Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike (18 page)

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.

Step by step, I ventured down the aisle towards our seats and then STOPPED. Standing out like dicks in a women's locker room, amongst several rows dedicated to Angel's family members, were my customers from StubHub; all of them decked head to toe in Yankees gear. Of course one of them, the biggest one in fact, was the obnoxious yelling type.

"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 8
^th
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.

"Yeah, let's smoke one before I go," Scott surprisingly countered, disguising his current state of embarrassment.

There was nothing to lose now, so we sat there smoking–again–until it was time for him to go. Then he asked me to carry his bags to the bus, but this is where I drew the line. There was no way I could go near his team, permeating the smell of weed, after he just blew the game AND while he emitted the same distinct odor.

It was too much, so I said goodbye and went back to my hotel. There was one-day left before my flight back to Arizona.

The Empire State Building always seemed appealing to me, so I set out on an adventure to the top early the next morning. Believe it or not, I found a loophole and was able to go from the bottom to the top of the Empire State Building without paying one cent. More importantly, I did so without being detected. You would assume the Empire State building wouldn't have any security holes, especially after 9-11. When it was over, I got a free picture as proof.

I thought New York gave me enough excitement and I was looking forward to relaxing in the valley of the sun – but this adventure was only the beginning.

Justin drove down Scottsdale Road during a blistering hot day in the middle of October. We were on our way to breakfast.

The hostess showed us to our seats and I began surveying the menu; then I spotted something strange. Actually it wasn't something; it was someone. In particular, it was a person whom I least expected to see.

Sitting a few tables over, alone, wearing jeans, a navy blue t-shirt and stubble on his face was my archenemy ... Evan Longoria.

His legs were crossed and he looked away from us, seemingly on purpose. I'm sure he tracked our entry, and it was inevitable for us to see him, so I tapped Justin on the shoulder and nodded in Evan's direction.

Much to his delight, Justin nodded back with a grin, signaling his recognition of being the third party to an awkward situation. Justin was up to speed on everything that took place in Tampa and assumed I held no interest in a friendly interaction. Was he right?

While we ordered our drinks, I began silently pondering exactly why I didn't like Longoria. Obviously, the most glowing reason was the incident in New York with Liz, but I doubt he knew she was
supposedly
pregnant. On the other hand, he did know she and I were together – he was far from innocent.

Then I looked at it from Liz's point of view, and I'm sure it didn't take much convincing–if any at all–for her to go along with it. In fact, she was probably the most culpable for the entire fiasco, and causing this lasting friction would be exactly what she wanted. With this in mind, I stood up and walked over to his table.

"What are you doing in Arizona?" I asked him.

"Pat Burrell told me how nice it was out here, so I bought a house," Evan responded.

"Didn't expect to see you here, where's the house," I questioned.

"It's in North Scottsdale, it's really nice man, you guys should come over tonight," Evan requested, reaching out a proverbial olive branch.

Justin joined us at his table and we carried on talking about his house and how good-looking the girls in Arizona were, but of course, nothing about Liz. Once we finished breakfast, oddly enough, we exchanged numbers and made plans to meet later that night.

"Well that was weird!" Justin let out, once we entered his car.

"Yeah, I'm moving on, she's caused enough problems for me, I can't let her dictate the future," I told him.

In reality, I wasn't over her and I knew precisely what I was doing. If I became friends with him and she found out (which I would make happen) it would only piss her off; making her feel insignificant.

A few hours later, I called Longoria and got directions to his house – my plan was in motion.

We pulled into his cobblestone driveway and parked underneath two pillars outside the front door. He wasn't lying; the house was massive.

He took us on a tour; first exhibiting the pool in the backyard, which featured three underwater seats built in at the edge with a bar-b-q pit on the other side. Surrounding the pool were two unusual amenities: a putting green and a basketball court. The inside was just as lavish, with a movie theater and plenty of rooms to spare for everyone to handle their business.

Then we were off to dinner, sushi to be exact, which resulted in a battle between Evan and I over who could most effectively hit on the waitress. My distaste for him never allowed me to figure out who he was, but I began to realize we were very much alike. Neither of us were afraid to be overly direct to a girl, an equal willingness to say anything and everything to get the job done. When we left, I was the one who closed on the waitress's number, a small victory in what was already a covert war.

BJ, who just got off a plane, met us at a club called American Junkie for a night filled with booze and a table chocked full of girls. It was then I noticed a gentleman beside us with a familiar face; looking in our direction. He went by the name Nik Richie, the owner of a gossip website, most specifically about celebrities and athletes. I already envisioned him writing about us, so I went into defense mode.

"Hey man, I'm Brad," I said to him, and then shook his hand.

"I'm Nik," he said back, realizing what I was trying to do.

It was a goodwill mission to prevent criticism, another self-appointed duty in my unclassified job position. This wouldn't be the last time we crossed paths; believe it or not, we eventually made a positive difference in this world together (we'll get to it later).

When the night ended, we descended back to Longoria's place with a gaggle of girls. Evan and I sat down on opposite couches, with a brunette by his side and a blonde by mine; then irony struck.

"Yeah, my dad is a doctor," Evan's brunette announced.

"Oh, a doctor? You hear that Evan? Her DAD IS A DOCTOR," I said, highlighting a reference to Liz, whose dad was also a doctor.

"Yeah, I heard her," Evan responded with a blank stare, catching my drift.

After reminding him of my hostility, I hauled the blonde to an open bedroom and took advantage of his hospitality.

I awoke hung-over the next morning, scouring the fridge for some much-needed electrolytes. Then Evan summoned for me to meet him outside in the backyard.

"I have three pairs of custom cleats I'm not going to use, didn't know if you wanted them," he said.

"Yeah, I'm probably going to sell them on eBay," I told him, and he laughed.

I don't know why he thought I was joking, because I sold them on eBay for $500 a piece. So far, my plan was moving along swimmingly.

Now it was that time of year again ... we needed to make plans for our next New Years celebration.

Justin, BJ and myself had a roundtable discussion and the final decision was for us to embark on another journey to Tampa. Each of them decided to bring a girl and although I knew plenty in Florida, I wanted to show off some of the Arizona talent. In enters "Roxy".

She (pictured on the right) was a yoga instructor who, interestingly enough, I met through Dave (a sign of his progress). Roxy walked into Justin's place wearing an ASU t-shirt, skimpy cut-off jean shorts and yellow stirrup baseball socks – her body was idyllic. The look or, better yet, drool on BJ's face said it all and my mind was made up ... she was coming to Tampa with me.

We arrived in the paradise of palm trees and it didn't take long to figure out that I didn't actually know the person I brought along with me. After a few hours of golf with the fellas, I returned back to my hotel room to an odd, but stunning scene. Roxy was sprawled out on top of the desk, just inches from the mirror, applying makeup...butt ass naked.

Most would assume a discovery of this nature would elicit arousal, but it was simply too bizarre. I was left with questions, what could possibly make someone do this? She wasn't standing in front of the mirror, like a normal person would. She was lying down horizontally on a desk, without any clothes on – who does that?

Nonetheless, I was ready to show her off...

We all met David Price at Ruths Chris for an elegant dinner. Roxy spent most of it convincing Price to take yoga lessons with her, but he didn't seem to mind.

Neither did I. My experience with Liz irreversibly altered my relationship with the opposite sex. I became incapable of playing the overprotective and jealous boyfriend role; I find it useless. If a girl wants to do something, she's going to do it ... it's simply a matter of whether she does it in front of you or behind your back. Sure, it's a guarded approach but it also has benefits, which came into play later this night.

BJ reserved a sky booth for us at a Tampa hotspot called AJA. The headlining performer of the night was none other than a man known as 'Lil Jon'.

He walked by us before he went on stage and let me tell you...he was much smaller than T.I. I don't know what it is about entertainers being short and successful, there has to be some type of correlation, but that's a topic for another day. The real entertainment of the night was set in motion once the clock struck midnight; when I received a text from a girl in Tampa named "Kendall".

Kendall, on the right, was a regular at Club Kazmir the previous summer, and definitely one of the more scandalous visitors. Her text explained how she was fighting with her boyfriend and furthermore, how she wanted to come hangout with us. I should have ignored her solicitation because my night with Roxy was going well, but of course, I didn't.

Kendall was instantly grinding against me the moment she arrived, much to Roxy's displeasure. As I said before, if someone wants to do something, they're going to do it. Roxy, in turn, began hitting on David Price. When the club closed, I went to my hotel room with Kendall and I assumed Roxy was going home with Price.

Every article of clothing was quickly deposited on the floor; Kendall and I were on the bed going at it. The moment was pristine; until I heard a knock at the door ... it was Roxy.

She walked in; her face strained with severe anguish after seeing Kendall's naked body lounging along the bed. My mind began churning up a game plan as Roxy took a seat in front of her beloved wooden desk.

"Convince her to have a threesome with us," I whispered to Kendall.

"She's not going to do it, look at her, she's pissed!" Kendall hissed back.

"Just ask her!" I demanded.

Kendall sighs and then began her proposal. The conversation to follow was an instant classic.

"Roxy, why don't you get in bed with us?" Kendall asked.

"Because I don't think you're hot," Roxy retorted, as my eyes lit up.

"Well I don't think you're hot either but I want to fuck Brad so bad that I'm willing to fuck you too," said Kendall, which was not only verbatim, but also music to my ears.

"I'm just going to sit in the bathroom while you two finish up," Roxy affirmed, sticking a dagger into my hopes of a threesome.

We were both well aware Roxy was upset, but she added (literally soon to be) injury to insult by tossing a tray of glass drinks on the floor, causing them to shatter on contact.

Kendall and I started going back at it, but it just didn't seem right. We both agreed it was uncomfortable for Roxy to be sitting in the bathroom, so Kendall asked me to do something about it.

"Roxy, can you sit in the lobby until we're done," I cautiously asked.

"FUCK NO! I just ordered a turkey sandwich to the room, I'll leave when I finish eating," Roxy sternly informed.

One turkey sandwich later, I made my second attempt at asking Roxy to step outside.

"Roxy, can you please go outside for a little bit?" I begged.

"Fuck you Brad! Do you know how fucked up that is?" Roxy scolded.

"Sorry but we did say you could join," I countered.

"Fine! I'll go but you're an asshole for doing this!" rebuked Roxy, as she stood up in a fury of rage and then lunged to push me.

Well, that was her plan until she slipped and, ironically, it was the water on the floor–from the tray she tossed–that caused her to do so. However, what happened next was no laughing matter.

A pile of sharp broken glass was on the floor, and Roxy landed on her back – directly on top of it!

I grabbed her arm, lifting her disgruntled body back upright. It was a gruesome and dismal sight. Her back was bleeding ... and there were large fragments of glass sticking out of her skin.

Roxy let out a loud piercing scream, but she wasn't crying; it was a scream of anger... a battle cry. I knew every hotel guest on our floor had heard this shriek, but I was more concerned about the awakening of Roxy's inner monster.

It was a grim picture; me with two girls in a hotel room and one of them bleeding profusely...with shards of glass lodged in her back. No matter the truth, I could already picture myself being arrested.

As predicted, twenty minutes later, the cops showed up.

Bang, bang, bang!