Free Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike by Brad Stephenson Page B
Authors: Brad Stephenson
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).
Best of all: they were all aware of each other's actions and they didn't care! I put a new meaning to the word "Timeshare".
All good things must come to an end and believe me I was heartbroken walking out the door. It was like losing a puppy or walking away from a loved one before going to war. I gave them hugs, shed a few tears (not
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).
Best of all: they were all aware of each other's actions and they didn't care! I put a new meaning to the word "Timeshare".
All good things must come to an end and believe me I was heartbroken walking out the door. It was like losing a puppy or walking away from a loved one before going to war. I gave them hugs, shed a few tears (not
Similar Books
One Choice
Ginger Solomon
Too Close to Home
Maureen Tan
Stutter Creek
Ann Swann
Landslayer's Law
Tom Deitz
Play Dirty
Jessie K
Grounded By You
Ivy Sinclair
The Trouble With Paradise
Jill Shalvis
The Unquiet House
Alison Littlewood