Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike by Brad Stephenson Page A
Authors: Brad Stephenson
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a lawyer – anything but a glorified pickup artist.
After her dad was called into work, we all sat down in a sectioned off row of seats in front of the skybox. Suddenly, we all appeared on the jumbotron.
"Give it up for your Tampa Bay Rays!!!" the stadium announcer instructed to thousands of screaming hockey fans.
BJ stood up, Cliff stood up and as a joke I stood up and waved to the crowd. I figured Cliff was already telling people I was Scott Kazmir so why not get some recognition?
Ironically, we ran into Kazmir the very next day while BJ was getting treatment on his shoulder in the Rays training room. This was the first time I saw him since the boxing match a year prior to this and I will never forget the first words out of his mouth.
"Let's go in the dugout and steal the World Series signs off the wall. We can probably make some money selling them," said Kazmir, and he was not joking at all.
I thought 'Why in the hell does someone with a $30 million contract want to sell World Series memorabilia?'... but I didn't say that.
"Yeah, let's do it," is what I said.
So the two of us exited the training room, walked down the tunnel into the dugout and went to work peeling off World Series signs that were glued to the wall behind the bench.
"Do you think they'll care if this stuff is gone?" I asked, worried about being caught.
"Who gives a shit," Kazmir emphatically replied.
This guy was right up my alley. He wasn't just stealing them for me to sell; he was actually going to sell them for himself. He was the first and only millionaire athlete I met who also sold memorabilia. I saw this as a potential avenue to earn some viable income; naturally, I decided to align myself with him.
"I just rented out a place on Treasure Island that P Diddy stayed in, yall should come out there tonight," he added.
So we did.
The main condo amenities were a movie theater and a hot tub, which was more like a mini-swimming pool, built into the back deck overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. If there were ever a place to bring girls – this was it.
We spent a week there and I was tirelessly at work contacting girls to come over. For the most part, I wasn't even reaping the benefits, but I couldn't complain. Actually, I was glad I wasn't, especially on Kazmir's last night in town; he called me with a surprise the following morning.
"Hey, so I hooked up with that girl you brought back last night and you will never believe what happened," he said, in a normal manner.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Well, I woke up and SHE PISSED ALL OVER MY FUCKING BED!" Scott screamed.
"Ahahaha," I replied.
"Oh, that's funny? I'm starting to question your abilities, just so you know," Kazmir informed me.
He went back to Texas and we returned to BJ's nest in Tampa which ended up giving us more success than we could have ever imagined. At least that's what success meant to me at the time.
Not one night passed where there weren't a slew of girls eagerly–and sometimes desperately–wanting to come over. This is no exaggeration whatsoever; it went on EVERY night for two weeks straight; my phone was in need of a bigger data plan.
We didn't even call them by their real names; they were given nicknames such as 'Olive Oil' and 'Chuck Liddell' (we watched her fight another girl).
Some mornings I walked downstairs and would see two or three girls sleeping on BJ's brown leather sofas, and this was on top of the three who occupied each room. If you walked in the front door, you would have thought we were running a brothel; it was a dream come true.
We even invented new phrases to mark common occurrences. For example, whenever a girl overstayed her welcome, it was referred to as a 'shot clock violation' and we all made a buzzer sound when she left – once she was out of audible range that is.
Then there was the other–not so vague–expression known as the 'We'll SEE YA!'. This took place when the girls exited, just before the front door closed (or car door in the
After her dad was called into work, we all sat down in a sectioned off row of seats in front of the skybox. Suddenly, we all appeared on the jumbotron.
"Give it up for your Tampa Bay Rays!!!" the stadium announcer instructed to thousands of screaming hockey fans.
BJ stood up, Cliff stood up and as a joke I stood up and waved to the crowd. I figured Cliff was already telling people I was Scott Kazmir so why not get some recognition?
Ironically, we ran into Kazmir the very next day while BJ was getting treatment on his shoulder in the Rays training room. This was the first time I saw him since the boxing match a year prior to this and I will never forget the first words out of his mouth.
"Let's go in the dugout and steal the World Series signs off the wall. We can probably make some money selling them," said Kazmir, and he was not joking at all.
I thought 'Why in the hell does someone with a $30 million contract want to sell World Series memorabilia?'... but I didn't say that.
"Yeah, let's do it," is what I said.
So the two of us exited the training room, walked down the tunnel into the dugout and went to work peeling off World Series signs that were glued to the wall behind the bench.
"Do you think they'll care if this stuff is gone?" I asked, worried about being caught.
"Who gives a shit," Kazmir emphatically replied.
This guy was right up my alley. He wasn't just stealing them for me to sell; he was actually going to sell them for himself. He was the first and only millionaire athlete I met who also sold memorabilia. I saw this as a potential avenue to earn some viable income; naturally, I decided to align myself with him.
"I just rented out a place on Treasure Island that P Diddy stayed in, yall should come out there tonight," he added.
So we did.
The main condo amenities were a movie theater and a hot tub, which was more like a mini-swimming pool, built into the back deck overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. If there were ever a place to bring girls – this was it.
We spent a week there and I was tirelessly at work contacting girls to come over. For the most part, I wasn't even reaping the benefits, but I couldn't complain. Actually, I was glad I wasn't, especially on Kazmir's last night in town; he called me with a surprise the following morning.
"Hey, so I hooked up with that girl you brought back last night and you will never believe what happened," he said, in a normal manner.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Well, I woke up and SHE PISSED ALL OVER MY FUCKING BED!" Scott screamed.
"Ahahaha," I replied.
"Oh, that's funny? I'm starting to question your abilities, just so you know," Kazmir informed me.
He went back to Texas and we returned to BJ's nest in Tampa which ended up giving us more success than we could have ever imagined. At least that's what success meant to me at the time.
Not one night passed where there weren't a slew of girls eagerly–and sometimes desperately–wanting to come over. This is no exaggeration whatsoever; it went on EVERY night for two weeks straight; my phone was in need of a bigger data plan.
We didn't even call them by their real names; they were given nicknames such as 'Olive Oil' and 'Chuck Liddell' (we watched her fight another girl).
Some mornings I walked downstairs and would see two or three girls sleeping on BJ's brown leather sofas, and this was on top of the three who occupied each room. If you walked in the front door, you would have thought we were running a brothel; it was a dream come true.
We even invented new phrases to mark common occurrences. For example, whenever a girl overstayed her welcome, it was referred to as a 'shot clock violation' and we all made a buzzer sound when she left – once she was out of audible range that is.
Then there was the other–not so vague–expression known as the 'We'll SEE YA!'. This took place when the girls exited, just before the front door closed (or car door in the
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