Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike

by Brad Stephenson

  "So did you have fun in New York?" I asked, with a genuine glaze.

  "Yeah!† We went shopping everyday," Liz answered.

  "That's cool. Did you stop by the team hotel?" I questioned, even though I knew the answer.

  "Yeah, I think we only stopped by once for a few minutes," Liz countered, as I pounced on her usage of the words 'I think'.

  "You think?† Do you 'think' you stopped by anyone's room while you were there?" I interrogated, bluffing with the appearance that I already knew something.

  "No. Why?" she responded abruptly, adjusting her posture to an upright position.

  "Come on Liz, you think I don't know?" I continued, now in full-on bluff mode.

  "Know what?" she retorted, abnormally short-spoken.

  "Liz ... I know," I bluntly told her, steadfast in my act.

  "What?† That we went to Evan's room for a few minutes?" she caved.

  "Oh, only a few minutes?" I pressed, still coming to grips with this previously unknown discovery.

  "Yeah, my cousin and I were in there for ... like ... five minutes. You can ask her!" Liz maintained, and I still didn't believe her.

  Without allowing Liz the opportunity to relay this–what I assumed to be–frivolous backstory, I instantly dialed her cousin's number from my phone. After it rang once, I bolted out of my seat and marched into the corridors, each step transforming me into a tyrant – I was Muammar Gaddafi.

  Although I wasn't proud of what I did next, anyone who has been through a similar scenario can relate to this; all is fair in love and war.

  "Hello?" the cousin answers.

  "Hey, it's Brad. So you and Liz went into Longoria's room in New York?" I queried.

  "Uh, yeah," the cousin hesitatingly replied.

  "Are you sure? You don't sound so sure," I pried.

  "What is this about? I don't want to be involved," the cousin told me, further hinting that something was awry.

  "You're already involved. I'll put it to you this way if you don't tell me exactly what happened, I am going to tell your husband about every text you sent to Liz about wanting to sleep with Kazmir," I said, blackmailing for the truth.

  "Don't you dare tell him! I was joking!" the cousin demanded, fumbling with which way she wanted to respond.

  "Then tell me the fucking truth!" I pressed.

  "I walked Liz to his room and she went in there alone," she softly reported.

  "And for how long?" I asked.

  "Thirty minutes."

  I hung up; I didn't need or want to know anymore. All of the anger built up inside of me rapidly faded – I was devastated.

  Instead of returning to my seat with Liz, I sat down at a wooden desk outside of the locker room and watched the rest of the game on a small portable TV with one of the security guards.

  I was fooled and I didn't know what aspect was worse: being paraded to the game after the fact or how she cheated on me while she was supposedly pregnant. One thing was certain; I was done with Liz.

  Sure, I could have continued arguing and dragged it out, but it wouldn't have changed what happened and it couldn't take away the everlasting feeling of animosity I would have towards her. She needed to sit in her seat alone, waiting for me to come back and hopefully realize I broke up with her once I failed to return. In my mind, she didn't even deserve a proper dismissal.

  I channeled every painful emotion arising from this experience to my new goal; staying completely focused on my job and getting Scott Kazmir in the best shape possible.

  This didn't come as a surprise in the least bit, but I was still receiving non-stop text messages from her, however, I ignored every last one. Within a few days, Scott already heard what went down and so did another teammate of his who lived in the same building as us – David Price.

  Price was the #1 overall draft-pick in 2007, two years after Justin was selected first. His tall, fearsome demeanor on the pitchers mound was the complete opposite from his kind and friendly personality off the field.

  Although I didn't request it, Kazmir and Price made a concerted effort to cheer me up without addressing the issue. They both knew me long enough to pinpoint what made me happy ... playing blackjack.

  Instead of going to the casino, we brought the casino to us.

  "Brad, get online and order a full-sized blackjack table, chips in every color they have, 6 decks of the best cards they have and one of those card dispensers ... the shoe," Kazmir beckoned, whilst playing Price on Xbox.

  "Yeah, get one of those see-through green hats the dealers wear too!" Price added, as all three of us erupted in laughter.

  Three little boxes and another gigantic box, which was more like a crate, arrived two days later; let me tell you, this professional blackjack table was no joke. The three of us diligently worked together to construct our new sanctuary; we were like three brothers on Christmas morning.

  "Wait, how are all of us going to play? This isn't poker," I told them.

  "I'm going to represent the house, you and Price are playing against me," Kazmir declared, while Price and I glanced at one another.

  "We're going to take all of your money, you know that right?" Price told him.

  "We'll see about that," Kazmir replied.

  We did see about that. For the next four hours, we repeatedly crushed Scott's hopes of making money off us. His initial confident demeanor changed to one that was overly consumed with worry after he was down $4,000 – which made his see-through green visor even more humorous to us.

  He didn't give up. Everyday was the same routine; I would take Scott to the game, drive him back, we'd run in the gym for an hour and then Price would come over to resume our blackjack operation.

  Their efforts to take my mind off Liz worked. In the process of it all, the three of us bonded and became close friends. Even though they were both multi-millionaires; I never asked them for anything. Because of this, I think, they would perform random acts of kindness.

  "I heard you wanted to sell memorabilia, here's an autographed jersey of mine if you want it," David said, knowing damn well I did.

  Being so close to them, and seeing how everyone around them acted, gave me insight into how I, myself, should act. Most people asked for money, autographs and appearances; I asked for none of these, yet got all of them in return. The truth is I wasn't 'gaming' them, I genuinely put myself in their shoes and realized they just wanted to be treated like normal people – because they weren't used to it.

  Well, maybe I gamed Scott a few times, only when we bet on video games. We played an NBA game every day, and Scott let me wager part of my salary. I had no problem betting $400 per game, especially when I was editing the rosters and inflating my players stats before he sat down to play.

  He never knew why I won every time, he'd just get mad and then blurt out another off-the-wall request.

  "I want you to get online and find the BEST pizza available in the entire country. Talk to the manager and see if they will deliver a bunch of them here. Get on it!" Scott strongly commanded.

  So I did. Supposedly the best pizza in the country is a deep dish made in Chicago, and the place ultimately agreed to send us ten of their finest.

  After Scott bragged to Price about our new pizza hookup, he decided to come over and put his hand in the pot as well.

  "Brad, get online and find the best French bulldog you can, and then have it delivered to me," Price instructed.

  "You know what ... I want one too. Find two French bulldogs and have them delivered," Scott added.

  A few days later, I was at the airport picking up two French bulldog puppies. Scott's was named Rico (on the left) and David's was dubbed Astro (on the right).

  The moment I was waiting for finally arrived, Scott was reactivated off the disabled list and his first start was coming up in a few days. We spent months preparing for his return, now it was time to see if his hard work would carry over to the field.

  I woke up early on game day and drove to Daily Eats to get us both a
healthy breakfast. After picking up a new box of Smart Water, I grabbed the universal remote and activated the blinds to wake him up.

  "Download a bunch of songs to pump me up before the game and put them on my iPod," were Scott's first words of the day.

  Three hours later, I prepared another meal with fresh fruit and some easy-to-digest carbohydrates. Fueling an athlete is much like fueling a car; the highest quality gas/food is going to provide the best performance.

  I sat in the stands with a Nike collared shirt and khaki shorts when the first pitch was thrown; this wasn't just a game to me anymore, I was working. I had a vested interest in him performing well because it reflected on my self worth and I wanted everyone to know I was a valuable asset; mostly the girl (Liz) sitting twenty rows below me, in a more spiteful way.

  Before Scott was sent home from Miami, he averaged 4 or 5 innings per start. On this day, he seemed to have a new sense of purpose, which lasted him deep into the 7th inning. It was an overall success, and I could sense his teammates looking at me in the locker room with more respect; but the goal was consistency.

  His very next start lasted 8 innings and I was jubilant, in fact, I was proud. I began checking his final stats on my phone and out of the corner of my eye; I spotted two blondes getting out of their seats to leave. They were stone cold foxes, on the 10 scale, they were 13's.

  "I have two girls coming over for us tonight," Scott said after the game.

  For once, I was glad to have girls come over who weren't a product of my orchestration. When they showed up, my jaw dropped – it was the same two blondes from the game. This was the most prevalent example of perks deriving from being a professional baseball player, but I would soon be reminded that I wasn't a professional baseball player.

  They strutted into the living room, both wearing the opposing teams jersey, Grady Sizemore's to be precise, but it's not like we gave a shit.

  Scott and I started shooting pool against each other and two minutes later each girl stood behind us, grabbing our crotch from the outside of our jeans. It was a flash of complete bliss, these girls were flawless I started to wonder if it was a dream.

  Then Scott disappeared into his room with one of them, leaving me alone with the other. I casually placed myself close to her and was given the letdown of a lifetime – she acted like I didn't exist.

  Honestly, I was furious, but I played it cool. A few minutes later, the girl in Scott's room surfaced and the one beside switched places with her. In this case, having seconds wasn't against my moral code, but I wasn't even granted the opportunity – she too acted as if I didn't exist. I officially reached my boiling point and said 'Fuck this!' to blonde #2 and retired to my bedroom.

  Up until this point, I was basically living the life of an MLB player, minus being on the field and having a million dollars in the bank, but now I had to subtract these two girls from the list – I was crushed.

  "What happened last night buddy?" Scott said in the morning.

  "Fuck you," I told him, apparently to his delight.

  My honor was tampered with so I went off for the next few weeks, inviting over every girl with a legible name in my 'B' phone. More than twenty cattle needed to be sacrificed to replace what was taken from me that night.

  Scott's place was now referred to as 'Club Kazmir' and it probably had the best looking women attending in all of Tampa. While I was preserving and reinstalling my good name among the females, Scott was constantly one-upping me, most notably when he brought over the notorious FSU cowgirl Jenn Sterger; it was hard to compete with that (more on her to come).

  Believe it or not, Scott carried his off-the-field activities to the field. I discovered this, by chance, when I ran into a girl I knew at the game bragging about how she was just down there hanging out with him ... in the middle of the game.

  "Are you sleeping with girls during the game?" I later asked him.

  "Oh yeah, I have a nice operation running right now," Scott replied.

  "You have got to be fucking kidding me! I have to know how you pull this off," I told him.

  "Well, I talk to the girl and tell her to come outside the gate. One of the workers brings them to this little storage room and you know the rest," he says.

  "This is fucking unreal," I declared.

  "Had two of them in there today. I just ordered one of those foam pads online so I can have some support, and the clubhouse guy is talking about setting up a camera so he can watch," Scott further explained.

  Unbelievable. Although I knew it wasn't the smartest idea, as a man, I couldn't rightfully advise against it.

  On the field, Scott continued to put up solid performance after solid performance, each one of them going into the 7th and 8th inning. His strikeouts were higher, his walks were lower and he was winning games, most recently, against the Yankees.

  As I already learned, when everything seems to be going so well; life throws you a curve. This curve came in the form of rumors about Scott being traded, likely due to his stellar outings, but it would turn out to be a less-than-stellar situation for me.

  With one last start before the trade deadline, I gave him some extra motivation before hitting the field.

  "This could be your last start with the Rays," I told him.

  "Don't say that!" he responded, unhappily.

  "It's true, use it as motivation. You should probably tip your cap to the crowd when you walk off the mound," I advised.

  (Due to copyright, a picture of him tipping his cap can be found on google)

  When the game was over, he pitched 8 solid innings and walked off the field tipping his cap as the crowd responded with a standing ovation. Later that night, he asked me to sign a confidentiality agreement, and I told him I would read it over and return it to him the next day.

  I awoke the following morning blindsided with the news that he was being traded to the Los Angeles Angels. At this moment, I realized why he wanted me to sign it – he already knew he was being traded.

  He could have told me, or he could have given me an offer to come with him, but he did neither. Instead he called me–even after his trade was announced–asking me to come sign the agreement.

  I don't know where his head was on this issue, but I felt like I was being discarded and thrown away.

  Scott was someone who owned everything money could buy, but he didn't have my signature and my severance wasn't going to come at his beckoning call. Sure, I was gambling, but I was also playing for the long term, so I stood my ground while he jumped on a flight to California.

  I was defiant, but was I stupid? Only time would tell ... I already knew the true nature of the game; it was every man for himself. My best move, at the time, was to stay put.

  However, there was no longer any reason for me to be in Tampa. I didn't have a job, I didn't have a place to live and I certainly didn't want to be around Liz anymore. So I called Justin, packed my bags and got on my own flight – westward bound to Arizona.

  It was an escape from the craziest year I could have ever imagined, but I was unaware and unprepared for what was in store for me in Arizona – life was about to get really interesting.

  Arizona & New York

  I was back in Arizona, at the Diamondbacks stadium, walking around, talking to girls. Liz still texted me (with random pictures of babies?) but I still ignored her.

  Besides the humidity, nothing really changed. My job–like before–was being a pickup artist, I was simply performing the task for someone else now.

  After building up a solid resume over the course of a year in Tampa, I didn't need to prove myself to Justin, but I still wanted to make an impact on day one; so I went straight to work.

  Two girls stood together at a promotional booth, both employees of the Diamondbacks, wearing red team logoed t-shirts with nametags and delectable tight black shorts. They were ripe for the picking.

  "So what do I have to do for a free t-shirt?" I asked, pretending to show interest (in the shirt).

  "Just
fill out this form," the skinny brunette replied, while the dark-haired Asian friend looked on.

  "I have a better proposal, for both of you. How about I fill out this form and instead of a free t-shirt, you give me your number and come join us tonight for a drink," I offered, holding direct eye contact to instill trustworthy imagery while their brains processed a yes or no response.

  "Well, where are you going?" the fragile figured brunette questioned.

  "To Justin Upton's house," I said, certain of eminent success after naming their teams star player.

  I was right. I don't know what it is about mentioning a professional athlete to a girl that triggers an automatic yes, but it's basically cheating in the world of pick-up. I was beginning to think anyone could do my job (if you have the balls to relentlessly approach and also have no fear of rejection).

  The truth is, I've been rejected more than anyone I know. I've approached so many times that the girls who do say yes amount to more successful transitions than anyone I know. It's a game of persistence.

  Although not much was different for me, plenty had changed for Justin since I last visited. He was now living in a three-story townhouse and it was an upgrade to say the least.

  The first floor featured a bedroom and what appeared to be a closet, but was actually a private elevator. The second floor was split between the kitchen, which boasted three flat screens on the wall (yes, three), and the living room, which featured a porch overlooking a scenic golf course just a short walk away. The third floor stretched out, providing three bedrooms and this is where, well, business was handled.

  Speaking of business, the two girls from the game were on their way over when Justin informed me he had already invited one of his own. I couldn't stop them now.

  So the five of us sat in the kitchen, drinking while Justin and I gave each other nods of approval over our current status of being outmatched by the opposite sex – a scenario we grew accustomed to ever since Tampa.