Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike (4 page)

A few weeks later, Justin was drafted #1 overall in the MLB draft by the Arizona Diamondbacks. He was 17 years old with a multi-million dollar check waiting in the wings. I was still in North Carolina, so I called to congratulate him.

"What's up player?" he said, clearly in a good mood.

"Congrats!" I yelled.

"Thanks man. Hey, I have to do an interview, let me hit you back."

This was something I would get used to; his life was in the midst of a drastic change.

What he didn't know is that this day changed my life as well; his success inspired and motivated me to not give up on baseball. Sure, I recently endured a self-inflicted setback, but I was going to get up and keep swinging.

A few minutes after getting off the phone with him, I called my coach at ECU. I signed a contract earlier in the year to play summer ball in Wilmington, NC and I planned on asking him to honor it.

"Coach, I know I messed up, but I don't want this to be the end for me. Will you allow me to play in Wilmington?" I asked, determinedly.

"Brad, you're lucky I like you. I will call the coach and tell him you're on your way."

He ended the call and I was beaming from ear to ear. I packed my bags and set out for a second chance on–what was to me–life.

Wilmington was very much akin to ECU; pretty girls in every direction and parties' in every place. This time, I was cognizant of these distractions and decided to avoid them at all costs. I didn't want history to repeat itself but it was going to be tough because we were right on the beach.

Three weeks into the season and so far, I was squeaky clean. Then I spotted a tall athletic brunette girl scaling the stairs to the front office a few hours before the game. She was dressed in skimpy shorts, a tightly fitted team t-shirt and bright white sneakers. Her legs were long, lean, fit and each step she took brandished the firm definition in her thighs. I was in a trance, briefly induced back to my alter ego, the female assassin, and I was going in for the kill.

I walked into the office and isolated the target.

"You're very pretty, what's your name?" I delivered, with a side of charm.

"Nicole," she receptively replied with a smile.

"Well, Nicole, I think we should hangout. I have to get back to the field but I don't think it would be proper to leave without your number."

I didn't. She came over that very night, and each subsequent night until it all changed with one missed phone call.

We were next to one another, in bed, when her phone rang. After reading the caller ID, she gave me a weird look.

"What?" I asked.

"You don't want to know who that was," said Nicole.

"You're not my girlfriend, so I don't really care. But since you're making it a mystery, I kind of want to know," I told her.

"It was your coach," she said, biting her lip.

"Ok?† What does he want?" I questioned.

"Well, we kind of used to have a thing."

I discovered her and my summer coach were in a running relationship stemming from her season at UNCW as a soccer player and his as the assistant baseball coach. This was information I was not privy to, but there was nothing I could do to change it. I just didn't want him to find out about us, because if he did – shit was going to get weird.

I showed up in the locker room the next day and my teammates were laughing behind my back.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Nothing, we just think it's funny you and coach are banging the same chick!" one of them said, followed by a crowd of laughter.

Ok, so he knew, shit was going to get weird.

I suited up, put my catchers gear on and went to home plate to catch for the coach while he hit ground balls to the infielders. Five minutes went by and not a word was spoken; the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

Then I dropped a ball, which normally isn't a big deal, but he took it as an opportunity to throw the first jab.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he asked, to my surprise.

If I were smart, I would have let it go. But I didn't; this was a territorial dispute over a girl – caveman status.

"Why are you being a dick?" I chirped back.

"What? Fuck you Brad! Get the fuck outta here! You're off the team!"

He was enraged; apparently my dick comment tipped his scale. However, if he was kicking me off the team, I was going to make it a memorable exit; so I countered his rage with a rampage of my own.

I grabbed the water cooler, tossed it on the field.

I clutched the bucket of baseballs, chucked them on the field.

I snagged each bat off the bat rack, slung them all on the field.

"FUCK YOU!"

On my way out, I plucked every promotional sign off the fence and ripped them in half; I thought my career was over.

Believe it or not, a week later I took a 15-hour drive north to the Cape Cod League so I could play for the Falmouth Commodores.

This was the best summer league in the country, a place where only the most elite college players came to compete and I was there as a freshman. Luckily their catcher was injured and the team needed a quick replacement to finish the last month of the season.

My cleats clinked against the warning track gravel as I approached my new teammates, all of them wondering who I was. I already knew who they were future pro athletes. I doubt they knew me, I was the unknown guy who was kicked off two consecutive teams. I didn't feel like I belonged, and watching the opposing pitcher didn't make it any better.

The pitcher's name was Brad Lincoln, and the team he played for was the Bourne Braves. A digital radar screen was attached to the maroon press box behind home plate, and he was lighting it up at 98-100MPH.

I watched in awe as he methodically vanquished every batter on our team, strikeout after strikeout. Through seven innings, he held us scoreless.

In the bottom of the seventh, there were runners on first and third base with two outs and then our coach made an inconceivable decision.

"Brad, you're pinch hitting," he told me.

I dug my cleats deep in the batters box and pointed my bat at the pitcher. The first pitch blew by me and slammed into the catchers' mitt for a strike. I questioned my own visual acuity because I failed to actually see the baseball pass by.

He released the next pitch and it appeared to be destined for my head, so I frantically ducked out of the way. It was a curveball and it too was a strike.

So far, the pitcher succeeded in making me look, well, silly. So I told myself:†'No matter what he throws, just swing.'

He wound up and hurled the next pitch, a fastball, and again I failed to accurately spot its location, but I blindly swung.

Amazingly, I made just enough contact to lightly float the ball over the first baseman's head for a hit. Not only a hit, but the runner on third also scored and I effectively ended the shutout.

The following morning, I was on the front page of the paper with the headline 'Stephenson Ends Lincoln's Shutout'.

A high school teammate of mine, Scott Sizemore, was also in the Cape Cod League, and he too was in the paper that day. He called me an hour later.

"What the hell are you doing up here?" said a befuddled Scott.

"Taking care of business," I told him.

It's fascinating how one hit and a little recognition can change your outlook and overall confidence. I no longer felt out of place and whether it was true or not, I tricked myself into believing I belonged.

This conviction carried itself into our next game, against the Chatham A's. I was in the starting lineup and I came up to bat in the last inning, looking for another hit.

The pitcher threw me a slider; I saw it out of his handlike a beach balland ripped it down the third base line. In my mind, there was no doubt this was another hit, but I was led astray. The third baseman leaped to his right with a full-extension dive and securely snow coned the ball in the tip of his glove. He then propped himself up on his left knee and fired a strike to the first baseman, just before my sluggish speed had climaxed, resulting in an out.

This third baseman's name was Evan Longoria and he robbed me, but I would return the favor years later.

I returned to my host family's house after the game and got dressed for a night of fun. Before venturing out, I fetched a bag of weed from my suitcase and rolled it into a blunt.

My two housemates were riding with me, so I put the blunt in a bag of chips underneath the drivers' seat and planned on surprising them with it at the party.

Scrub oak trees filled the surroundings while I bent and swerved through the back roads of Cape Cod. This was the last place on earth you expect to see a cop, so I pressed on the gas and what do you know a cop passes us in the opposite direction. My teammate in the passengers seat turned around and delivered grim news.

"That cop is turning around!" he desperately shouted.

I glanced in my rear-view mirror and didn't see him. In a flash, I stomped on the petal and took my sole opportunity to escape.

After turning right at the next street–in an attempt to complete the elusion–I discovered it was a dead end. Now it was a waiting game.

There was a cul-de-sac at the end of the road with an island of bushes in the center of the court. The bushes stretched high enough to provide cover, so I parked.

"Why are you doing this?" my teammates wondered.

"Hold on, do you see something?" I asked, a diversionary tactic.

A few minutes passed and my confidence grew stronger that I out-foxed the police at least that's what I thought.

The blue and white crown victoria slowly crept up behind us with it's lights off. It took the cop a few seconds, but once he concluded I was the car that evaded him, his lights flashed and I was sweating bullets.

The officer tapped my driver's side window with his flashlight and I reluctantly rolled it down.

"Sir, can you step out of the car please?" the officer said.

"Sure," I replied.

My heart was beating like a jungle drum with each step while he led me to the front of his cruiser.

"I'm not sure why you tried to run from me, is there something illegal in your car?" the officer queried.

"No sir," I nervously responded.

"What are you doing in Massachusetts with Virginia plates?" he said, continuing his probe.

"Playing baseball," I told him, hoping for leniency.

"Ok, well I'm going to conduct a search on your vehicle and if there's nothing in there, you'll be on your way."

I was pretty certain my grand opportunity in Cape Cod was about to reach a less-than-desirable ending. My teammates joined me while the officer scoured through my floorboard, they were still unaware of my imminent doom, or the doom I assumed to be imminent.

He dislodged himself and strolled towards me. I expected handcuffs but he issued me a speeding ticket instead and went on his way.

As soon as I climbed back in, I saw the bag of chips spread out on the driver's side floor. I didn't have time, or the balls, to look for my blunt; but I was curious.

We eventually arrived at the party and my teammates began spreading word about our encounter. I wasn't interested in story telling, I was seeking a flashlight so I could find my blunt.

I rummaged high and low for a solid 30 minutes the blunt was nowhere to be found. I was thoroughly convinced the cop took off with my weed! I was emotionally confused; I didn't know if I should be pissed off or relieved. Given my past, probably the latter.

For the first time in a year, I successfully avoided trouble and finished a season.

My phone rang on the drive home and I answered. It was the head baseball coach of Virginia Commonwealth University and he offered me a 50% scholarship – I accepted.