Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike (3 page)

Several months later, "Hawk", Kyle, Justin and my friend Goose came over for a night of drinking.

"Do you care if I take your car to give Upton a ride home?" asked the 6'4" Goose at the end of the night.

"Sure," I told him.

The following morning, Goose and I jumped inside my black Jeep Grand Cherokee to go hit baseballs at the local batting cage – Goose was quiet.

It wasn't until AFTER we finished hitting when I noticed a HUGE dent on the passenger side. The paint was demolished and the panel above my front right tire was completely caved in. It was clear something happened when Goose and Justin took my car, and it most likely involved hitting an immovable metal object.

"Do you see this??" I asked Goose.

"Dude! What the hell happened??" replied a straight-faced Goose.

"Obviously someone wrecked my car," I told him.

"That's crazy, we didn't even see it this morning," said Goose.

I knew Goose and Justin were the ones responsible, but I began driving without saying another word – I wanted the guilt to weigh down on Goose's conscience.

"Goose, what happened?" I questioned him, ten minutes later.

"Man, Upton wanted to play mailbox baseball. We ran into one of the mailboxes when he was swinging. He made me swear not to tell you," Goose confessed.

Mailbox baseball is when one person drives while the other person hangs out the passenger side window and swings a baseball bat – crushing every mailbox that passes by.

A phone call to Justin was placed ... on speakerphone.

"Hey man, there's a huge crater on the right side of my car, do you know what happened?" I asked him.

"Nah man. Didn't see it last night, did you ask Goose?" Justin replied.

"Yeah, he said he has no clue. I didn't even see it this morning, just wondering if you knew anything about it," I said, baiting him.

"Nope, nothing happened before Goose dropped me off," he said, committing to the lie.

I looked over at Goose and smiled.

"That's funny, because I lied! Goose told me you were playing mailbox baseball!" I explained.

"Sorry Upton," chimed Goose.

"Damnit Goose! Whatever man, I'll send BJ to your house to pay for the damages, it was worth it," Justin announced, before hanging up.

Hours later, BJ came rolling up my gravel driveway in a brand new white Escalade on 24 inch rims. The window rolled down, exposing BJ's face, a beanie resting just above his eyes.

"He's stupid man, how much is it gonna be?" BJ asked.

"Probably $400," I said, at which point BJ unrolled and began counting an enormous stack of 20-dollar bills.

"You know this isn't the first time he's done that. He wrecked my car awhile back, and instead of telling me about it, he wrote 'ASSHOLE' in marker on the windows to make it look like my ex-girlfriend did it. He's trifling," said BJ, laughing as he drove away.

The summer before my senior year was the most crucial time to perform at baseball if I wanted to successfully move on to the next level; whether it be college or professional.

Countless hours sweating and chugging protein shakes finally proved to be worthwhile because when it came time for the East Coast Professional Showcase, I was one of the lucky few selected.

Our team was comprised of the top players in Virginia and North Carolina; one of eight teams in attendance for a weeklong exhibition designed to uncover our talents in front of prospective college coaches and professional scouts.

Truthfully, I didn't feel like I belonged, my selection to this team should have provided me with a nuance of self-assurance, but it didn't. Although I was personally accomplished, I could never feel that way beside Justin and it didn't help that he was on this team with me.

We carried our gear to the stadium, located on the campus at UNC-Wilmington, and became acclimated with our surroundings on the field. The stadium seats spanned from first base to third base, furnished by a large overhang providing shade for spectators.

Each team was outfitted with uniforms from a particular Major League Baseball team; ours were the Chicago Cubs. After filling out a player questionnaire and suiting up, it was time to hit the field.

Our first evaluating task was the dreaded 60-yard dash. Running speed wasn't exactly my biggest asset as a catcher; actually, it was my biggest liability. Sitting in the stands were 500 college and professional scouts, bundled together with stopwatches in hand.

Our coach approached us on the field and made a group announcement.

"OK, we're going to be running in pairs, in alphabetical order," he said.

This revelation was somewhat of a relief for me, having a last name beginning with 'S' meant there was more time to get ready. Well, I thought it was relief, until I realized who I was paired to run with.

"Stephenson and Upton, you're next!" the coach yelled.

Justin slyly turned to me with a shit-eating grin on his face.

It couldn't have been any worse; Justin was the fastest high school baseball player in the country. My fate was sealed; I was about to be embarrassed.

Once I adjusted the jersey over my pudgy stomach and tucked it into my loosely fit pants, I glanced over at Justin and wondered if I was preparing to race a human or some type of mix-breed between a human and a horse.

Justin decided to give me a few words of wisdom before the race.

"Just try to catch me," he advised, still sporting the same shit-eating grin.

"Yeah, like that's going to work," I replied.

The starting point was just beyond third base and the finish line was marked ten feet behind home plate, all in a stretch of foul territory grass. We both placed our lead foot parallel to an orange cone and anticipated our coach dropping his hat, which was the signal to go.

I needed any advantage I could get so I read the coaches body language and jumped the gun a split second early.

BOOM!†I was off like a cannon! Two steps in and I was actually ahead of Justin. The steps to follow, however, were quite different from the first two.

The best way to accurately describe the remainder of the race would be to picture a jacked cheetah against a tranquilized polar bear, which had just awoken from hibernation.

When I finally crossed the finish line, I was hunched over, huffing and puffing. Justin, on the other hand, walked up to me without a single trace of exhaustion.

"What the fuck man?" I asked him, with the scarce breath I had available.

"I told you to chase me!" He said, smiling as the scouts salivated.

His finish time was 6.19 seconds and mine was 7.23 seconds.†He beat me by a full second, which is basically unheard of when it comes to 60-yard dash times.

Although I was slow, I made up for it on defense with a strong throwing arm and all it takes is one game or even one performance for someone to see potential in your abilities.

I accepted an athletic scholarship to East Carolina University. At the time, I didn't envision having dead birds placed in my shoe and firecrackers thrown at my head during freshman year.

My senior year ended with two notable events.

I broke up with my high school girlfriend who, possibly in retaliation, went on to become a professional softball player. She was the skinny and swift type of softball player, not the...umm...other kind.

Secondly, I was suspended from school for going to a strip club while our baseball team was in Cocoa Beach, FL.

Nonetheless, I was on my way to East Carolina University; a place well known for wild parties and curvaceous country girls.

When I got there, I realized I would have very little time to enjoy those amenities and this became abundantly clear during our first workout session...

Draped in purple shorts and a grey t-shirt, I stepped in knowing how rigorous their workouts were rumored to be, and the rumors were spot on. After lifting weights for an hour, the strength coach delivered devastating news.

"OK guys, meet me outside for a five mile run!"

Running was my archenemy (for the time being).

I stayed in the back of the pack, careening through the pasture, ultimately finishing in 57 minutes (a little over 11 minutes per mile).

When I stumbled back to my dorm room, my teammate was doing schoolwork on his laptop. His workout wasn't until later in the day.

"How was it?" he asked, as I limped towards my bed.

Before I could answer him, a waterfall of fluids came rushing out of my mouth and splattered in the center of our carpeted floor. I gave him a quick look, gasped, wiped the excess drool from my mouth and collapsed onto the mattress – I think his question was answered.

These workouts persisted, week after week, only having Sunday to rest and recharge. College was supposed to be the most enjoyable time of my life, filled with drunken nights and promiscuous girls, but it was beginning to feel like I joined the military.

As a free spirit it was hard not to cut loose, and I finally cracked – at a time I definitely shouldn't have.

An acquaintance from down the hall unexpectedly entered my room on a Sunday afternoon. He was a pledging frat boy dressed in a collared t-shirt, beige Dockers, penny loafers and an arched brim hat with a fishing hook attached; typical fraternity attire. After canvassing the room, apparently to make sure we were alone, he removed a bag from his left pocket.

"One of my frat brothers gave me an eighth of shrooms for free. Do you want them?" he asked, with a devilish smile.

The contents of the bag didn't resemble my expectation of 'magic mushrooms'. They were grinded down with no visible caps; still, this was my opportunity to get a much-needed mental release.

"I'll try it out, how do you take them?" I questioned.

"Well, it's shake, so you can just put it on a piece of pizza," he advised.

I ordered a slice of pizza from the cafeteria and then returned to my room, but he was gone. Unfortunately, I forgot to ask him how much I was supposed to use so I foolishly poured the entire bag on top, as if it were Parmesan cheese, and began mowing it down. I probably would have been fine – if I wasn't required to attend study hall with my team in 20 minutes.

On the ride over, I couldn't feel any side effects but the very second I entered the computer lab – the mushrooms hit me like a ton of bricks.

In an instant, I became disconnected from reality; every
thing
and every
one
around me appeared irregular and deviant. It seemed like they were living in one world, and I was living in another.

As a result, I was paranoid about being noticed so I nonchalantly took a seat at my desk and elected not to speak or look at anyone.

The psychedelic trip officially began when I looked at the computer screen and saw an assortment of colored circles cascading continuously towards the edge. I was captivated; I knew this wasn't supposed to be happening but somehow – it was.

The most fascinating aspect was witnessing a spectacle no one else could see. Then my trip ventured to the dark side when I began feeling like my stomach was entangled in knots. I stood up, walked out of the computer lab and plopped down on a couch in the adjacent room; where I remained in a state of perpetual pain.

When study hall ended, a teammate approached me with an interesting analysis.

"Dude, what's up with you?" he asked, in bewilderment.

"What do you mean?" I countered.

"You sat in front of your computer staring at the screen for an hour straight and didn't move an inch!" he explained, seemingly undecided if he should laugh or be concerned.

The hour he spoke of seemed more like five minutes to me. Although I didn't tell him I was on shrooms, I did tell myself I would
NEVER
take them again.

The negative side effects were not done punishing me. I failed to wake up the following morning in time for our workout and when I showed up 15 minutes late, our coach told everyone to meet on the track at 7am – he had his own way of dealing with late arrivals.

It was early, the air was cold, the wind was brisk and I was surrounded by disgruntled teammates. Their irritation was justified; after all, I was the sole reason they were there. The annoyance soon transformed into anger when our coach revealed what the punishment would be.

"As you all know, Brad was late. As a result, you will all be running around this track for the next hour. That is, everyone except for Brad, he's going to stand here and watch you do it," he said, capping off his edict with a distasteful glance.

Part of me was secretly happy I didn't have to run, but hiding it was a must. Everyone, and I do mean EVERYONE, sharply turned their attention towards me, followed by a flood of insults.

"Asshole."

"Cocksucker."

"Piece of shit."

"Dickhead."

I stood and watched as they all took off in a pack. I assumed they were talking shit about me the entire time, but I was certain they were talking shit about me each time they passed.

Half way through their trek, one of them decided to douse me in the face with a bottle of Gatorade; it was a direct hit. I couldn't react, I deserved it and I had to become acquainted with a new reality – I was severely disliked.

When it was over, I walked ahead of them by myself, a lone wolf. Moments later, an upperclassman tossed a rock at me, lightly striking my back. Gatorade to the face was one thing, but they took it too far, so I reached down, grabbed the biggest rock I could find and aimlessly threw it back at them as hard as I could.

"Hey man, chill out," one of them said, as I marched on.

I was chilled out, I just couldn't let them think I was the guy you could throw rocks at. If I was an outcast, I was certainly going to be the crazy outcast you didn't want to mess with.

However, it soon became clear that my reaction only made them want to mess with me even more.

The following week, I bent down to put my right shoe on and felt a mushy object hit my toe. Upon further inspection, I realized there was a dead bird inside my shoe; the whole locker-room erupted in laughter.

It still wasn't over; they were planning to strike again.

This time, it was at a house party. I typically get too drunk for my own good and this night wasn't any different. Eventually, I found myself in the bed of a pickup truck parked in the front yard, slipping in and out of consciousness. Seconds later, a teammate tapped me on the shoulder.

"Hey man, you better go upstairs, they're about to come out here and do something to you," he said, as though he was worried.

Only I didn't know this was the beginning stage of a coup, and his monologue laced with concern was simply an act to lure me upstairs; where they
were
going to do something to me.

Once my teammate closed the door to the upstairs bedroom; the trap was set. The next thing I remember was waking up to a loud hissing noise next to my ear.

"
Ssssssssssssssssssshhhh...
"

I bolted up like I was shocked with a defibrillator, moving out harms way just in time.

"
CRACK POP CRACK POP CRACK
!"

This noise came from an entire pack of firecrackers tossed directly at my head. Unfortunately, I was too inebriated to strike back and†I awoke the next morning in a different bedroom – my body completely covered in flour.

Springtime came and my career as a college baseball player was officially under way.

Our team was ranked top 25 in the nation and I was second string, but the starting catcher began struggling in the middle of the season and I took advantage of my opportunity – until a pregame celebration got in the way.

Yes, a
PREGAME
celebration. At the start of each game, our coach met with the umpires at home plate and sprinted towards our awaiting huddle immediately after. Once he arrived, we pushed and shoved him around to get the energy flowing; it was basically a royal rumble.

I did this numerous times without any complications but for some reason I decided to be 'Tommy Tough-nuts' and was the first to make impact with our coach, which turned out to be a season-ending mistake.

As he neared, I built up centripetal force and lunged in, but I was shoved from behind just before making my leap. This uncalculated push jammed my hand against his chest, causing it to roll back in a very unorthodox way. I fell to the ground and proceeded to be trampled on from above. My window of opportunity to play, which only recently opened up, was now closed.

My wrist was severely sprained; I couldn't practice and I couldn't play. Instead of being smart about my recovery, I lost interest and began spending time with a girl I met earlier in the year; we'll call her ECU Brittany.

She was the first girl I laid eyes on after boldly entering the sorority house alone. Her long dirty blonde hair and big brown eyes complemented a warm welcoming smile. She wore a baby blue silk halter-top with black pants and strapless heels – an outfit failing to hide immaculate curves.

I quickly advanced in her direction and began engaging the target.

"So where are you from?" I asked, with marginal game.

"NOVA," she said, with an unusual accent.

"What in the hell is NOVA?† Do you mean Northern Virginia?" I teased.

"Uhh, yeah!" Brittany replied, predictably responding to criticism.

"Well I'm from Southern Virginia, where we have common sense and don't call it SOVA," I pestered.

"Sothern Virginia is lame," she claimed, with her indistinct dialect.

"You know what's lame? Your accent, did you make it up yourself?" I continued badgering.

"Noooooooooooo," Brittany said, with a lengthy southern draw mixed with valley girl.

Finding a girl I actually enjoyed being around was rare for me, so I kept her close.

After the injury, she started replacing baseball as my top priority, but I couldn't see it at the time – I was blinded by infatuation (but mostly her tits).

Three home games were coming up the following weekend and my task was simple; all I needed to do was show up.

Brittany invited me to spend the night at her sorority house after Friday's game. We didn't drink; we just sat on the couch watching movies together until we fell asleep. I had to be at the field at 9:30am the following day – so I set the alarm for 9am.

The sun hit my eyes; I rolled over, looked at the alarm clock and my heart sank.

I don't know what, why, or how it happened, but I
never
heard the alarm go off. The time was 10:05am; I was already 35 minutes late.

I raced down the stairs and hit the street on foot. The only thought on my mind was how strict my coach was about being late; my strides grew longer. I needed to devise a scheme to make my tardiness permissible; otherwise I was a dead man walking (or in this case, running).

My only way out was by going in the training room and telling my coach I was getting medical treatment; there was a glimmer of hope, I thought.

When I finally arrived, drenched in sweat, my hope was crushed – the training room was closed.

Now it was official, DEAD MAN WALKING. I put my head down and shuffled down the dirt path towards the baseball stadium. I thought of every stopgap measure I could use on my way but nothing was feasible.

My head coach was waiting for me the second I stepped foot inside the locker room. He was dressed in full uniform with a stone cold look on his face. He swallowed, causing his Adam's apple to jump out of his neck, and pointed towards his office.

I sat down on the other side of his desk, like a movie director with the script in hand – I already knew his next line.

"Brad, you know how I feel about my players being late. I'm sorry, but you are no longer a member of the ECU baseball team."