Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike (12 page)

One of the best aspects of being in Tampa was being surrounded byand being able to network withother successful people. The most notable example of this was the day I met General Norman Schwarzkopf.

BJ lived in an exclusive neighborhood on Harbour Island in Tampa and just a few blocks down lived a girl named Jess. The most accurate way to describe her would be a comparison to Angelina Jolie. She had long black hair, thick luscious lips and she was surprisingly fit for her laid back mentality. Most–if not all–of the girls I met with a similar background were too lazy to ever go to the gym, but not Jess.

A Porsche Boxster and a Chevy Avalanche with ostrich skin seats sat in her driveway. Once inside, her large Rhodesian ridgeback named Leo was waiting to greet you, or warn her of your presence, I guess it depended on the vibe you gave him. All in all, she was just a really cool chick.

We hung out numerous times, either by walking the dogs or me trying (but failing) to mess around with her after a night out, but I never knew much about her, so one day I decided to ask.

"What brought you to Tampa?" I asked, sitting on her Zebra striped couch.

"My dad was in the military," she replied.

"What does that have to do with Tampa?" I questioned.

"This is where the U.S. Central Command Center is," Jess informed.

"Which branch did he serve?" I asked.

"He was in the Army," Jess nonchalantly replied.

"So, did he fight in any wars?" I continued to pry.

"Well, he was General of the Gulf War," she said with a smirk.

"Hold on, what's your last name again?" I asked, because I had obviously paid no previous attention to this detail.

"Schwarzkopf," Jess said, smirking once again.

"Oh shit! Your dad is Stormin' Norman," I told her, as if she wasn't aware.

"Yeah, do you want to meet him?" Jess asked.

Jess got on the phone and asked her father, a man known as "The Bear" (apparently badass enough to earn two nicknames), to meet us at the dog park.

If there's ever a person who can put your own manhood in check – it's Stormin' Norman. He fought in Vietnam, became a General in the Army, served as the Commander-in-Chief of the U.S. Central Command and was also a best-selling author from his book "It Doesn't Take a Hero".

After putting Leo in the Avalanche, we came to a stop in the gravel parking lot next to a dog park right on the water. I saw H. Norman Schwarzkopf from a distance, sitting on a bench in the middle of the park; I was anxious and nervous, like I was on trial.

"Hey dad, this is my friend Brad," Jess said.

His head turned, revealing a piercing jawline and a face possibly made of stone.

"Hi Brad," the General said, and then shook my hand.

"Very nice to meet you sir," I told him, unable to conjure up anything more daring.

Shaking Stormin' Norman's hand was the equivalent of having your limb mangled by an 800-pound gorilla. Each finger tripled the size of mine; with palms so massive you might be able to land in them if your parachute happened to fail.

I sat down on the bench next to him and we both just looked off into the ocean; meanwhile Jess played with the dogs. I avoided coming off as bothersome, and I'm sure he assumed I would question him like a reporter; so I did the opposite.

"I love it down here," I said.

"Yeah, it is a nice place to be," Stormin' Norman replied.

I was hardly seizing the moment.

I wanted to be the guy people didn't hesitate introducing to others. Although I only took this approach with other athletes, I figured it also applied to a famous general. My focus was on being the exception to everyone classified as normal to him, because deep down he's the same as you and I – so I treated him as such.

Looking back, I wish asked him for advice on how to be a better man or how to be a badass like he was; I didn't, all I said was that I loved being in Tampa; those were my only words.

He crushed my hand one more time before we left, and I told him it was an honor to meet him. I tried to hide my excitement from Jess on the car ride back to her place; it's unqiue meeting a person guaranteed a spot in the history books.

"He makes me want to achieve more in life," I told her, once we returned.

"Yeah, running around and getting girls for them is probably fun, but you'll eventually find out you want to do something on your own," Jess claimed.

"Maybe I'll write a book about it one day," I responded.

I knew she was probably right; there was no long-term future in picking up girls. However, I liked doing it and I wasn't ready to give up – at least not yet.

In the meantime, I could get a head start on doing something on my own, and that something was courting Liz.

She invited me over to her house for the first time. I put on a collared shirt, nice slacks and brand new shoes to make the best impression possible. BJ made sure to clown on me before I walked out the door.

"Look at you! She's got you dressing up now, you're tripping," BJ echoed from atop the stairs.

It's easy to get girls wearing Adidas sweatpants and moccasin loafers' everyday when you're worth millions of dollars I actually needed to put some effort into it. To be honest, it was a reverse scenario; Liz could have got me wearing sweatpants and loafers.

So I drove to St. Petersburg and parked in front of Liz's parents million-dollar home located on the coastal waterway. I checked myself in the rear-view mirror and said 'OK Brad, be someone you're not' my last personal pep talk before heading inside.

Liz opened the door wearing a bright orange dress with blue thong sandals and a matching blue headband. Straight behind her, across a long stretch of hardwood floors and beyond huge paneled windows was a clear view of the water.

"Give him a tour of the house," said Liz's mom, sternly.

Liz giddily and gleefully skipped in front of me, guiding us to the first destination her dad's memorabilia room. All it took was an initial glimpse and I was shell-shocked; it was the size of a customary bedroom but it was STOCKED from wall to wall with every type of sports memorabilia you could imagine.

Sammy Sosa autographed jersey here, Wayne Gretzsky autographed jersey there and about 100 more to boot. There were signed bats, footballs, and boxing gloves – there was even an Olympic torch. I must have spent 30 minutes looking at everything; I really wasn't interested in the rest of the tour.

Nonetheless, she grabbed my arm and escorted me to the 'wildlife room', which was filled with all of the animals her dad killed during his trips to Africa over the years. I'm an animal lover, so killing them isn't kosher to me, but I still acted as if I were interested. †The Grizzly bear on the wall was pretty sweet though.

Then we were off to the backyard to see her pool with gator statue spitting water into the shallow end and her two boats docked in the ocean.

It was definitely an extravagant estate, but I sensed they wanted me to be more enthralled than I actually was. Some people may differ on this subject, but I wasn't the type to like a girl because she was rich – I'd much rather build that life for myself than seek someone who has it. Maybe my opinion was skewed from the norm by having rich friends, but I didn't want to be there because of her wealth – I was there because Liz was a classy and attractive girl (this is a point I will later prove).

So we sat down at the kitchen counter and her mom made dinner for the three of us. While eating, I looked over and noticed her mom was staring at my hands for some reason. I stopped momentarily and gave her a non-verbal 'what the fuck are you doing' cue...and then she came out with it.

"You have workers hands," her mom blurted out.

"What?" I replied.

"Your hands, they're rough and callus like a worker," her mom reiterated.

"Oh," I replied, again reminding myself to be someone else.

I assumed she was trying to tell me I was of a lower class because of the texture of my hands. Yes, my hands were rough; the last 15 years of my life were spent playing baseball.

Her mom was just like her dad; I could tell she didn't approve, but she was definitely more open about it with her subtle jabs. Truthfully, I didn't approve of her lifestyle either.

The next two grueling hours were spent looking at scrapbooks, desperately wanting to escape. Just as our 'family' time expired, Liz asked me to spend the night. I agreed, thinking this was my reward for enduring battle with her mother; but it was short lived.

Apparently there was a house rule where all guests were required to sleep alone in a separate bedroom. She was a sophomore in college for Christ's sake, but I was already in too deep to leave.

When I woke up the following morning, I discovered the rule really was for 'Christ's sake' because I was forced to go to church with them and then eat lunch with her entire extended family afterward. Once it was finally over, I walked into BJ's house speechless, shaking my head.

"You've been caking all weekend huh? Hahaaaaaa," BJ prodded.

I walked past him without uttering a word, went upstairs and put on my own sweatpants and loafers. All wasn't lost; Liz invited me to stay with her the following weekend in Gainesville...and this time we wouldn't have to sleep in separate bedrooms.

BJ went out of town on Thursday before I left, but I needed to ask him a question before he walked out the door.

"BJ, did you leave the G Wagon keys?" I asked.

"Yeah, why do you wanna know?" BJ said, staring me down.

"I was going to get it cleaned for you," I told him.

He left the keys, but he was being duped. I wasn't planning on getting it cleaned, I was planning on riding clean in Gainesville – and I did.

I pulled into the University of Florida campus in BJ's $100,000+ Mercedes truck and every girl I drove by was openly gawking at me; it's funny how people treat you like you're someone special simply based on the car you're driving. I suppose they were being duped as well.

Liz waited for me outside her condo wearing lime green pajama pants, a crisp white tank top and a brimmed Tampa Bay Rays hat with her hair scrunched behind in a ponytail.

I sat down on her gray suede couch and began getting acquainted with her two roommates, but then I noticed two peculiar pictures on the shelf. One was an autographed picture of Liz with Tim Tebow and the other–more disturbing–autographed picture of her with Evan Longoria.

Just what every guy wants, a commemorative mantle of the guy your girlfriend used to hook up with. I smiled and pretended to be interested in the ongoing conversation with her tenants, but deep down I wanted to get up and smash that picture – Stone Cold Steve Austin style.

Instead of unleashing my inner-terrorist, I let it slide and we went to bed early; we were getting up to watch the guy in the other picture, Tim Tebow, play football on Saturday.

Hundreds of thousands of UF students and fans swarmed the stadium gates; football was a religion to them. One of the best perks of having Liz as a girlfriend was the preferred seat placement at sporting events. We sat 3
^rd
row behind the Gators bench on the 50-yard line, arguably some of the best seats in the house.

Liz went on to explain how her dad donated a few hundred thousand dollars a year to aquire them. She always felt obligated to make comments about her families wealth – I should have asked her why he couldn't get first row seats.

I observantly watched Tebow and company manhandle South Carolina for the next few hours. What amazed me the most was the overall size of every player on each team. They really don't appear to be that big on TV, but let me tell you they are absolutely monstrous up close, even the backup players.

Once the game was over, we walked through the torrential downpour and placed our muddy shoes outside the front door to her condo. We were finally alone, no monitoring parents and no guest bedrooms.

We spent all night in her bed kissing, disrobing, touching and when it was all said and done with I did the unthinkable – I took her virginity.

I woke up the following morning with a stark realization of what I actually did. Sex was commonplace for me, but for her, this was a life-altering moment. Don't get me wrong, I truly cared and it was more than just sex in my mind, but I couldn't stop thinking about what this meant to her.

She waited her entire life for this; I wondered if I was prepared to handle the consequences. When you take a girls virginity, especially after she's waited that long, you can't simply walk away. Not that I wanted to, I just knew it was no longer an option. Well, you can if you like crushing a girls soul but I knew I was in it for the long haul.

Just as my brain was analyzing my newfoundand unspoken responsibilities, BJ called me...and he was pissed off.