Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike (8 page)

"Oh yeah? When was the last time you pitched?" coach asked.

"I threw bullpens this season, but they always needed me to catch so I never pitched in a game," I told him.

"Ok, go to the bullpen, let's see what you've got," the coach directed.

The last time I pitched was when I was 12 years old. Regardless of this fact, I threw 20 pitches and amazingly, he seemed impressed.

I was put in to pinch hit in the top of the ninth inning during our next game. After hitting a single, I wound up on third base a few batters later. The coach approached me, with his hat pulled low and his stirrups stretched up to his knees, and asked a simple question.

"Brad, how many warm up pitches will it take for you to go in the game?" he inquired.

"None," I stubbornly told him.

Most pitchers in this league threw at least 95MPH; I walked up to the mound possessing the ability to throw 90MPH at best. However, I did have a secret weapon; a nasty change-up.

I threw three of these change-ups to the first batter I faced and struck him out. Not a bad start after 10 years off.

Pitching is all about throwing what the batter least expects. So after throwing the first batter three change-ups, I threw the second batter three fastballs and struck him out as well. My teammates looked on from the dugout in disbelief.

The third batter swung at the first change-up I tossed him and beat a ground ball to third base for the third out. Just like that, the inning was over and I opportunely created a new niche to get myself on the field more often.

A few weeks and another scoreless inning of pitching later, I got a text from Justin.

"What's up man? I'm coming to Boston this weekend, you still in the cape?" he asked.

"Yes sir, leave me some tickets," I told him.

The Diamondbacks were playing the Red Sox in an interleague game, so three teammates of mine hopped in my car and we drove to Fenway Park in Boston. Four tickets awaited our arrival.

You can decipher the fans that have played baseball from the fans who haven't just by observing how they watch the game. If they are loud, drunk or talkative; they probably haven't played. The four of us sat in complete silence, taking mental notes of what each player in our position was doing on every play. The reality of reaching the major leagues was well within our reach (In fact, one of the teammates there that day, Joe Kelly, is already on the St. Louis Cardinals).

The game ended and Justin texted me on my way out of the stadium, advising me to stop by his hotel.

I parked on the sidewalk in front of the Ritz Carlton, a towering building embellished with glass pane windows. My teammates stayed in the car while I walked through an enormous crowd of baseball fans eagerly waiting outside the front door of the hotel, roped off in their own sphere of lunacy. These fans actually travelled miles from the field for the slim chance of obtaining the opposing teams autographs. It's easy to see how some players can lose their grip on reality.

After a few knocks, the door swung open and Justin greeted me wearing a dark gray suit, white dress shirt and shiny black dress shoes; standard apparel for all players when leaving the field. His teammate, Chris Young, was also in the room and he briefly nodded at me while he was busy ordering room service.

"Yeah, can I get a side salad with that? Ok, can you send it to Mike Lowery's room," Chris said, giving his hotel alias.

Every player has a hotel alias to avoid being accosted by a crazed fan, like the ones sitting out front. Mike Lowery was the character Will Smith played in the movie 'Bad Boys', Justin's alias was Jimmy Fly.

"You gotta come out to the club with us tonight," Justin said, emphatically.

"I can't, two of my teammates are underage," I told him.

"Man! Why did you bring them? Tell them to go back!" He insisted.

"I drove, why don't you come to Cape Cod with us though?" I said.

"Chris, you want to go party with them in Cape Cod?" Justin asked.

"Nah I'm good, I'm gonna go eat my food," said Chris, before exiting.

"Screw it! I'll go! Let me put on my monkey suit," Justin enthusiastically declared.

A monkey suit is an outfit you put on before you go out and act wild like a monkey. Justin's monkey suit was dark blue jeans, white Chuck Taylor's and a drab yellow shirt with the word 'Hooker' written in orange across the chest with a small picture of Jazz legend John Lee Hooker underneath.

The two of us exited the front lobby and Justin politely stopped to sign an autograph or two. I could see my teammates faces as we approached; they weren't even expecting to meet him, let alone have him join us back to Cape Cod.

"Get in the backseat!" Justin said to my teammate who was sitting shotgun, without an introduction.

He wasn't being an asshole; he was simply adhering to a hierarchy based code known as 'big leaguing'. When someone is below you in the baseball food chain, it's ok to treat him like shit because it's motivational. Not to mention Justin spent his entire rookie season being big leagued everyday. He was ready to take it out on others, even if they were lowly college players.

We spent the next hour driving south, listening to rap music while my teammates stayed busy texting everyone to find out where the party was.

My car eventually came to a stop in a graveled driveway outside of a one-story cottage, just steps from the beach.

As soon as we walked in, it was like a scene from the movie Almost Famous. Justin wasn't a global icon by any means, but in the baseball world, being the #1 draft pick made him a god. I quickly scanned the room and every single person had their eyes focused on him; they were genuinely star-struck. Another future big leaguer, Josh Rutteledge, was also in attendance.

We went straight to the table in the center of the room, sat down and began playing a drinking game with 3 girls. Like a swarm of bees, everyone there rapidly huddled around Justin. As a student of human nature, I found it quite interesting. As his friend, I wondered how it affected him mentally. Most would view it as a positive, but what if it happened everywhere you went...everyday?

Nonetheless, I could tell he was used to this type of treatment. He spoke diplomatically to everyone who introduced themselves and actively paid attention to what they were saying – more so the girls than the guys.

The female attention – now that's an undeniable positive.

They liked him. In fact, so much that they asked us to escort them to the beach and of course we obliged.

We all settled on a spot in the sand and looked out into the ocean. This kept us busy for a minute or two, then Justin looked at me and we inherently knew each other's thoughts the mood wasn't right. Someone needed to set the tone.

"I'm gonna get this party started!" Justin said aloud.

He violently jumped to his feet, unfastened his belt and took his pants off exposing his bright blue boxer briefs. I was shocked and horrified but the girls...they loved it! Here's proof.

We were in one-on-one with our girls' just minutes later. I was sequestering a blonde and Justin engaged a tan brunette on the lifeguard tower.

"I'm gonna fly you out to Arizona!" said Justin, from a distance.

Twenty minutes went by and we decided to head back in. I was carrying a 12-pack of beer and Justin's arm was around the brunette as we reached the main road, our clothes completely covered in sand.

Suddenly, headlights appeared behind us.

"Is that a cop?" I blurted out.

Without a moments delay, Justin sprinted and dove head first into a row of bushes in someone's front yard. His actions didn't surprise me.

I was right too, it was a cop, and he stopped to ask what we were doing. I approached himwith 12-pack in handand quickly defused his investigation.

Justin reappeared once the coast was clear, wiping leaves from his monkey suit. I didn't blame him, the headline 'Diamondbacks Player Arrested in Cape Cod' probably flashed in front of his eyes before he dashed and made a gallant hop, skip and a jump.

We drove back to my host family's house and Justin hopped into one of my teammates beds in the basement without asking. Once again, he was 'big leaguing' him.

"Brad, he's in my bed," my teammate perplexingly stated.

"What are you going to do?" I frankly asked him.

"Haha, nothing I guess," he said.

"Probably a wise move. Another thing, don't mess with him if he gets up in the middle of the night, that's all I'll say," I mysteriously advised.

Justin has a history of being, well, a weird sleeper. If you woke him up, he would absolutely flip out on you. If he woke up on his own, he was unpredictable and he STILL might flip out on you. I can't really explain it I just know the condition exists.

The next morning I sat down at the dining table while my host mom cooked us breakfast Justin was still sleeping. I knew he must have done something weird when my teammate looked at me in a befuddled state.

"Brad, I have to tell you what Justin did last night," he said, quietly.

"Oh man, what was it this time?" I asked.

"He woke up, walked right next to my bed and started pissing in my clothes hamper," he said, still shaken from the experience.

"Haa! Did you say anything to him?" I wondered.

"No!† You told me not to!† I just sat there and watched him piss on my clothes!"

Classic Justin. Speaking of which, it was time for him to wake up he was facing Tim Wakefield that day.

I drove him all the way back to Boston, both of us slightly hung over. Then I turned the music off in the middle of our trip.

"You know you pissed in my teammates clothes hamper right?" I said.

"So..." he replied, before turning the music back on.

I dropped him off outside of Fenway stadium. He told me to come visit him when my season was over and I agreed. I checked the stats later that night and he didn't do so well against the knuckleball; he was 0-4.

My coach called asking to speak with me alone when I returned.

"Brad, I have some bad news. Your roster spot was available because a catcher from Oregon State, who was originally supposed to play with us, joined Team USA instead. Well, their games are over and he's joining us tomorrow to finish the season," he said.

"Oh," I disappointedly responded.

"However, I talked to your old coach at Bourne. Apparently their catcher has been complaining about his playing time and they are sending him home. I recommended he take you back and he said he would love to have you," the coach pronounced.

"That's awesome," I told him.

"But there's one problem. Your spot over there won't be available for another week, and we can't let you stay with your host family. Is there anywhere you can go?" the coach asked.

"Yeah, I know a girl who will let me stay with her."

I wasn't lying this time. I made friends with a group of female interns for the team and they all happened to stay in a timeshare on the beach together. Five girls to be precise and every one of them were amply attractive. For the first time, my dedication to the opposite sex was going to pay off.

I pulled my bags out of the trunk and walked through the front door of my new blissful bungalow. Two girls were on the couch in their bathing suits, another was preparing drinks, the fourth was in the shower and the fifth was on the phone – wearing nothing but a towel.

At that time, I couldn't question God's existence. Someone was looking out for me from above.

The week to follow, to this day, was probably the most enjoyable time of my entire life. I will put it into baseball terms without getting into descriptive details; I batted .600 during the week (3 for 5).