Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike (27 page)

So I invited Katie over, in part, to show her what I was working with. She laughed in astonishment at the sea of orange boxes and then continued staring in disbelief while I focused on the backside of her yoga pants, which I planned to replace with a newer Nike model.

After stiff negotiations, she agreed to accept the package, er, I mean packages. In return, I planned to make it worth her while.

With a new drop spot on the roster and my first liaison recruited, I donned a hoodie, put my laptop in a new Nike backpack and walked around the corner to Starbucks at 2am. I assumed my IP address was being registered with every requisition, and although I never used my own; I thought it would be wise to switch it up.

A new address allowed me to use new accounts, so I chose my next prey. They would be Ben Gordon of the Chicago Bulls and Daniel Gibson of the Cleveland Cavaliers.

Starbucks left the patio furniture outside at night so I sat down in the padded chair and looked off at the moon resting just over the mountain on the other side of Scottsdale Road. Conditions were prime.

My idea of a reasonable order was growing, similar to the tolerance of a drug addict. I also needed to add more gear for Katie, so I picked out a pair of baby blue Air Max 360's, two pairs of yoga pants with matching yoga tops and socks. Once my cart was full, I closed my laptop shut and disappeared into the darkness; each order totaled over $1,000.

"They're here! Did you really order golf clubs?" Katie texted.

"Absolutely, I'm on my way," I sent back.

Katie wore faded sweatpants and an old gray sweatshirt when she guided me to her bedroom to show off the boxes neatly organized in the corner. She didn't open any of them, but I could tell she was already conjecturing over which ones contained her gifts.

She wasn't born rich and she wasn't materialistic, which was out of character for a girl in Scottsdale, so receiving a few hundred dollars worth of new clothes actually meant something to her. It also made me happy.

"These are fucking hot!" said Katie, after opening up the box to her baby blue shoes.

"I think they'll look good on you," I told her, and then she jumped up to give me a hug.

Out of all the benefits from the operation thus far, nothing felt better than the satisfaction of seeing Katie's smiling face while she looked over her new outfit in the mirror. This was the first time in my life I was in a position to give, and man it felt good.

I packed the golf clubs into my car and headed back to my apartment, which became a restricted hazard zone to anyone but Katie due to half of the square footage being occupied with orange boxes.

At night, another Ben Gordon and Daniel Gibson invasion was in motion. It took place at the Wildflower Bread Company, another local eatery conveniently offering free Wi-Fi several hours before dawn. This time Katie was getting purple Air Max 360's, a puffy white snowboarding jacket, a wide array of shorts, headbands and my favorite – more socks.

I routinely checked the accounts to see if Nike picked up on my trail. So far, there were no reasons to suspect they were. In fact, the only downside presented itself when I found out Katie's roommate was growing jealous of the contents in her closet.

Normally I wouldn't fret, but her roommate was hanging out with Evan Longoria at the time, and I didn't want him to catch wind of my scheme. So, like a mafia boss, I ventured over to their apartment to make her roommate an offer she couldn't refuse.

Bang, bang, bang.

I knocked on their door, planning to proposition her roommate any gear she wanted in exchange for silence. Historically, she was a pretty girl, but she opened the door wearing no makeup; looking remarkably dreadful and noticeably discontent.

"Brad, I know all about the deliveries you're making and if you do it again I'm going to call the cops!" she screeched before slamming the door shut.

I stood baffled. I didn't know which was worse, what she said or catching a glimpse of her appalling face without makeup. There was also a third issue; another order was already on the way to their place.

Thankfully Katie reasoned with her over not making a fuss about one more coming through. The Arizona side of my operation came to a halt.

Over the course of two months, there was $5,000 supplied from Pau Gasol, $4,000 from Matt Holliday, $5,000 from Ben Gordon, $5,000 from Daniel Gibson, $700 from Luol Deng and a few hundred from Steve Nash. Bringing the total just over $20,000.

Thanksgiving was a week away and it couldn't have come at a better time; I needed to vacate the area. Nonetheless, I was still in a giving mood and I wanted to show appreciation for those who helped me in the past. So, without their knowledge, I dropped $3,000 worth of gear in front of Justin's door and another $3,000 worth of gear in front of Dave's door.

I boarded my flight a cheerful man, but I was only getting started.

When I got back to Virginia, I consciously resisted the gamblers itch to keep it going.

My activity was idle for the first week, but then I cracked and went right back at it. This time I raided the accounts of Al Horford of the Atlanta Hawks, Jarret Jack of the New Orleans Hornets and Jonny Flynn of the Minnesota Timberwolves.

I was only going to be in town for one month, so obtaining items I could easily ship became a top priority. The most befitting item for this purpose was the Nike Sportband, only a few inches in width yet retained a value of $59. With the limit set at a maximum of 30 per transaction, each order came out to $1,770 and my idea of a reasonable shipment was rising once again.

So was my idea of the number of shipments I placed; I recruited another liaison with the purpose of putting the remaining hacked accounts to good use. Hawk, my friend from high school, was getting his masters in North Carolina and was always an avid fan of sports gear; so another proposition was made.

"I don't want them coming to my house, but there are some empty places across the street. Actually, there's quite a few," Hawk suggested.

"Sounds good to me, let's do this," I told him.

With multiple addresses, I could activate multiple accounts. We used Jon Lester of the Boston Red Sox, Roy Hibbert of the Indiana Pacers, Julian Wright of the Toronto Raptors and we even re-used Ben Gordon's.

Before each one, we got on the phone and Hawk told me a list of the items he wanted; he also added notes on what items he thought carried the best resale value. It got to the point where I gave him the login information for Luke Walton's account to make it less strenuous, but I'm not sure if he ever did anything with it.

Then, for the first time, I thought Nike might be catching on. During one of our last shipments, three out of the four orders failed to show up. I was worried, paranoid and began thinking of an exit strategy. Then I checked the tracking information on FedEx's website and it stated hazardous weather as the cause for failure. Still, I was skeptical.

Hawk took his cut and brought the rest to Virginia when he returned home for Christmas break. My bedroom upstairs became a bigger calamity than my apartment in Arizona ... there was no room to walk.

Like Kazmir said, Christmas was the time when everyone drained the accounts. With this in mind, I went on a five-day spree, placing $3,000 shipments every single day on each of the three different accounts. Let's just say Santa was putting plenty of presents under the tree this year.

I almost couldn't believe what I did. Al Horford, Julian Wright and Jarrett Jack each had roughly $19,000 in their accounts before Christmas, and just below $2,000 when it was over.

With a planned skiing trip after New Years, I wasn't finished just yet. †I got back on and ordered jackets, ski pants, gloves, socks, undershirts and beanies for everyone who was going. With a few grand worth of attire on our back, legs, hands, head and feet – I think it's fair to say we were looking quite professional on the slopes.

I realized, upon our return, there was over $50,000 worth of apparel and sports equipment in my bedroom ... it was hard to grasp. Tiger Woods golf shoes, sportbands, collared shirts, winter jackets, compression pants, hoodies, a mountain of Air Max 360's, golf bags filled with clubs, batting gloves, sunglasses and of course plenty of socks. If Nike made it, there was a good chance it was in my room.

I didn't want to ship all of the gear across the country, so I got on eBay and sold as much of it as I could. This was the first time I saw a monetary profit, and it was paying well. In fact, the proceeds were so lucrative I got on craigslist and began looking at condos in Arizona. My eyes were locked on a particular penthouse in Tempe, inside the Arizona State University campus.

Before I could head back to Arizona, my friend Scott Sizemore was getting married in the Caribbean and invited me to be in his wedding. This was my first time attending a wedding and furthermore, it was my first time taking a trip with excess money in my pocket. I packed a bag with fresh clothes and boarded a flight to Jamaica mon!

My flight landed in Montego Bay, and from there, a bus awaited. However, this bus was the antithesis of modern, the kind you would expect to see transporting hippies across town during the 70's.

A winding voyage along the northern and western coast of Jamaica spoke a different reality than a land deceitfully advertised as paradise in the brochures. Most structures were poorly built and most families were on the street struggling in blistering heat; I actually felt bad for being there.

Upon my arrival at Sandals Negril Beach Resort and Spa, the scenery largely transformed into the utopian landscape I anticipated.

Scott was lounging on the beach at a table grounded in white sand with his fiance Brooke when I finally converged with them. They were happy to see me; after all, I was the reason they met.

It was during my first semester at VCU. Scott and I were armed with a 12-pack of beer, yet nothing to do. I asked if he wanted to sit in front of the freshman dorms and wait for girls to walk out, and he said yes. Brooke and her friend exited soon after, and like always, I approached them. We both got of their numbers, but each led down a different path; I talked to her friend for a week and Scott continued courting Brooke for the next four years.

There we were. In a way, my role remained the same as the first time they'd met because I was still interested in Brooke's friends, and there were
a lot
of them. Unfortunately, on the first night, my only partners were Jamaican rum and the soothing melodies of reggae music.

Day two arrived and only a few hours remained until the wedding bells rang, so I decided to put my Nike income to good use by renting out jet-skis for Kyle, Scott and his Detroit Tigers teammate Casper.

The four of us cruised along the beach line like Kenny fucking Powers, in honor of Scott's last moments as a free man. It was truly the best way for him to go out; there's no feeling more magical than shredding the Caribbean current on a jet ski. I didn't want this moment to end, so when they retired back on shore, I kept riding into the sunset.

Eventually I parked next to an island off the coast, turned off the engine and sat on my Yamaha; completely mesmerized. The water was exceptionally clear and it was captivating being able to see every speck of corral on the ocean floor; the sight alone was powerful.

A beautiful ceremony on the beach followed; Scott officially became a married man. Seeing my first wedding gave me a new perspective on marriage, and I began to question my player lifestyle. Sure, my world was entertaining, but rarely did it ever result in lasting happiness.

However, there was no time to meddle with my conscience indifference. A tent was being set up, drinks were being stored in coolers, a DJ was preparing his playlist and more than a handful of Brooke's friends were marinating for what would surely be a memorable night.

"All single guys to the middle of the tent," the Jamaican DJ announced, after an hour or two of intoxication.

"It's time to show the ladies your best dance move," the DJ declared.

In 2009, when I invented my own dance move, 'The B-Walk', I never thought it would pay off so fortuitously. There were five of us in line, me being the last, and I already knew it was over before it even started; I was looking down on my opponents with the confidence of Yao Ming.

Brooke's little brother went first, yielding nothing but yawns. Kyle was third in line, accruing nothing but crickets. Then it was my time to bring the house down.

I stepped out, throwing interchangeable heel clicks in front of my body with a grace only comparable to Enrique Iglesias. Then I froze, leaving one heel out with my toe pointing towards the heavens, leaving the crowd paralyzed. To bring them back to life, I swooped my right arm down like a pendulum, and promptly wiped the sand from atop my seemingly electric shoe; pure polish. Spectators no longer encircled me; cheering fans surrounded me (slight exaggeration).

The rest of the night, however, didn't go quite as planned. My sights were set on a curly haired photographer named Carly, and she was
almost
as flawless as my dance routine. I don't know what changed; maybe my mental intervention about my lifestyle subconsciously began taking shape. All I can remember is waking up the following morning on the floor of my room with a severe hangover.

"Dude, do you even remember what you did last night?" my roommate Kyle queried from his bed, with a girl on his arm.

"No, not at all," I replied, with true amnesia.

"Oh my god dude, it was fucking hilarious! You grabbed the DJ's microphone and told all of the girls to remove their clothes and jump in the ocean, I was literally in tears," Kyle energetically explained.

Well, so much for my theory about altering my lifestyle. I was in another country with close to ten readily available girls, and I played the friend role for the first time
ever
.

Then, while I was entering the airport to go home, I received another unusual experience.

"Heyyyyyyyyy Brad!" six of Brooke's friends hollered from a distance, and then ran up for to me hugs.

I was not used to this treatment. My entire flight home was spent wondering if they liked me because I was entertaining, or because I didn't sleep with any of them. The only other time I could recall a group of girls running up to hug me was in front of the casino in Tampa, and I didn't sleep with them either. What a paradox.

Up until this point, my only freight experience was shipping packages. When I returned to Virginia, I was shipping crates. Transporting two hundred boxes of shoes across the country doesn't come cheap.

I got out of my lease the day I arrived in Arizona, then pulled the trigger on my plan to occupy the penthouse condo in Tempe. The building was called North Shore and my new place was on the top-floor with two bedrooms all to myself. The best feature of all was how it overlooked Tempe Town Lake, with a scenic view of the mountain wedged just beside ASU's football stadium.

Even though I didn't have an elevator installed inside my unit like Justin, I felt like I was keeping up for once. I never thought it would happen, but I was actually satisfied. It probably helped being centered in a campus with, arguably, some of the most enticing female students our country has to offer.

Surprisingly, I was more exited to open boxes of shoes than I was exploring the school grounds for prospects. In particular, I was eager to see how well my custom made Nike ID shoes turned out post-production.

Piece by piece, I designed ever minute detail of these shoes to my own specifications; there were a total of 5. One pair was black and gold Kobe Bryant basketball shoes with 'P1ay3r' stitched on the inside of the tongue, but my best work was showcased in the other pairs of Nike Dunk Low's.

There were four different color schemes: black/gold, white/gold, black/silver and white/silver.

By far, my favorite pair were the white and gold's. The overlay was outfitted with white calfskin leather, black lining, white laces, black midsole, white outsole and a crusted shiny gold swoosh. The ID, on the outer half of the heel, was stitched with 'B500'...as were the other three pairs.

The 'B' was for Brad, and the '500' was a motivational symbol to eventually own a fortune 500 company (unfortunately, the exact models I produced are no longer available on Nike's website, but you might be able to buy them on my website).

I moved in on a Monday and I was exhausted after hauling all those boxes, so I took a nap and woke up around 2am on Tuesday morning. With no food in my condo, I walked across the bridge to a gas station on campus to get a Snickers bar and some snacks. It was on my way back when I encountered something interesting, and rather strange.

Just before I reached the bridge, I spotted two guys on bikes, at the apex, standing motionless in the center of the walkway. It didn't strike me as unusual, until I got much closer.

The first guy was either Asian or Mexican and he wore a dark colored hood. The second guy wore a cutoff t-shirt and he was Caucasian with sideburns and a tattoo on his arm. Their appearance wasn't too out of the ordinary, but the manner in which they were staring me down definitely was.

Similar to an animal's behavior in the wild, the bigger you make yourself; the lesser chance you have of being attacked. So I puffed my shoulders out wide and went into 'Bulldog Mode'.

When I came near the first guy, he quickly turned his head and looked towards the lake, as if he didn't want me to see his face. The second guy, however, was a different story. He looked me dead in my eyes with a cold and deep stare. His gaze and the apparent salivation around his mouth made me assume he was on drugs. I was weary of being mugged, so I turned my head back after making it past them, and the second guy was still staring me down even harder than before.

I made it home safely, and thought nothing more of this encounter, until the following week...

After lacing up my B500's, I adjusted my desk against the window so I could work on the computer while also being able to enjoy the lake and mountain view.

I was on Google chat with Dave and by chance, or fate, I looked out the glass window and noticed cop cars, two fire trucks, a police camper and three news trucks were lined up on the edge of the lake.

"There's a bunch of cop cars and news trucks at the lake," I typed to Dave.

"What's it for?" he asked.

"No clue, I'm going to look online," I told him.

A quick search revealed that a young black kid named Willie Jigba went missing the previous weekend, and they were searching for his body in the lake.

"Some kid went missing, they think he's in the lake," I reported to Dave.

"You should take pictures of it," he told me.

Like many times before, I took his advice and grabbed the high-powered camera resting on my kitchen counter. From there, I stepped on my balcony and snapped picture after picture like a seasoned journalist.

I continued watching from my perch for the next hour, with an eagle's eye view. To the casual bystander, it appeared as though the police were relentlessly searching for this kid but the more I watched, the more I was bothered by their effort, or lack thereof.

So I loaded the pictures onto my computer and began examining each one. All of them captured the same disturbing image; masses of people walking around on shore and just two of the officers in a small boat on the lake.

It wasn't my business, but for some reason it still affected me. I wanted to know more, so later that night I logged onto 'TheDirty.com' to see if there were any further details.

There were. Apparently Willie Jigba attended a party on Saturday night and never returned home. After missing his first day of work on Sunday, one of his friends called the police out of concern. It was unclear at the time how all of this led the cops to Tempe Town Lake.

Then I visited the comments section, and read on until one of them jumped off the page. Willie's parents joined the conversation and made a desperate plea, crying for help. I was deeply moved and overwhelmingly sympathetic.

Instead of airing out my thoughts in the comments, which I almost did, I decided to take it a step further by sending the website owner, Nik Richie, a detailed message about the troublesome spectacle I witnessed during the search; with pictures included.