Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike (5 page)

Richmond, Virginia: city streets topped with colonial cracked pavement and sidewalks littered with bums – on crack.

It was the antithesis of East Carolina's rural scenery or any other environment I previously dwelled in, nonetheless, it was a fresh start.

Instructions were sent out via email to every member on the team.

"Be on the turf at 3pm for our first workout," it read.

I got dressed in our standard issued workout attire:† a black t-shirt adorned with a ram lifting weights, gray mesh shorts and metallic Mizuno sneakers. Parking spots were scarce, so I asked my roommate to drop me off at 2:35pm. I wanted to be early.

When I arrived, there was no one in sight. I entered the gates, advanced on the turf and plunked down on a bench.

"This is good, I'm the first one here," I said to myself.

Ten minutes passed and I was still in a state of solitary confinement. Inkling with the idea that something was askew, I picked up the phone and gave my former high school teammate, and now college teammate, Scott Sizemore a call.

"Where is everyone?" I questioned.

"Dude, we're at the turf, where are you?" Scott said.

"I'm at the turf on campus, I don't see you man!† In fact, I don't see anyone," I explained.

"We're on the turf next to the baseball field. I'll tell coach but you better get your ass here," Scott advised.

My very first workout and I was already late, so much for a fresh start. The worst part; the baseball field was off campus, three miles from where I currently sat. This was no time for rhyme or reason; my only choice was to run like the wind.

Yet another unpunctual and potentially fateful marathon began. I passed bright-eyed and backpack bound students and the more of them I saw, the more my admiration to be them accumulated how nice it seemed to be free of extra responsibilities.

At last, I surfaced at the uncharted land that I now, and would in the future know as 'the turf'. Drenched in sweat and gasping for breath, I approached my coach and gave him my reasoning.

"Coach, I was at the turf on campus, I didn't even know about this place," I construed.

"Brad, you're a jackass," he said, adding a chuckle.

This was bizarre to me, a coach who was apathetic towards tardiness. I left that day with a sense of relief, I was no longer required to live in fear; but most of all, optimistic about my chances of survival.

However, there are two aspects to ensure one's continuance in college sports:† keeping in line on the field and staying out of trouble off the field. Even though I felt adequate with my circumstances in the former, matters off the field would always test me.

It was a breezy night; six teammates and I migrated to a local pub so we could meet up with a gaggle of girls from the field hockey team. As soon as we drop anchor, one of the girls informs us of their impending relocation to a party at the men's soccer team house; they invite us along.

This was an ominous proposition because historically, baseball players and soccer players are not in harmony amongst one another. Ordinarily, I would have declined their offer. I'm not sure how field hockey players look at other schools, but these girls were fit so the temptation overrode intuition and we went along.

The moment we stepped foot inside, our presence was not welcomed. The body language in their scrawny frames was riddled with contempt, as if the girls we ushered in were somehow their property.

I shrugged off the negativity and isolated my target, a blonde with a high-bridged nose but flawless physique. Steady dosages of charm, tactful compliments and unparalleled mojo were administered. Then I excused myself to the kitchen so I could retrieve more beverages when another female patron approached me.

"Your teammates are in an argument outside," she said.

I wasn't surprised, I already prophesized this inevitable occurrence. It was my duty to investigate so I walked to the back porch and there they were: my teammate and a soccer player face to face, with rival factions huddled behind each. Being no stranger to controversy, I placed myself right in between the two.

"What's the problem here?" I asked.

"It's none of your business what the problem is!" a teammate of the opposition said, without hesitation.

"Fuck you!† Do something then!" I barked, marking my unwillingness to take shit from a soccer player.

A massive uproar ensued, both sides on the verge of an all out brawl. Before the flame ignited, a small flock of females separated us and asked us to go back inside. Our enemies remained on the back porch.

I briefly updated the blonde on what happened and then noticed my teammates filing out the front door. The last of which was Trai: the biggest, and blackest of them all. Following Hawk's logic, I assumed it was best to leave with Trai nearby incase the clash continued.

The house sat on a hill with the front yard elevated about 4 feet above the sidewalk. We had to descend down a few stairs to reach the sidewalk and once we touched down, my instinctual decision to leave with Trai proved to be quite astute. The side gate flew open and a tribe of soccer players came swarming towards us.

The leader of the pack happened to be the one I was feuding with, and his intentions were clear; he was coming for me.

He leapt from the heightened grass in an errant attempt to tackle me but I caught his beanstalk body mid-air, spun him around and slammed his back on the brick walkway.

I've always heard people say they know how they'd respond in a fight, but this situation taught me that any pre-planned action is a fallacy; it strictly comes down to your natural, uninhibited reaction. I'm not sure how one can practice this, unless you pay somebody to attack you at random intervals.

Fortunately, my reaction was on point that night, and he was about to pay the price for choosing the wrong target. When you mess with the bull, you get the horns.

The first step I took in dismantling him was securing his arms against his chest, so he was incapable of striking back, which also rendered him utterly defenseless. When I did this, two people fell on top of us and I realized we were, in fact, in the midst of an all out brawl.

I pressed both of his wrists against his stomach with my left hand and began hammering his face with my right fist. Blow after devastating blow, seven in all, and there was absolutely nothing he could do.

"Ok man, OK!" he cried.

"Are you done or should I keep hitting you?" I roared.

"I'm done man, I'm done," he quietly begged.

With the victory under my belt, I stood up and joined Trai just as his fight came to a finish. Trai wore jeans, a gray t-shirt and a long gold chain. We were side-by-side, not just as teammates, but as gladiators. Then Trai decided to rub it in.

"Yeah! That's right! You boyz just got yo' ass whooped!" Trai said, mostly in Ebonics.

Like lions who just lost a battle over food, the soccer players retreated into their den. Trai and I began leaving down the sidewalk, our stomachs full.

We may have walked one block when the cops suddenly arrived. Trai bolted away into the darkness but I stayed.

"What's going on here?" the officer asked.

"Nothing," I responded, as the officer looked at my bloodied hands.

"It doesn't look like nothing," he suggested, right before a two-door civic pulled up.

"He's with me, I'm taking him home," the blonde from the party said, after exiting her vehicle.

The officer nodded in approval, and I went home safely with my blonde savior.

I awoke the following morning and my hands were ravaged. The impact against the bricks left deep cuts below each of my knuckles on both hands. It wouldn't have been much to worry about, but there was baseball practice in 30 minutes.

After wrapping with gauze and tape, I showed up and tried to stay under the radar from my coaches. Sadly, I wasn't overlooked for long.

"What happened to your hands?" my coach asked.

"Oh, I was wrestling with my neighbor and I fell on the sidewalk," I told him, concocting my story on the spot.

"Yeah fucking right! Haha," he said, calling my bullshit.

When I went home for winter break, I met up with Justin and his brother BJ, who was a skinny, comical and very theatrical person if you knew him. If you didn't, he came off as cocky, but that was just his defense mechanism, a proverbial shield.

BJ signed a $4.6 million dollar contract when he was 17 but Justin was still waiting to finalize his own. We were discussing our plans for a new years party and BJ said he wanted to do it big. After getting online, we picked out a three-story mansion on the beach in North Carolina and this unknowingly marked my introduction into the good life.

We pulled in the driveway and unloaded our luggage out of BJ's Mercedes sedan. Justin, BJ, Kyle and I began our tour of the ten-bedroom estate. Blanketed with marble floors, the house featured a movie theater, game room, outdoor pool, and three floors of balconies overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The venue was set, now I just needed to get on the phone and invite everyone within a 500-mile radius.

Car after car filled the driveway, packing in like sardines. There were people from our hometown, friends from VCU and plenty of uninvited guests. When the festivities began, there were a few hundred people in attendance – we were in for a wild night.

BJ decided to invite a girl of his own, but he was different he did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted to do it and he was about to put his policy on full display.

In walked "Tiffany", a blonde vixen wearing a multi-colored knit sweater and a red velvet scarf. Her eyes were sprinkled with glitter and her tightly fit jeans supplied a quality outline to a firm figure beyond reproach.

As I sat perched against the kitchen counter, Tiffany stepped in and pressed her backside against me. I looked over at BJ, who was standing directly across from me, and almost lost it; he was staring at her like an inmate looking at a girl for the first time in 20 years. Strangely enough, she was looking at him all the same, and then she made a request.

"We should go hangout," said Tiffany, looking back at BJ.

I knew what she meant, she wasn't only interested in spending time alone with me – she wanted BJ there as well.

The three of us walked down the stairs and into my bedroom. BJ told her to sit down on the bed and asked to speak with me just outside of the door.

"B-rad, that girl I invited is going to be walking around looking for me, I need you to guard this door with your life!" said BJ, in a very serious manner.

So I stood there, awkwardly positioned in front of my own locked door, having no idea what to say if his guest questioned me. It was unsettling because BJ's room was on the other side of the hall. Luckily, she never walked by and BJ came out 20 minutes later, leaving me with one word.

"Aight," he said, and then casually strolled to his room.

I laughed for a few seconds, and then made my own entrance. I don't know what happened, I didn't ask and I didn't care but I couldn't help but notice a condom on the floor.

Tiffany was sprawled out in the bed wearing bright pink panties and a long-sleeved silk rainbow colored pajama top. I hopped in next to her and sat motionless for the next few minutes. She didn't say a word; likely due to the embarrassment over the hit-and-run I assumed BJ conducted just minutes ago.

There were two options: I either needed to dive in or get up and rejoin the party. So I placed my hand against her thigh to test the waters. It was a typical step-by-step approach, you know, see how far you can get. I guess my turtle-esque pace annoyed her because she grabbed my hand and stuck my fingers directly inside her.

Just as the moment was heating up, I looked over the headboard and wasn't surprised at all by what I saw through the window. Justin was grinning at me, nodding his head up and down with a crew of people surrounding him on the back deck. They were all watching me, with beers in hand, for who knows how long – I'm sure BJ tipped them off.