Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike Read Online Free PDF
Author: Brad Stephenson
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
"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