Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike by Brad Stephenson Read Free Book Online Page B

back.
    "It's 9:05am man, are you close?" Scott interrogated.
    "Not exactly," I vaguely replied.
    "You're still at your apartment, aren't you?" Scott properly guessed.
    "Yeah, but I was literally walking out the door, tell Coach to wait 5 minutes," I pleaded.
    (Inaudible background noise of Scott talking to Coach)
    "Nah man, we're leaving without you, he said to call him," Scott regrettably told me.
    I hopped in my car, went to Hardees, ordered two bacon, egg and cheese biscuits (I was still hungry) and then called my coach.
    "Coach, I'm going to drive up there myself, I'm leaving now," I slyly tried to demand, as if it were my call to make.
    "You can't, you're not allowed to drive up on your own, I'll call you back," he said, and then hung up.
    I stayed in Richmond that night while my team was off playing. I honestly felt bad for not being there, so I called my coach again, after they lost the game.
    "Coach, I want to be there with the team, just let me drive up," I, again, assertively requested.
    "Forget about it, meet me in my office on Monday," he said, clearly in a pissed off mood.
    Calling him again was a fatal mistake, at least it seemed that way from his tone. I wondered if I dug my own grave ... again.
    Monday came and I was on yet another 'dead man walking' mission. Only this time, I got a phone call from my assistant coach advising me of a change in venue. Instead of meeting in the head coach's office, around other people, he wanted to meet in our locker room, where no one else would be. It was like the opposite of a girl breaking up with you in the middle of a crowded restaurant.
    When I walked in, my assistant coach was sitting on the bench. He was a cool guy; an old man really, with gray hair and he wore a green collared shirt with khaki pants.
    "Brad, I tried to talk to him, you know I did, but there's just nothing I could do... we have to let you go," he said, with a discerned guise.
    "OK, but he could at least have the balls to do it himself," I told him, as I stood up and walked out of the building.
    I deserved it but I didn't get down on myself. Failure was nothing new to me; I knew I was going to bounce back.



Year Off

    I wasn't playing baseball for the first time since I was 6 years old and it felt unnatural, yet refreshing. There's more to life than baseball, right? At least that's what I've heard; it certainly didn't seem that way.
    Instead of immediately turning the page I was, for once, given a chance to reflect on the mistakes I made. My reflection was strictly based on the dynamics and corrections needed to last on a baseball team there was a bigger issue, and it was my trouble dealing with authority.
    I went back to VCU in the fall and it would be quite studious of me to say 'Because a proper education is important' but in reality, I only returned so I could stay enrolled, which was a requirement if I ever dreamed of playing baseball again.
    Malone was still upbeat, working on his paintings and I was becoming accustomed to my status as a regular student, a reality I yearned for when running late to practice. I was bored, empty and possessed entirely too much free time. So I did what any college student would do; I started picking up girls.
    One day I received a text message from a girl I was going to see later in the evening. I hunkered down in the drivers seat, blasted my new Paul Wall CD and began brewing a clever response – then a cop tapped on my window.
    "License and registration," the baby faced, overweight officer said.
    I noticed he wasn't wearing a conventional police officer's uniform and upon further inspection, I realized he was just campus police. His respect, in my eyes, was depleted and I was looking for a way to escape.
    "I don't have them," I said, after scarcely cracking the window.
    My eyes glanced in the rear-view mirror to see if any upcoming traffic was due in the lane next to the curbside parking space I occupied. All clear.
    "What? You don't hav..." the campus cop