Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike (17 page)

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.

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.