around and delivered grim news.

  "That cop is turning around!" he desperately shouted.

  I glanced in my rear-view mirror and didn't see him. In a flash, I stomped on the petal and took my sole opportunity to escape.