Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike (6 page)

Every now and then I would look up and see them pumping their fists, rooting me on and occasionally performing play-by-play commentary. I soon joined my fellow comrades on the back deck, who apparently felt obligated to give me advice on my technique.

We arrived in Chesapeake the next day and Justin received a phone call; it was his agent and he wanted to share good news. He just finalized Justin's signing bonus for $6.1 Million; the highest deal ever for a high school draftee.

Justin kicked back in the laz-e-boy in my living room and smiled. I knew he wanted to stand up and scream "Hahaha! I'm rich!" but he probably didn't think I wanted to hear it. Truthfully, if he had, I would have jumped up, screamed and danced with him; he
was
rich.

However, I had my own season to focus on at VCU.

I arrived in Richmond at my off-campus apartment, which I shared with my roommate Malone, who had a rather unique and peculiar background. He attended the College of William and Mary on an athletic scholarship for running track. Malone was an all-American in high school and was highly touted to achieve similar prestige in college. That was the direction his life was headed – until tragedy struck.

One fateful summer he was working a camp for kids as a track instructor. Malone was supervising a game on the shores of a lake where the kids goal was to run in the water, retrieve a ball, and bring it back onshore. Before starting, he planned on showing his youthful audience how the game was supposed to be played. After clearing the shoreline, he decided to dive in head first for the ball – this is the moment that changed his life forever.

The spot he dove into was deceptively shallow, and his head unexpectedly hit against the lake floor with a violent force – the pressure was so severe he broke a few vertebrae in his neck. After being rushed to the hospital, the doctor delivered what anyone would describe as grim news, but was more devastating for someone his age. The doctors told Malone he was paralyzed from the waist down–even worse–they also said he would never walk again.

Two years later, he successfully beat the odds and he was now walking again. Albeit with a slight hitch, but nonetheless he outperformed everyone's expectations and was in need of no assistance, the doctors said it was a miracle.

Malone's face, which was once clean-shaven, was now replaced with an honorable and distinguished beard. There were still complications, but you never heard him complaining about it and I can't recall ever seeing him without a smile on his face.

His outlook on life was better than any person I ever encountered. It must be hard having your life's identity taken away from you in an instant and then be forced to start over from scratch, but he never seemed to look back.

He solely focused on his paintings and artwork, a newfound passion, which came to light after his near-death experience. He cared very little for everyday distractions most people deemed important. His cell phone was treated like a landline, never leaving the apartment whenever he took off to roam the campus or visit the museum. He was a true maverick, a freethinker and a non-conformist with a perspective others simply were incapable of relating to. Although he would never expect it; I envied him.

My sophomore season was under way and I was back on the field. Once again, I was competing for the starting catcher's position and getting three hits during my first game seemed like a promising inception.

One month into the season and I felt as though I was outperforming my competition, so far my only gaffe was showing up to a game wearing the wrong colored pants. Yet the coach was still splitting time between us.

Going to the field knowing you're going to play is exciting, but the thing was, I never knew. Playing 50% of the time left me disinterested and unmotivated, I was beginning to enjoy my time off the field, hanging out with Malone, more than I did my time on the field. Due to my past, this wasn't a good sign.

There was one vice I used to escape anything that was bothering me on the field, and it was weed. Everyday I returned home, I'd roll up a joint and spend the next hour playing backgammon against Malone. After that, he would usually accompany me to parties on campus with my teammates.

He never deviated from his customary wardrobe: blue jeans, track jacket and an all-black Baltimore Orioles baseball cap.

At first, people looked at him like 'Who is this bearded guy with the track jacket?' However, once his positive presence was cast upon everyone, with a never-ending illuminated smile on top of his witty remarks, they fell in love with him.

After eternally engraving himself in their memories, if I dared to show up without him they would look at me disappointedly and ask 'Hey man, where is Malone?'

Then during a night out, following some intense drinking, Malone did what might still be the coolest thing I have ever witnessed. We were walking back to the apartment when he asked me a shocking question.

"Want to see if I can run?" Malone inquisitively asked.

"Hell yeah, don't hurt yourself though," I told him.

"I'll be just fine," he rebuffed.

Without any preparation, he took off! My initial concern rapidly turned into astonishment, confusion and admiration he looked better running than he did walking! In fact, his running form was flawless, like a gazelle – I was in awe.

"You're better at running than you are at walking!" I excitedly told him.

"Yeah, not too bad huh? I feel good," Malone replied.

He acted as if it was nothing special but I thought it was quite an accomplishment, and a humble one.

So far I learned that when life is going your way, get ready for a curve; even though my experiences were mostly derived from self-destructive curves.

The next week wasn't much different. Our team had a road trip on Friday, and I was up on Thursday night until 4am smoking weed and playing a NCAA baseball video game. I suppose it was more enticing to play 100% of the time in a virtual world as opposed to 50% of the time in real life. I'm not sure if I considered this a lack of preparation or a loss of interest but either way, I was supposed to be on the bus at 9am the following morning.

Having already dealt with an alarm clock debacle at ECU, I made sure to set the alarm plugged into my wall as well as the one on my phone for 8:15am – then I went to sleep...

I awoke to a ringing sound, but it was muzzled and I couldn't figure out its point of origin. Ironic as it may sound, I was dazed and confused.

Soon enough, I located the source; it was my phone and it was lodged underneath my back. I realized it wasn't my alarm; it was a phone call from my teammate Scott Sizemore.

"Hello Scott," I greeted, not knowing the situation.

"Where the hell are you man?" Scott imploringly asked.

"Oh shit, what time is it?" I nervously asked back.

"It's 9:05am man, are you close?" Scott interrogated.

"Not exactly," I vaguely replied.

"You're still at your apartment, aren't you?" Scott properly guessed.

"Yeah, but I was literally walking out the door, tell Coach to wait 5 minutes," I pleaded.

(Inaudible background noise of Scott talking to Coach)

"Nah man, we're leaving without you, he said to call him," Scott regrettably told me.

I hopped in my car, went to Hardees, ordered two bacon, egg and cheese biscuits (I was still hungry) and then called my coach.

"Coach, I'm going to drive up there myself, I'm leaving now," I slyly tried to demand, as if it were my call to make.

"You can't, you're not allowed to drive up on your own, I'll call you back," he said, and then hung up.

I stayed in Richmond that night while my team was off playing. I honestly felt bad for not being there, so I called my coach again, after they lost the game.

"Coach, I want to be there with the team, just let me drive up," I, again, assertively requested.

"Forget about it, meet me in my office on Monday," he said, clearly in a pissed off mood.

Calling him again was a fatal mistake, at least it seemed that way from his tone. I wondered if I dug my own grave ... again.

Monday came and I was on yet another 'dead man walking' mission. Only this time, I got a phone call from my assistant coach advising me of a change in venue. Instead of meeting in the head coach's office, around other people, he wanted to meet in our locker room, where no one else would be. It was like the opposite of a girl breaking up with you in the middle of a crowded restaurant.

When I walked in, my assistant coach was sitting on the bench. He was a cool guy; an old man really, with gray hair and he wore a green collared shirt with khaki pants.

"Brad, I tried to talk to him, you know I did, but there's just nothing I could do... we have to let you go," he said, with a discerned guise.

"OK, but he could at least have the balls to do it himself," I told him, as I stood up and walked out of the building.

I deserved it but I didn't get down on myself. Failure was nothing new to me; I knew I was going to bounce back.

I wasn't playing baseball for the first time since I was 6 years old and it felt unnatural, yet refreshing. There's more to life than baseball, right? At least that's what I've heard; it certainly didn't seem that way.

Instead of immediately turning the page I was, for once, given a chance to reflect on the mistakes I made. My reflection was strictly based on the dynamics and corrections needed to last on a baseball team there was a bigger issue, and it was my trouble dealing with authority.

I went back to VCU in the fall and it would be quite studious of me to say 'Because a proper education is important' but in reality, I only returned so I could stay enrolled, which was a requirement if I ever dreamed of playing baseball again.

Malone was still upbeat, working on his paintings and I was becoming accustomed to my status as a regular student, a reality I yearned for when running late to practice. I was bored, empty and possessed entirely too much free time. So I did what any college student would do; I started picking up girls.

One day I received a text message from a girl I was going to see later in the evening. I hunkered down in the drivers seat, blasted my new Paul Wall CD and began brewing a clever response – then a cop tapped on my window.

"License and registration," the baby faced, overweight officer said.

I noticed he wasn't wearing a conventional police officer's uniform and upon further inspection, I realized he was just campus police. His respect, in my eyes, was depleted and I was looking for a way to escape.

"I don't have them," I said, after scarcely cracking the window.

My eyes glanced in the rear-view mirror to see if any upcoming traffic was due in the lane next to the curbside parking space I occupied. All clear.

"What? You don't hav..." the campus cop attempted to say, but was left hanging as I hit the gas and peeled off.

Pure adrenaline rushed through my veins as I took a sharp left turn one block away. This wasn't my first fleeing attempt, but it was my first face-to-face getaway, and I would soon learn vanishing in the city was more difficult compared to the country roads of Cape Cod.

Four cars were in front of me at the next stop sign and my hasty retreat came to a standstill. I scanned the rearview mirror once again and was astounded the portly campus cop was turning the corner a football field behind me, pursuing on foot while reporting my location on his two-way radio.

Waiting for the cars to turn was like a real-life game of Tetris. The whale-like creature chasing me represented the Z-shaped piece that was going to fuck my game up.

Thanks to his snaillike speed, I was able to break away. I turned right at the intersection and I thought I was off scot-free. Ten seconds later, two oncoming Richmond police cars passed me in opposite direction. This would be the third time I looked in my rearview mirror, and the most disappointing of them all.

Both police cruisers took an abrupt U-turn, circling back as their overhead lights turned blue. Absurdly optimistic, I took a left at the next street
just
to make sure they were after me and clearly, they were.

So I came to a stop and they jumped out with guns drawn, forcibly pinning me against the hood of the lead cruiser and I was then bounded in handcuffs.

"Why in the hell are you running?" one officer asked.

"I didn't think the campus cop had the right to stop me," I told them.

Well, he did. I was taken into custody and sent to jail. Instead of getting off scot-free, I had to call Scott (Sizemore) to free me.

He wouldn't be the only professional baseball player to bail me out this year more trouble was ahead.

Justin was fresh off his first minor league season when he charged through the front door of my house in Chesapeake. He wore pressed blue jeans, a crisp white jacket and a pair of black Chuck Taylor's. Not only was his confidence noticeably elevated, but there was also a new Porsche Cayenne Turbo sitting outside. He was eager to test his new status, so we ventured out to Old Dominion University to try our luck with college girls.

As usual, it was my job to approach, engage and lure in a group of prospective females and I did well. In fact, well enough for the girls to invite us back to their house when the bar closed.

Justin always played the nice guy role, and I was the asshole who made necessary progress. With his role in mind, he called to order a pizza for delivery as soon as we stepped in their 2-story vinyl sided home.

Although he was trying to be nice and charitable, waiting for the delivery put time constraints on our momentum and I was growing impatient. My forte was to seal the deal as quickly as possible, and with this hindrance, I was officially out of my element.

There was a small glass window alongside the front door, and my anxiousness forced me into conducting continual checks for the pizza delivery guy.

The last recon mission I went on changed the course for the night; in the worst way imaginable.

Instead of seeing a driver, I saw a police car, and he stopped directly in front of the house. I stood there to make sure he was coming to the door, and once I confirmed he was, I locked it. The officer and I caught each other's eyes for a brief moment.

I warned the others to hide the beer and sit on the couch in an organic fashion. Thinking I was smart, I applied some recently acquired knowledge to the situation.

It came from a law class I was in the previous semester, and the teacher said 'When a police officer comes to your door, you do not have to open it unless they have a warrant'. What my teacher failed to mention, however, is that you must be the owner of the house for this rule to apply.

Nonetheless, when the cop knocked on the door, I gave the girl clear instructions.

"Do not answer the door," I ordered.

"What? I have to," the girl replied.

"No you don't, trust me, don't open the door," I insisted.

She didn't listen to me, and she opened the door. Surprisingly, the cop didn't even say a word to her. Instead, without hesitation, he pointed his finger straight at me.

"You! Come outside!" the officer demanded.

"Me? What did I do?" I objected.

"Come outside now!" he instructed.

I was reluctant, but my past decisions always seemed to lead me astray. Justin always managed to keep himself out of trouble, so I turned to him for wisdom.

"Should I go out there?" I asked.

"Yeah," Justin said, but I didn't know his words were selfish in nature.

So I tucked my tail between my legs, cowered over and met face to face on the front porch. The cop hovered over me, looking down with his poorly trimmed mustache and sideburns far too long for his age.

"Why did you lock the door?" the cop questioned.

"I didn't," I lied.

"Ok, why did you tell the girl not to let me in?" the cop asked.

I was already on board the train of denial, so I needed to put some extra effort into selling my next response. I threw both of my arms up in the air, in an attempt to exaggerate the answer 'I didn't!' but I didn't even have time to mutter 'I'.

He tackled me; actually, he speared me – Goldberg style.

Apparently he took my non-verbal gesture as a threat, and figured that laying me out was the best course of action.

Justin used this diversion as his moment to break free and stormed out the back door, running several blocks away.

In the meantime, I was being handcuffed and taken to jail.

To my logic, if the cop refused to tell me why I was going to jail, then I wasn't going to get out of the car when he asked me to. This resulted in two officers grabbing each leg and dragging me out once we reached the police station; they were not happy, but neither was I.

As they guided me down a hallway, en route to processing, I made a comment with the intention of getting under their skin and boy did it work, too well actually.

"I'm 20 years old and I make more money than you do!" I yelled, even though I didn't actually have a job at the time.

Instantly, both officers threw me up against the wall while I was still confined in handcuffs. Just as they took their hands off of me, I turned over my right shoulder and what I saw next still astonishes me.

The other cop, who looked identical to Michael Clarke Duncan from 'The Green Mile', had his right arm cocked back to hit me...and that's exactly what he did!

He didn't just hit me; he absolutely
nailed
me underneath my right eye. Still, I couldn't let him know he got the best of me.

"You hit like a fucking girl!" I informed him.

I learned a valuable lesson; cops can do whatever they want because the law is on their side. There was another lesson to learn, don't piss off the cops, because they were about to set me up for an extended stay.

They whisked me away to a videoconference room, where a magistrate judge appears on screen to set bail. While waiting for the judge, the other cop grabbed the collar of my shirt and began choking me. A few moments later, the judge came into view.

"Did you see that? He was just choking me!" I desperately wailed.

"Defendant is too incoherent, bail will be set on Monday," the judge said, acting as if he failed to see them choking me.

It was Friday night, which meant I wouldn't be released for at least three days.

Initially, I was taken to my own cell with no other occupants. Five minutes later, however, I was transferred a few cells down. There were two beds, and each was taken.

An old skinny black crack head resided on the top bed and a middle-aged fat black autistic crack head took refuge in the bottom bed. Me, well, I was given a cot to sleep on the floor, next to the toilet.

Before the cops left, they handed me a piece of paper and a pencil sharpened on both sides. I knew what they were giving me, the pencil was a weapon incase my cellmates decided to attack.

I chose to take the diplomatic path.

"You don't mess with me and I won't mess with you," I told my cellmates, and then snapped the pencil in half.

In jail, 15 minutes feels like two hours. It didn't help that the autistic crack head stayed awake through the night, yelling "WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!" at random intervals. It startled me at first, but I eventually grew accustomed to it.

My other cellmate would entertain me during the day with stories from his past.

"Man, one time I was working in a buffet and I had known where the safe was, you feel me? So I hid underneath the salad bar one night and waited for the manager to leave, you feel me? Man, I spent all night robbing that place blind! I walked straight out the door and triggered the alarm ten minutes before I was supposed to show up. You know what I did? I walked over to 7-11, got a coffee and came back up asking the cops why they were there! You feel me?"

The only other chatter came from other cells, which was either a freestyle rap or someone talking about killing themselves; it was hell.

All I could think about was how nice it would be to go home and play video games. It's amazing how we take the little things in life for granted, and it's unfortunate it took going to jail to make me realize this.

When I got out, I discovered Justin was supporting me by wearing a 'Free B-rad' t-shirt.

So marked the end of an era, I reached rock bottom. It was time to climb back up, and my first step in doing this was to start playing baseball again.

I spent the following summer in Petersburg, Virginia getting my baseball mind back in shape. Some people play 'for the love of the game' but I was simply playing to get my life back on track.

When the season ended, Justin was called up to the major leagues. I knew it would help motivate me, so I drove all the way to Atlanta to watch him play. It was a surreal moment seeing him in the outfield grass at Turner Field.

I managed to sneak up in the front row behind the right field wall, just before Mark Teixiera hit his second home run of the game. The ball hit a seat to the left of me and then bounced back onto the field. Justin picked it up, gleamingly smiled back and tossed it directly at my chest; it wasn't a bad first game experience.