Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike
Page 13
Then, in the mix of it all and without signaling intent, Justin took his girl by the hand and vanished upstairs, leaving me in a two-on-one formation.
For me, it was time to be brash or watch them leave.
"Do you two want to go upstairs?" I asked, knowing it would mark the beginning, or end of my night.
"Sure!" they enthusiastically responded, a direct hit.
I surgically positioned myself in the middle of the bed, giving them no choice but to lay on either side of me. The brunette saddled up to my right and the Asian girl followed suit on my left; both still wore the same clothes from work.
My spirits were high; the elusive threesome was now within reach. I peered to my right, looking the brunette dead in her glittery eyes and went in for the kiss. Upon completion, I shifted to my left, giving the Asian girl the same piercing look and locked lips with her as well.
The escalation was up to me, so I took my shirt off, unfastened my pants and removed my boxers. I was in bed completely naked, with two fully clothed girls on both sides; the definition of going nuclear.
I thought my brazened move was going to backfire, but they briefly glanced at one another, and removed their Sedona red t-shirts in unison – their black shorts came off just moments later.
So there I was, on my first night, fully nude with two Diamondback employees by my side, both fully exposed. Their far-most legs cradled onto mine with their breasts pressed firmly against my chest. I continued swapping affection between each, although I was slightly more attentive to the brunette.
Just when I was optimistic about finally capturing my phantom goal of completing a threesome, the Asian girl spoke up.
"We have to go soon because we have church tomorrow," she said, leaving a verbal stab wound.
"Don't go," I pleaded.
"This is our first night, we will hangout again," she assured.
I learned a valuable lesson; never give one girl more attention than the other while both are naked in your bed.
Justin went to the field the next day and I stayed at the house, alone with my thoughts. After my experience with Kazmir, I needed a viable new plan to produce non-dependent income, so I stepped outside, leaned over the rail for some fresh air and began brainstorming.
In a matter of mere minutes, I met a person who would change my life forever.
Strolling down the street–in the middle of the road–was an all-white American bulldog and his owner, of similar complexion, not too far behind. His hair was short and he wore a gray t-shirt, cheap blue jeans and Adidas sandals without socks.
"Hey, what's up?" he yelled up to me, in a tone several decibels above what you'd normally expect.
"Not too much man," I said back.
"Hey, are you Justin's friend?" he asked.
"Yeah, I'm Brad, I just moved here from Tampa," I told him.
"Oh, well I'm David, what did you do in Tampa?" he questioned, without deviating from his ostentatious volume.
"I picked up girls for athletes, what do you do?" I said with a straight face, and he briefly paused to make sure I was being serious.
"Um, I run a few internet businesses," David told me, while looking down the road for his dog.
"MOSES! Get back here!" He yelled, taking me by surprise, I didn't think it was possible for his voice to become any louder than it already was.
"That's cool, I've always been interested in learning more about computers," I solicited.
"Well, you can come over if you want, I live next door," informed David, and I accepted his invitation.
We walked in through the garage and entered his downstairs bedroom, which was set up as his office. A large brown oak desk with an iMac on top faced the window, looking out to a mountainous view. Behind the desk were a brown leather sofa and a flat screen TV, with an oversized map of the world globe strewn on the wall between.
He showed me his websites (some of them) and although it was embarrassing, I showed him mine. It was called ProspectMemorabilia.com; a site I started in Tampa when I began selling some of the players' game used equipment. With only a few items listed and no significant graphic design work completed, you could say it was a 'site for sore eyes'.
I asked him for advice about enhancing my website, and he asked me for advice on advancing his game with girls. Slowly but surely, our barter system was inaugurated.
For the next month, my days were spent at David's house (who I will refer to as 'Dave' from here on out) working on my website from the corner of his desk, pestering him for information. My nights, however, were devoted to giving him an education about girls at clubs.
Every night, the first objective I asked for him to do was approach every girl he laid eyes on ... and fail. Once you become accustomed to being shot down, it no longer frightens you. This wasn't his problem, it's everyone's problem, even mine.
No matter how many times you converge on a girl, there will always be a sense of tentativeness it's human nature. After you accept it as part of the process, you're a step above the other guys who see it as a personal issue.
Every day, the first objective he asked of me was to get on Google and teach myself. I'm pretty sure this was his method of letting me know my constant annoyance bothered him, but either way, I didn't listen. I wasn't interested in getting advice from people whose job it was to give advice; I wanted to pick the brain of the guy beside me, living proof that owning an online business can make you a millionaire.
In Tampa, my talents of talking to girls were used so I could get a paycheck and stick around. In the end, I was left without a job and with a high probability of STD's (I'm clean). Now, I was exchanging my services to learn a skill I could presumably use for the rest of my life.
Not only did we reciprocate tricks of our own trade, but we also gave insight and constructive criticism into each other's strong points. I would suggest he make cosmetic changes to his websites and he would give me an economically intelligent strategy for dealing with girls.
"You should never drive anywhere to hangout with a girl, it's a waste of time. Just tell them you have a place, and they can come here if they want," Dave preached.
So I did.
Wrangling girls with Dave gave me a new perspective; no longer was I name-dropping athletes to achieve my goals. It was a true test of game, and it worked out just as well, sometimes even better.
By the end of the month, I processed and absorbed all the steps of designing a website and the basics on how to add content. This is exactly what I hoped for, means to becoming financially independent. Even though Justin's season just ended and another off-season of rampant and uncivilized behavior was up ahead – I knew there was much more to learn from Dave, so we stayed in touch.
"My agent got us tickets to the Angels/Yankees playoff game in LA if you want to go," Justin announced.
I did, because I'd never been to LA before, but it was somewhat odd that our first order of business was going to see Kazmir's new team. More specifically, the tickets were for Game 4, in which Kazmir was the starting pitcher.
"I'm taking a girl with me, so you either need to invite a girl or roll solo," said Justin.
It was the night before our trip and I decided to go out, solo, to a club called the PussyCat Lounge in Scottsdale. It was a normal club, famously known for being owned by porn star Jenna Jameson. She must have played a part in the design because as soon as I walked in, I noticed–through a glass window–a bedroom overlooking the dance floor ... with an insanely attractive blonde sprawled out, wearing nothing but her bra and panties.
So I stood at the bar alone, drinking a beer and rubbernecking the blonde from below. In my mind, I was obligated to pursue her...eventually. Once you go after the best looking girl you see, the others don't seem like a challenge but I couldn't get to her and for the time being, I needed to make my rounds and possibly find a girl to invite to LA.
After several failed attempts (which are successes in my book), I headed for the front exit, but was then stopped in
my tracks. Against the wall, dancing alone and bent over like an offensive lineman (but not looking like one), was yet another blonde.
I walked up next to her and stood with poise, but didn't say a word. Another hit or miss tactic, either she would think I was a creep or she was going to open up and let me in.
"Dance with me!" the blonde blurted, after briefly looking me over.
Within a matter of minutes, better yet seconds, IT WAS HARD ... not to invite her to LA.
"Do you want to go to LA with me tomorrow?" I directly asked her.
"Yeah! Why not!" she responded, without even knowing my name.
She gave me her number and name, which was Stephanie, and then told me to call her a few hours before the flight so she could pack her bags in time.
I took her words as typical bullshit girls say at clubs, but I called her anyways. Besides, what did I have to lose?
"Hey, do you still want to go?" I asked the next day.
"Yeah, give me your address and I will come over," she replied.
An hour later, the tan skinned blonde pulled up in front of Justin's place driving a gray convertible S-class Mercedes; the type of car usually driven by my rich friends ... jackpot.
Her heels clicked against the pavement as she walked over to give me a hug. I internally scrutinized her up and down, looking for flaws. Parts of her were unnatural, like her full lips and perfectly white teeth (veneers). However, this was the west coast, and I hardly considered them flaws.
The only one I noticed, or moreover, sensed was the flagrant smell of self-tanning lotion, but it didn't concern me. However, I would later find out this girl was a 'dirty celeb' known as 'Soccer Mom', a moniker stemming from her slew of scandalous pictures posted on a gossip website called TheDirty.com.
Nonetheless, I was enriched with anticipation so we jumped on a plane to LA – en route to see my former boss pitch in the playoffs.
Our double date began with horrendous traffic during the cab ride to the Angels stadium; I never knew it could take so long to travel ten miles.
When the game started, I leaned forward in my seat, just like I did when I worked for Kazmir in Tampa. Part of me wanted him to fail; to ultimately prove that not having me around was a mistake, but the other part of me invested so much time into getting him into shape that I still wanted him to do well.
He didn't. Kazmir pitched four innings, giving up a run in each before he was pulled out of the game. I walked away with a devilish smile after his performance; after all, he would have lasted more than four innings if he took me to California with him.
"I just ordered a limo, we're going to Hollywood playa," Justin said, upon entering the hotel.
We were in Orange County, and Hollywood was 45 minutes away. Add a limousine and bottles of Johnny Walker to the equation and the outcome is simple – it was going to be a catastrophe.
Sure enough, we arrived on the streets of Los Angeles drunk, stumbling past the doormen who–for some reason–actually let us in.
The rest of my night was spent on the couch at our table on the second floor, making out with my blonde counterpart.
"Damn dog, get a room!" Chris Young said, surfacing out of thin air.
When the night ended, I crawled back into the limo and sent Kazmir a flagrant text message.
"We're in LA, good game douchebag!" my message to him read.
After a quality finish, Soccer Mom returned to Scottsdale early the next morning, leaving me with Justin and his girl in front of the hotel; waiting for a cab to the airport. Then, out of the blue, I received a phone call.
"Hey, do you want to stay in Cali for a few days?" Kazmir asked.
"Yeah, why not," I told him.
"Cool, I'll pick you up in a minute."
Moments later, a black Ferrari came flying around the corner and Kazmir stepped out. While he talked to Justin, I put my luggage in the hood and then we set out to Balboa Island, an upscale area on the Pacific Ocean filled with monster yachts and roaming cougars.
In typical dude fashion, not a word about his departure from Tampa was brought up while we sat on his oceanfront patio, discussing his current physical conditioning and how it noticeably declined in the past few months. He wanted it to change, and he wanted to start now.
So for the next hour, we jumped around in front of the TV in his living room, doing P-90X.
"You can sell these tomorrow if you want," said Kaz, throwing me two stacks of tickets.
Just like that, I was working for him once again. Except this time, I was scalping tickets to earn my income.
The next afternoon I made circles around the Angels stadium, asking anyone I walked by if they wanted to buy tickets. In return, I was treated like an asshole. The scalping business is not fun at all.
I decided my next course of action would be to sell them all at once, to another scalper in the area. This seemed like a logistically sound idea, until I pulled out the wrong stack and sold the guy $1,400 worth of tickets to Game 4 – on the day of Game 5.
"What the fuck should I do?" I asked Dave, the smartest guy I knew and the best call I could make for help managing this crisis.
"Sell the rest of them quick and get the hell out of there!" Dave advised.
I was paranoid the professional scalper was hunting for me, so I stopped at a gas station, sold the tickets for cheap, bolted back to Scott's condo and watched Game 5 on TV. Crisis averted.
"So, do you want to go to New York?" Kazmir asked when the game ended.
"Definitely, I just need to pick up some clothes in Arizona," I told him.
I arrived in New York, enamored with the soaring architecture and amazed by how many people–from every culture–could occupy such a small stretch of land.
The first night was spent at various nightclubs in the meatpacking district, where I consumed entirely too much alcohol. In fact, so many I woke up the following morning throwing up in the bathtub of my hotel room. It was going to be a rough day at work.
Surprisingly, puking actually helped me wake up early enough to meet Kazmir at his hotel on time.
After trekking past central park, I knocked on his door and out walked a gorgeous brunette who looked familiar – it was Jenn Sterger. The timing of it all felt unnatural, and it seemed like Kazmir purposely made her wait until I arrived, which I can't blame him for doing; I would flaunt her off too.
The rain came pouring down and Game 6 was postponed until the following day.
I stopped by Smoothie King on my way to Scott's hotel the next morning, and he was just getting off the phone with his coach when I walked in.
"He told me I'm starting Game 7 if we win tonight," Scott said, after hanging up.
"You'll be ready," I told him.
"You know what that means, it's time to burn," Scott declared.
'Time to burn' meant it was time to smoke weed, something we did together on several occasions, but certainly never before a playoff game. He wasn't supposed to play, so we sat in his hotel bathroom and smoked an entire blunt. Then he left for Game 6.
I consider this decision to be a major lapse in judgment; not just on his part, but also on my own. What I didn't consider is how epically it was going to backfire – in front of millions of people.
We'll get to that part soon; in the meantime, Scott handed me another stack of tickets (this time for the right game) and told me to get my hustle on.
Just like there's New York style pizza, there's also being treated like an asshole; New York style. It was far worse than I ever imagined, apparently I was a 'jerkoff' for asking if they wanted tickets. Their shrewd insults caused me to give up on my mission. That is, until I found a StubHub store. My tickets were sold within ten minutes, except the one left over in my pocket – in case I ventured past any prospects on my way to Yankee Stadium.
Randomly and by chance, I ran into a former teammate of mine from ECU while walking down the city street. I told him about the extra ticket, asked if he wanted to go and of course, he agreed.
"Yeahhhhhhhhh Yankeeeeeeeees!" the belligerent overweight and bearded fan yelled out.
I put my head down; I was seated right next to the guy.
If the Yankees won, they were headed to the World Series. If the Angels won, they would go on to Game 7. The stakes were high and the Yankees were only up by one run going into the bottom of the 8th inning.
There was still hope for a comeback, one run is not insurmountable; unless the pitcher warming up in the bullpen smoked weed before the game...because that's exactly what was happening!
Kazmir was getting ready to enter the game and with the current pitcher struggling, there was no doubt he was going to pitch–high–in front of thousands and thousands of people; not to mention millions watching at home.
My worst nightmare came true; I watched him scamper across the field on the second-most biggest stage in Major League Baseball, the ALCS. All I could do now was watch, and hope for the best.
With a runner on first base, the first batter bunted to the second baseman, Howie Kendrick, who made a throwing error. This left runners on first and second base.
The next better also bunted, but this time it was directly to Scott. I stood up in my seat, my heart beating rapidly as I thought to myself, "Please don't fuck this up!"
That's exactly what he did; he fucked it up, by throwing the ball ten feet over the first baseman's head. The ball rolled into right field, allowing one runner to score. The worst outcome that could have happened ... just did.
The Angels World Series hopes were dashed by a pitcher who I smoked weed with before the game. An alarming reality was setting in. I didn't even want to watch the rest of the game, in fact, I didn't.
"There's no such thing as bad press," I reluctantly told Scott, once I entered his hotel room after the game.