Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike (14 page)

One month into the season and I was still without a steady paying job ... or any job for that matter.

I would do random tasks for BJ and odd jobs for Kazmir but nothing was coming together like I wanted it to. I wanted a guaranteed contract, just like baseball had given them.

An escape from my environment seemed appropriate to come up with a plan, so I picked up the phone and told Liz I was coming to Gainesville to see her. Before I could hit the dial, I got a text message from Justin.

"I'm coming to Miami, meet me down there and I'll get you a hotel room," Justin's text read.

"Ok, but Liz wants to come too," I responded.

"Fine, I guess I'll invite my girl," Justin said.

So it was set; Liz and I were going to Miami for three days to watch the Diamondbacks play the Marlins. On top of this, the Rays were coming to Miami for the very next series against the Marlins.

We packed up Liz's two-door Infiniti G35 and hit the road. The next four hours were used to brainstorm my best plan of action to land a contractual job with BJ or Kazmir; there's nothing like two gifted minds working in sync.

Pros and cons were bounced back and forth. I said I've heard bad stories about working for a friend, Liz said BJ might be offended if I worked for Kazmir. I said how I've known BJ for longer and I could trust him, Liz said Kazmir might be better served with a former catcher at his disposal.

The one point I didn't bring up is how BJ lived at home with a girlfriend and Kazmir was single living alone; I knew Liz didn't want to hear how this being a deciding factor.

No matter what decision I made, there would be consequences. When our brainstorming session was over, I chose to pursue a job with Kazmir, mostly because I didn't want to harm the genuine friendship I had with BJ.

The final course of action was to plant the seed, and I used Liz to do this. Pretty women have consistently persuaded powerful men since the beginning of time, so why deviate from what history has taught us? In light of this, I asked Liz to send Kazmir the following scripted text.

"When are you going to hire Brad so he can buy me nice things?" it read.

It's a call to action mixed with a line conceding power, and it's from a pretty girl (even though I wrote it). I was banking on Kazmir being induced with the following feelings: wanting to impress Liz, feeling powerful that he can enable someone to buy nice things and being pressured into offering me the job. Where I come from, we call this a tri-fecta.

Although he didn't respond ... I was fairly certain it was going to do the trick.

We arrived at the Trump International Hotel in Sunny Isles Beach, Miami and settled into our room. It was a beautiful place with the view from our balcony showcasing the vast ocean expanding in each direction.

The first day, we sat poolside with Justin's girlfriend drinking margaritas and even went jet skiing in the ocean (which resulted in a horrendous crash, which slung Liz off the back after I hit a wave going full speed, it's much different than a lake).

The three of us sat in the right field bleachers, yelling at Justin every opportunity we saw fit. I suppose our heckling motivated him, because he hit a monster home run into the upper deck during his last at bat.

When nighttime came, we opened up the door separating our rooms and the four of us enjoyed spending quality time together. Justin was rarely able to relax with friends due to his hectic schedule and it was nice to have respectful girls at our side, as opposed to the stragglers we previously escorted from various clubs during the offseason.

After Justin packed his bags the following day, he parted with the following words.

"Hey, I know the Rays are coming in town so I went ahead and paid for you and Liz's room for the next four days," Justin said, adding a wink.

He always was a class act.

I woke up the next morning from the sound of my phone ringing; the screen read 'Scott Kazmir'.

"Hello," I said.

"Where am I?" An extremely confused Kazmir mumbled.

"Um, you're in Miami," I told him.

"Oh," Scott replied, and then immediately hung up.

I realized Kazmir was on something. Weed and alcohol don't make you forget what town you're in; I knew it was something else.

Later that day, BJ told me Kazmir showed up to the field wearing a bathing suit and a t-shirt, instead of the customary suit and tie players are supposed to wear.

The Rays to sent him home before the game even started. After laughing at the thought of him walking into the locker room in a bathing suit, I saw his troubles as a gateway for me to work for him. I'm sure he was now aware he needed to change his ways; I just needed to convince him I was the guy who could do it.

After going to the game, BJ invited us to a club in downtown Miami. The lighting was unusually dark and everyone was wearing white, including all of BJ's teammates.

As Liz and I strutted up to meet BJ, the first person we saw was Longoria, a familiar face. Both sides paused like a deer in the headlights – the awkwardness officially began.

This reminded me of the old adage ... don't bring your girl to the club. It's never fun to bring your significant other to a place filled with hunter-gatherers, but it's especially worse when she used to have a fling with a guy in the same setting.

As if my current situation weren't bad enough, BJ walked up to remind me.

"I bet you wish Liz wasn't here, don't you?" BJ said, which was more of a declaration than a question.

The night eventually ended and I was overcome with relief, but this feeling wouldn't last for long.

"I feel sick," Liz claimed, upon returning to our hotel room the next day after the game.

"You didn't even drink last night," I reminded her.

"I know, it's weird, what if I'm pregnant?" Liz suggested, with a more somber demeanor than I hoped for.

"Yeah, that'd be something," I put forth, while my mind became stricken with anxiety.

"Maybe you should go get a pregnancy test, just incase," Liz conveyed, still maintaining a much-dreaded sober assertiveness.

Even though I never usually wore a condom (actually, I never wore a condom), I thought it was typical female emotional jargon; a ploy to get a rise out of me. It wasn't out of character for her to enact a cunning gambit to keep me attached; she was smart and this alleged ruse correlated with her playbook.

I didn't want to argue and the notion actually made me curious, so I walked down to the local pharmacy and bought not one, but two pregnancy tests.

My mind was moving a mile a minute while I strolled down the main strip and back to the Trump. Certainly, I was stressing myself out for no reason, but I couldn't stop thinking about the possibility. Due to her religious background, I knew Liz was pursuing marriage at a young age, but did she want a kid?

Her face was void of any expression when I returned to the room and unwrapped the packaging on the first test. I glanced back at her with a mirrored pose; we weren't Liz and Brad at the moment, we were mimes.

She exited the bathroom a few minutes later and showed me the test ... it was positive.

I was in shock and rendered speechless – in a cold state of disbelief. She looked at me, equally clueless, with a straight face and puppy dog eyes.

Without hesitation, I reached for the second test and suggestively sanctioned it's use. After going in the bathroom, she reappeared with an identical guise – the test was positive again.

We both sat down on the bed beside one another as we–almost simultaneously–collapsed onto our backs and stared at the ceiling. There was no correspondence; if the next ten minutes were made into a movie, it would undoubtedly be characterized as a silent film.

When something you assume to be life altering occurs, you simply can't predict how you're going to react. I say this as a preface because even though I should have stayed in the room, flight took over.

"I'm going to leave for a little bit and get my thoughts together," I told Liz, breaking the silence while I walked towards the door.

"Nooooooooooooooooo!" Liz shrieked with a waterfall of tears to follow.

I turned around and faced her, hoping she could see how distraught and overwhelmed I was – but she didn't, or she didn't care.

"You better not leave me!" Liz yelled from the corner of the bed, perched up on her knees with her hands placed on each side of her head.

My instinctual nature was telling me to get away and assess the situation calmly. I needed time to think and I needed to do this alone, completely by myself.

I pivoted, taking one step towards the door and she immediately pounced off the bed to stop me. It was a stunningly athletic move; she gained enough ground to grasp onto my right leg – with no intention of letting go.

There she was, sprawled out on the floor, bear-hugging my ankle with her face down. My flight syndrome escalated, I knew matters would only get worse if I stayed; at least that's what I thought. So I started inching myself closer to the door, as she latched on and was seemingly unfazed after migrating across the carpet like a slug.

Finally, I was able to release myself from capture and swiftly moved through the hallway, en route to the elevator.

"Noooooooooooooooooo!" Liz bellowed, while chasing me down the hallway.

As the elevator door closed, I caught a final glimpse of Liz's reddened face and smeared makeup while she broke down to the floor in tears. I felt bad, I truly did.

When I exited the lobby, I tried reassuring myself that I was doing the right thing by calmly coming to terms with our circumstance. It was hard to justify and–whether I was right or wrong–I found it best to do this alone.

I asked the cabbie to take me to the one place where a man can be in his own element, my sanctuary; the casino. My phone was being lit up by non-stop phone calls from Liz, coming from our hotel room (sorry for the phone bill Justin). She called me over 50 times and not one of them were answered.

The last call came from an unknown number, and whoever it was left a voicemail.

"Brad, I don't know what's going on but I think you need to get back to the hotel. Ok, bye," Liz's mom recited.

There was no need to call her back and I didn't call Liz back either. I sat on the blackjack table and attempted to get my mind off the issue, hoping to gain a rational perspective.

After inevitably losing a decent amount of money, it was time to relocate, so I called BJ he said to meet him at the club.

I unconsciously made my way through droves of girls up to a platform above the dance floor, a setting I would have otherwise been excited to be in.

"Where's Liz?" BJ asked, with Longoria just inches behind him.

"She's not feeling well," I told him, dodging the issue.

Normally I could discuss anything with anyone, but this matter was different. Although it was somewhat relieving, I spent most of the night staring out into the sea of people – questioning life itself.

A few hours and another 100 missed phone calls later (really sorry about that phone bill Justin), it was time to return to the hotel.

The room was dark; the only transmittable light was reflected from the moon off the ocean. Liz sat upright in the bed with her hair in a ponytail and her face disconcerted. She sat as if she were reading a book, but she wasn't; she was reading my face.

My time away didn't give me any answers, but it enabled me to at least talk to her, breaking me from my speechless spell.

"I'm sorry for leaving but it was good for me to get away and think about it. It's late and we're both exhausted, can we talk about this tomorrow?" I asked.

Her nose wrinkled up like the Grinch, clearly displeased with my avoidance, and then she quietly sneered at me before rolling over to go to sleep.

We packed our luggage the next morning and loaded the car for our trip home. We still hadn't discussed our dilemma – suitcases weren't the only baggage we took back to Tampa.