Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike (11 page)

"Hello David," I greeted him.

"What's up B?" he greeted me back.

"I'm coming to New York to live with you this summer," I jokingly told him.

"You can come anytime you want," he replied with a smile.

Being under the spotlight will naturally change someone, and I noticed David was very talkative and diplomatic to everyone around him. Some may see it as fake, but everything you do is artificial when you have a reputation to protect. He did make sure to not come off as the guy who was better than you though, and he also made sure not to openly hit on any girls in front of prying eyes.

When it was time to leave, David and I were the only two people who walked outside with an extra girl trailing our footsteps. We all hopped in the back of a black SUV, one girl on my lap and one girl on his lap. Although I certainly couldn't keep up with him on the baseball field; my macking skills were definitely on par.

Once we arrived at Kyle's house, I took my girl upstairs and he vanished without a trace; something I imagine he practiced while in New York.

Just when I thought my streak of fun was coming to an end, BJ came over to Kyle's the next day and had a talk with me upstairs.

"You ready to go back to Tampa?" BJ feverishly asked.

"You're damn right!" I responded, without the slightest hesitation.

What was I going to do say...no? There is no telling what path my life would have gone down if I stayed home, I didn't have any alternate plans. Still, I wondered why BJ wanted me in Tampa, what was he getting out of it? My question was ultimately answered the week after we arrived.

No matter where we went, be it the mall, the club or even in the middle of traffic – BJ's rhetoric was always the same.

"Get her number! What about her? Get that one's number!" he would demand, and I would deliver.

Don't get me wrong, there was no hardship on my part, this was a pleasing task and I was good at it. My phone was LOADED with girls' numbers by the end of the week and each new contact was forthright about their willingness to hangout. BJ decided I needed a separate phone to handle the workload and promptly provided one – it was really getting out of control.

Even though my new 'job' kept me busy, I still found time to keep in touch with Liz. The way I looked at it, all of the other girls I talked to were work related and Liz was the personal object of my desire. BJ planned on going to a Tampa Bay Lightning game, so I asked Liz to meet us there.

It was Justin, BJ, Cliff Floyd and myself walking through the corridors en route to a reserved skybox. While they stopped to sign autographs, Cliff chose to include me in the action.

"Hey, you know that's Scott Kazmir right there, you should get his autograph too," Cliff told a little kid, who then asked me for an autograph.

I signed it. Cliff was so amused he started stopping people who weren't even in search of autographs, asking if they wanted 'mine'.

Liz joined us in the skybox during the first period, and brought her dad along with her. I never enjoyed meeting parents and I honestly don't know anyone who does.

He shadowed behind her as they entered, a short man wearing a light gray suit with a yellow tie and black dress shoes. After cavalierly introducing himself, he shook my hand, but I knew what he was thinking. You can call it telepathy or you can call it instinct–either way–I knew.

He wanted his daughter, an only child, to marry someone distinguished: a doctor or a lawyer – anything but a glorified pickup artist.

After her dad was called into work, we all sat down in a sectioned off row of seats in front of the skybox. Suddenly, we all appeared on the jumbotron.

"Give it up for your Tampa Bay Rays!!!" the stadium announcer instructed to thousands of screaming hockey fans.

BJ stood up, Cliff stood up and as a joke I stood up and waved to the crowd. I figured Cliff was already telling people I was Scott Kazmir so why not get some recognition?

Ironically, we ran into Kazmir the very next day while BJ was getting treatment on his shoulder in the Rays training room. This was the first time I saw him since the boxing match a year prior to this and I will never forget the first words out of his mouth.

"Let's go in the dugout and steal the World Series signs off the wall. We can probably make some money selling them," said Kazmir, and he was not joking at all.

I thought 'Why in the hell does someone with a $30 million contract want to sell World Series memorabilia?'... but I didn't say that.

"Yeah, let's do it," is what I said.

So the two of us exited the training room, walked down the tunnel into the dugout and went to work peeling off World Series signs that were glued to the wall behind the bench.

"Do you think they'll care if this stuff is gone?" I asked, worried about being caught.

"Who gives a shit," Kazmir emphatically replied.

This guy was right up my alley. He wasn't just stealing them for me to sell; he was actually going to sell them for himself. He was the first and only millionaire athlete I met who also sold memorabilia. I saw this as a potential avenue to earn some viable income; naturally, I decided to align myself with him.

"I just rented out a place on Treasure Island that P Diddy stayed in, yall should come out there tonight," he added.

So we did.

The main condo amenities were a movie theater and a hot tub, which was more like a mini-swimming pool, built into the back deck overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. If there were ever a place to bring girls – this was it.

We spent a week there and I was tirelessly at work contacting girls to come over. For the most part, I wasn't even reaping the benefits, but I couldn't complain. Actually, I was glad I wasn't, especially on Kazmir's last night in town; he called me with a surprise the following morning.

"Hey, so I hooked up with that girl you brought back last night and you will never believe what happened," he said, in a normal manner.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Well, I woke up and SHE PISSED ALL OVER MY FUCKING BED!" Scott screamed.

"Ahahaha," I replied.

"Oh, that's funny? I'm starting to question your abilities, just so you know," Kazmir informed me.

He went back to Texas and we returned to BJ's nest in Tampa which ended up giving us more success than we could have ever imagined. At least that's what success meant to me at the time.

Not one night passed where there weren't a slew of girls eagerly–and sometimes desperately–wanting to come over. This is no exaggeration whatsoever; it went on EVERY night for two weeks straight; my phone was in need of a bigger data plan.

We didn't even call them by their real names; they were given nicknames such as 'Olive Oil' and 'Chuck Liddell' (we watched her fight another girl).

Some mornings I walked downstairs and would see two or three girls sleeping on BJ's brown leather sofas, and this was on top of the three who occupied each room. If you walked in the front door, you would have thought we were running a brothel; it was a dream come true.

We even invented new phrases to mark common occurrences. For example, whenever a girl overstayed her welcome, it was referred to as a 'shot clock violation' and we all made a buzzer sound when she left – once she was out of audible range that is.

Then there was the other–not so vague–expression known as the 'We'll SEE YA!'. This took place when the girls exited, just before the front door closed (or car door in the rare occasion we dropped them off). It wasn't too complex we simply yelled 'WEEEEEEEEE'LL SEE YA!' extremely loud with a rumbling buildup in the beginning of the phrase (the rumbling buildup was vitally important).

After two weeks of mayhem, Justin told us we were too crazy for him (as if he didn't participate) and went back to Chesapeake.

"Kazmir is back in town, we're all going to the USF game," BJ declared.

It was the University of South Florida football game and it was being played on the Rays turf.

"There's going to be a lot of girls there, I need you on your 'A' game," BJ told me.

I wondered why we were even going, a USF football game is hardly entertaining but now I knew. So we met Kazmir and Andy Sonnanstine in the locker room, got our sideline passes and went into the dugout.

Then members of the press asked them for an on-camera interview. I liked my 'job' and I knew I had to be socially aware to keep it so I decided to hang back in the dugout for the interview, but BJ insisted I come onto the field with them.

I stood in the background while the interview was taking place and then I received a text message, which was welcomed, this way I could at least act like I was busy doing something.

"You know you stick your butt out when you walk," Liz transmitted.

She was there–the super fan–watching with her keen and judging eye. It was going to be difficult to perform my duties under surveillance.

Once the interview was over, we all walked down the sideline while fans screamed "BJ!" and "Scott!" and rarely "Andy!" but there was never a "Brad!"

In fact, I could see them looking at me like 'Who the hell is this guy?'. It was a valid question and I guess the best answer was 'The guy who is good at picking up girls'. They would soon witness my skill first hand.

We strategically positioned ourselves in-between the dance team and the cheerleading team. Just as I began to survey the talent, a photographer approached and asked us to follow him for a picture. Fortuitously, we were required to walk through the line of dancers and cheerleaders to get there.

I was last in line, and just before we cleared them, a cheerleader was thrown in the air. Except she didn't land in her teammates hands as planned, she landed directly on top of my shoulder.

The fans laughed, and I laughed along with them; even though I was in excruciating pain. This picture was taken moments after; it would end up being featured in the newspaper with the caption "BJ Upton, Scott Kazmir and Andy Sonnanstine."

When there is chaos, there is opportunity, so I walked a straight path to the cheerleader who landed on my shoulder.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"Yeah, sorry about that," she said, her glitter infested cheeks cracking a smile.

"I'm not going to lie, it hurt. But I know how you can make it up to me," I told her.

"Oh yeah? How's that?" she asked.

"You can give me your phone numbers and bring your teammates to hang out with us tonight," I boldly stated.

She gave me her phone number, her friends joined us that night and the rest is history. After this, I knew my 'job' was still secure, I just wondered if Liz saw this transaction take place.