"Have at it man," I told him.
Everyone was lined up in the driveway of Kyle's house, waiting for the other side to arrive. I was strategically positioned beside Hawk and Ted in the front yard; the street at the end of the cul-de-sac was approximately 200 feet away. Suddenly, six cars pulled up and parked in the middle of the road – it was the calm before the storm.
The first person to appear began walking directly towards us. He was Hispanic, short and heavyset with a shaved head; much older than the rest of us and he wore a black t-shirt with blue jeans sagging a few inches below his waistline.
I didn't know who he was but I did know there was something in his hand. Once he got close enough – I realized it was a gun. For me, this was the first time seeing a gun in real life, so I was apprehensive, to say the least.
The Hispanic stopped ten yards from the driveway, and pointed the gun at us sideways.
"Who's talking shit?" he called out.
At this point I began slowly backing up because I knew I wasn't going to say anything. I'm a fan of rap music, but I wasn't willing to be shot over such a foolish pretense.
The brazened Hispanic didn't expect a rebuttal, nor did I think anyone on our side possessed the balls to confront him; after all, he did have a gun – but then Ted spoke up.
"I'M TALKING SHIT!" Ted challenged, his dreadlocks now looking more like a lion's mane.
Ted took a few steps forward, tapping the baseball bat against his other hand.
No one in his or her right mind would say this to a person with a gun; I was shocked. His courage was impressive but a bat doesn't exactly match up too well; I just couldn't fathom his thought process.
Ted slowly lifted the bat to shoulder height and pointed it directly at the now bewildered Hispanic.
"Why do you have that gun baby?" Ted bellowed.
"Why do you have that bat?" replied the less-confident Hispanic.
Ted's eyes descended on his own remarkably ill-fitted baggy white t-shirt and continued a downward trajectory until he was staring at his own shoes pressed against the grassy null of Kyle's front yard.
Everyone was quiet, anticipating Ted's response, which would inevitably be forged into our memory for life. His eyes raised and his body flickered – then he snapped.
"MAN, FUCK THIS BAT!" as he slammed it against the lawn, leaving an imprint only surpassed by Thor's hammer.
"Oh, you want to go?" the Hispanic replied, while placing the gun in his waistband, acknowledging consent for hand-to-hand combat.
Just before the juggernauts clashed, JD squared up against Adrian, who was also Hispanic, but well built and nearly a foot taller.
"So you're Adrian?" JD calmly asked.
"That's right," Adrian casually confirmed.
JD rushed in for the tackle and they both wrestled around on the ground, neither of them noticeably gaining the upper hand. Their fight was supposed to be the main event, but no one cared; everyone had their eyes on Ted and the imminent heavyweight bout.
Like two wild grizzlies fighting over the right to mate, they converged. Ted swiftly grappled the Hispanic around the neck with both arms as they slammed into a parked car. His python grip left the Hispanic utterly defenseless as he pounded on the back of his head with a series of punishing blows.
Ted pushed him away, leaving the Hispanic in a noticeable daze.†His plan was to finish him – by landing a haymaker.
Like a predator stalking its prey, Ted walked up behind him, lifted the Hispanic into the air and slammed him on the driveway face down. While his adversary laid motionless with one cheek pressed against the pavement, Ted took two steps and walloped him in the side of his face.
A girl intervened, crying and begging Ted not to punch him anymore. Her interference unwittingly gave the Hispanic a chance to stand up.
This is when he reached for the gun constricted in his waistline and "POW! " ... one shot into the air.
I didn't hesitate for a second; I immediately turned around, sprinted and literally hurdled the fence to Kyle's back yard. This was fight or flight in its purest sense, an inherent trait, indigenous to us all.
Without breaking stride, I turned the corner and discovered Justin and Kyle were already wisely positioned on the back porch. None of us even said a word to each other; we simply sat there in disbelief.
Five minutes went by and no more gunshots were heard. I wanted to know what was going on so I ventured back towards the front of the house and quietly walked through the side gate, crouching down behind a car in the driveway.
When I peeked around the corner, I noticed JD and Adrian were still rumbling around on the ground.
Then I saw Ted, wearing his unmistakable white t-shirt drooping a few inches above the knees, running around the cul-de-sac waving his arms vehemently. He was flaunting his triumphant victory – the threat of bullets didn't seem to bother him.
I looked over to Adrian and JD as they both stood up and backed away from one another, acknowledging their fight was over.
At this point, the Hispanic and everyone with him were in mid-retreat to the fleet of vehicles at the end of the court – I will never forget what I saw next.
I made sure to keep my eye on the Hispanic during his entire departure and he remained my focal point as he wedged himself into the backseat of a four-door sedan. The door slammed shut, the window gradually slid lower and then his face pivoted towards us.
"BANG! BANG! BANG! " three shots were fired.
I remember it so vividly; each shot transmitted a luminous spark with six separate and distinct reddish-orange flashes encompassing the barrel. It was slow motion to me, but their cars vanished with–what seemed like–comparable speed to the bullets, which had unknowingly whizzed right by us.
For all I knew, the gun could have been fake ... it could have been a cap gun. I wanted to see if everyone was safe so I scurried through the garage and into the house.
As I opened the door, I saw Kyle's mom distraught in tears. This was the point when I realized we weren't dealing with a cap gun.
"What happened?" I calmly asked her.
"There are three bullet holes in my house!" she said, followed by a flood of tears.
I meandered across the tiled kitchen floor, where I noticed one bullet hole in a wooden cabinet; apparently the second mark in its path after penetrating the window next to the front door.
Then I darted through the dining room to inspect the window and discovered it was still intact, leaving just a slight crevice. I always assumed a gunshot caused glass to shatter, at least that's how it's been portrayed in movies.
Two more bullet holes came directly through the front door, which was disturbing because it was supposedly enforced by steel-plates. The reality of the situation was overwhelming so we all went upstairs to calm down and get a grip on what happened.
Most of us sat down, but not Justin; he was so shaken up he began dry heaving in the middle of the room. It may have been bad timing, but I couldn't stop myself from laughing at his expense. Some things are just funny, regardless of circumstance (Chapter 9 details another one of Justin's weird mannerisms, when he pissed on my sleeping teammate in Cape Cod).
The police eventually showed up and sealed off the entire block, effectively marking it off as a crime scene. They placed numbered tags on every shell case scattered in front of the house.
Unfortunately, this wouldn't be the last time Ted found himself in a similar scenario. He died two years later from a gunshot wound to the head and was left bleeding in the middle of the street. It was a sad ending for him but I will never forget the bravery he showed that night – he very likely saved our lives.
Mailbox Baseball
Several months later, "Hawk", Kyle, Justin and my friend Goose came over for a night of drinking.
"Do you care if I take your car to give Upton a ride home?" asked the 6'4" Goose at the end of the night.
"Sure," I told him.
The following morning, Goose and I jumped inside my b
lack Jeep Grand Cherokee to go hit baseballs at the local batting cage – Goose was quiet.
It wasn't until AFTER we finished hitting when I noticed a HUGE dent on the passenger side. The paint was demolished and the panel above my front right tire was completely caved in. It was clear something happened when Goose and Justin took my car, and it most likely involved hitting an immovable metal object.
"Do you see this??" I asked Goose.
"Dude! What the hell happened??" replied a straight-faced Goose.
"Obviously someone wrecked my car," I told him.
"That's crazy, we didn't even see it this morning," said Goose.
I knew Goose and Justin were the ones responsible, but I began driving without saying another word – I wanted the guilt to weigh down on Goose's conscience.
"Goose, what happened?" I questioned him, ten minutes later.
"Man, Upton wanted to play mailbox baseball. We ran into one of the mailboxes when he was swinging. He made me swear not to tell you," Goose confessed.
Mailbox baseball is when one person drives while the other person hangs out the passenger side window and swings a baseball bat – crushing every mailbox that passes by.
A phone call to Justin was placed ... on speakerphone.
"Hey man, there's a huge crater on the right side of my car, do you know what happened?" I asked him.
"Nah man. Didn't see it last night, did you ask Goose?" Justin replied.
"Yeah, he said he has no clue. I didn't even see it this morning, just wondering if you knew anything about it," I said, baiting him.
"Nope, nothing happened before Goose dropped me off," he said, committing to the lie.
I looked over at Goose and smiled.
"That's funny, because I lied! Goose told me you were playing mailbox baseball!" I explained.
"Sorry Upton," chimed Goose.
"Damnit Goose! Whatever man, I'll send BJ to your house to pay for the damages, it was worth it," Justin announced, before hanging up.
Hours later, BJ came rolling up my gravel driveway in a brand new white Escalade on 24 inch rims. The window rolled down, exposing BJ's face, a beanie resting just above his eyes.
"He's stupid man, how much is it gonna be?" BJ asked.
"Probably $400," I said, at which point BJ unrolled and began counting an enormous stack of 20-dollar bills.
"You know this isn't the first time he's done that. He wrecked my car awhile back, and instead of telling me about it, he wrote 'ASSHOLE' in marker on the windows to make it look like my ex-girlfriend did it. He's trifling," said BJ, laughing as he drove away.
The summer before my senior year was the most crucial time to perform at baseball if I wanted to successfully move on to the next level; whether it be college or professional.
Countless hours sweating and chugging protein shakes finally proved to be worthwhile because when it came time for the East Coast Professional Showcase, I was one of the lucky few selected.
Our team was comprised of the top players in Virginia and North Carolina; one of eight teams in attendance for a weeklong exhibition designed to uncover our talents in front of prospective college coaches and professional scouts.
Truthfully, I didn't feel like I belonged, my selection to this team should have provided me with a nuance of self-assurance, but it didn't. Although I was personally accomplished, I could never feel that way beside Justin and it didn't help that he was on this team with me.
We carried our gear to the stadium, located on the campus at UNC-Wilmington, and became acclimated with our surroundings on the field. The stadium seats spanned from first base to third base, furnished by a large overhang providing shade for spectators.
Each team was outfitted with uniforms from a particular Major League Baseball team; ours were the Chicago Cubs. After filling out a player questionnaire and suiting up, it was time to hit the field.
Our first evaluating task was the dreaded 60-yard dash. Running speed wasn't exactly my biggest asset as a catcher; actually, it was my biggest liability. Sitting in the stands were 500 college and professional scouts, bundled together with stopwatches in hand.
Our coach approached us on the field and made a group announcement.
"OK, we're going to be running in pairs, in alphabetical order," he said.
This revelation was somewhat of a relief for me, having a last name beginning with 'S' meant there was more time to get ready. Well, I thought it was relief, until I realized who I was paired to run with.
"Stephenson and Upton, you're next!" the coach yelled.
Justin slyly turned to me with a shit-eating grin on his face.
It couldn't have been any worse; Justin was the fastest high school baseball player in the country. My fate was sealed; I was about to be embarrassed.
Once I adjusted the jersey over my pudgy stomach and tucked it into my loosely fit pants, I glanced over at Justin and wondered if I was preparing to race a human or some type of mix-breed between a human and a horse.
Justin decided to give me a few words of wisdom before the race.
"Just try to catch me," he advised, still sporting the same shit-eating grin.
"Yeah, like that's going to work," I replied.
The starting point was just beyond third base and the finish line was marked ten feet behind home plate, all in a stretch of foul territory grass. We both placed our lead foot parallel to an orange cone and anticipated our coach dropping his hat, which was the signal to go.
I needed any advantage I could get so I read the coaches body language and jumped the gun a split second early.
BOOM!†I was off like a cannon! Two steps in and I was actually ahead of Justin. The steps to follow, however, were quite different from the first two.
The best way to accurately describe the remainder of the race would be to picture a jacked cheetah against a tranquilized polar bear, which had just awoken from hibernation.
When I finally crossed the finish line, I was hunched over, huffing and puffing. Justin, on the other hand, walked up to me without a single trace of exhaustion.
"What the fuck man?" I asked him, with the scarce breath I had available.
"I told you to chase me!" He said, smiling as the scouts salivated.
His finish time was 6.19 seconds and mine was 7.23 seconds.†He beat me by a full second, which is basically unheard of when it comes to 60-yard dash times.
Although I was slow, I made up for it on defense with a strong throwing arm and all it takes is one game or even one performance for someone to see potential in your abilities.
I accepted an athletic scholarship to East Carolina University. At the time, I didn't envision having dead birds placed in my shoe and firecrackers thrown at my head during freshman year.
East Carolina
My senior year ended with two notable events.
I broke up with my high school girlfriend who, possibly in retaliation, went on to become a professional softball player. She was the skinny and swift type of softball player, not the...umm...other kind.
Secondly, I was suspended from school for going to a strip club while our baseball team was in Cocoa Beach, FL.
Nonetheless, I was on my way to East Carolina University; a place well known for wild parties and curvaceous country girls.
When I got there, I realized I would have very little time to enjoy those amenities and this became abundantly clear during our first workout session...
Draped in purple shorts and a grey t-shirt, I stepped in knowing how rigorous their workouts were rumored to be, and the rumors were spot on. After lifting weights for an hour, the strength coach delivered devastating news.
"OK guys, meet me outside for a five mile run!"
Running was my archenemy (for the time being).
I stayed in the back of the pack, careening through the pasture, ultimately finishing in 57 minutes (a little over 11 minutes per mile).
When I stumbled back to my dorm room, my teammate was doing schoolwork on his laptop. His worko
ut wasn't until later in the day.
"How was it?" he asked, as I limped towards my bed.
Before I could answer him, a waterfall of fluids came rushing out of my mouth and splattered in the center of our carpeted floor. I gave him a quick look, gasped, wiped the excess drool from my mouth and collapsed onto the mattress – I think his question was answered.
These workouts persisted, week after week, only having Sunday to rest and recharge. College was supposed to be the most enjoyable time of my life, filled with drunken nights and promiscuous girls, but it was beginning to feel like I joined the military.
As a free spirit it was hard not to cut loose, and I finally cracked – at a time I definitely shouldn't have.
An acquaintance from down the hall unexpectedly entered my room on a Sunday afternoon. He was a pledging frat boy dressed in a collared t-shirt, beige Dockers, penny loafers and an arched brim hat with a fishing hook attached; typical fraternity attire. After canvassing the room, apparently to make sure we were alone, he removed a bag from his left pocket.
"One of my frat brothers gave me an eighth of shrooms for free. Do you want them?" he asked, with a devilish smile.
The contents of the bag didn't resemble my expectation of 'magic mushrooms'. They were grinded down with no visible caps; still, this was my opportunity to get a much-needed mental release.
"I'll try it out, how do you take them?" I questioned.
"Well, it's shake, so you can just put it on a piece of pizza," he advised.
I ordered a slice of pizza from the cafeteria and then returned to my room, but he was gone. Unfortunately, I forgot to ask him how much I was supposed to use so I foolishly poured the entire bag on top, as if it were Parmesan cheese, and began mowing it down. I probably would have been fine – if I wasn't required to attend study hall with my team in 20 minutes.
On the ride over, I couldn't feel any side effects but the very second I entered the computer lab – the mushrooms hit me like a ton of bricks.
In an instant, I became disconnected from reality; everything and everyone around me appeared irregular and deviant. It seemed like they were living in one world, and I was living in another.
Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike Page 2