When I awoke the next morning at Holly's apartment, I realized I missed my flight back to Arizona; back to Price's place I went.
"I have two chicks coming over!" Terry emphatically briefed me.
"Very nice," I replied.
"Yeah, but they're bring some MDMA," said Terry, looking for my reaction.
"What's that?" I honestly answered.
"It's ecstasy fool!" Terry responded.
"Oh, I've never done that. What's it like?" I asked.
"It'll make you feel really good for a few hours. But I have to warn you; when you wake up in the morning, you're going to feel all depressed like a piece of shit!" Terry hilariously explained.
I was always willing to try something once.
The girls came over and broke out a whitish conglomerated substance onto the black marble countertop. One of the girls snorted it and the other put some on her tongue – I chose the latter route.
I gently licked my finger and pressed it into the edge of the pile, placed it on my tongue and then washed it down with a fresh can of 7-up.
Twenty minutes later, everyone else in the room was allegedly feeling the effects, but I wasn't. It didn't make sense, I took the same amount as they did but wasn't affected in the slightest measure.
Not wanting to spoil the fun, I sat back and didn't express my disappointment in this supposed miracle drug. On the other hand, they were having a ball. Terry turned the iPod on to the song 'Billie Jean' by Michael Jackson and the girls immediately took their shoes off and started moonwalking. I just sat back and recorded it on video (currently on YouTube).
I woke up the following day a worthless soul. It's hard to describe, but I honestly didn't want to be alive; I just wanted to sleep until the next day. What was the point of taking a drug that makes you feel like a human sloth?
"Man, what the hell," I said to Terry, with no emotion.
"I told you! You feel like a piece of shit right?" Terry asked, still stoked.
"Worse," I told him.
"Man, I'll take you to get some Gatorade before we go to the airport, you'll feel better," Terry assured me.
Gatorade didn't make me feel better, but sleeping the entire cross-country flight did. One thing was for sure – ecstasy was permanently banned from my life.
Tricking Longoria & Harper
Once again, I was back in Dave's downstairs office. It was no longer just a center for educational enlightenment; it became a war room.
Similar to Obama asking his closest advisor for advice during the hunt for Bin Laden, but our operation was on a much smaller scale. The purpose wasn't nearly as important either, in fact, it was comical. My plan was to trick athletes and then post the stories on my website. The only question was...how do you trick professional athletes?
The first exploratory step was to figure out their weakness. All I needed to do was look next-door at Justin's situation to come up with the answer; their weakness was girls.
So I knew I was going to somehow incorporate girls to trick them, but I needed to do it in a way where I could post proof of it online. Naturally, Facebook came to mind.
I got on my laptop and created three fake profiles of hot girls. One was blonde, one was black and the other was Natalia. Pictures of the first two were found through searching popular girl names at random, but those of the latter were much easier to come by.
Then I gave them all new names, or aliases, and thoroughly filled out their fictitious background and description. Each one was given a different location along with a favorite quote from Marilyn Monroe; I was selling it.
I added friends, made wall comments and posted comments on their pictures from the other girls' accounts for the next two weeks. Finally, with a few hundred friends, I was ready to begin my mission.
The first target was, of course, Evan Longoria.
My blonde girl profile seemed appropriate. It also seemed fitting to make her from New York, an ode to the birthplace of our feud.
Maybe I have a twisted sense of humor, but I thought it was hilarious. I'm not much of a judge though.
The next target was Bryce Harper, who just one month before this was drafted #1 overall to the Washington Nationals.
Why was he targeted? For one, he was 18 years old, which made him very susceptible to trickery. More importantly, he just beat Justin's record for a signing bonus out of high school, and he needed to pay his dues.
If it's not broke, don't fix it. Longoria's chat was yet to be revealed, so I used the same girl on Bryce Harper. It worked quite well.
Apparently he doesn't get any girls, that don't like him!!! "hah"
After fooling Bryce 'Rico Suave' Harper, I moved into my own apartment. Five months went by since I first moved in with Dave, and I learned more from him than I did during three years of college.
Honestly, I didn't want to leave. I really wanted to keep learning but he already gave me a place to live, purchased a laptop for me and supplied an education I could use for the rest of my life; I didn't want to overstay my welcome.
Plus, my new apartment was less than a mile away.
I wondered if he got as much out of it as I did.
My answer came one week after I moved out of his house – when two smoking hot 19 year-old girls moved in.
Brett Favre & Jenn Sterger
To begin this story, we have to flashback to when I was at Kazmir's condo, the one he rented out after the World Series.
"Are you with Scott?" the early morning text from a female Rays employee read.
"Yeah, why?" I asked.
"Jenn Sterger's dad just called our office and said she was missing. And that he thought she was with Scott," she explained.
She wasn't with him, but this was the first time I learned of her relationship with Kazmir.
The second time is when she came over to Scott's penthouse, which was noted in an earlier chapter. What wasn't noted, for purposes of this chapter, was how she told him about Brett Favre sending her pictures of his dick.
"You won't believe what she just showed me," Kazmir said after Jenn left that night.
"What's that?" I replied.
"Brett Favre has been sending her pictures of his cock, and she just showed me all of them on her phone," he said, laughing in disbelief.
"What? Is his face in the pictures?" I investigated.
"Ha, no, he is wearing a sweet pair of Crocs though," Kazmir remarked.
"Maybe it's not him," I vetted.
"Well if it is, he's not packing much down there," he said.
I didn't repeat the story in Tampa, but I did tell my brothers about it during Thanksgiving dinner in 2009 (which they all remember).
Now I was in Arizona, it was the summer of 2010 and I didn't work for Scott anymore. I also ran a sports blog, and I thought about posting the story, but I didn't have any pictures and I was still hesitant about publicly releasing information Scott told me in confidence.
Although I no longer lived with Dave, we still talked everyday over Google chat. Before making any rash decisions, I decided to seek his advice about whether or not I should post the story. After explaining it all, Dave told me it would only be valuable if I have the pictures, so I chose not to go through with it.
A few short weeks after I have this conversation with Dave, DeadSpin.com obtained the nude pictures Brett Favre sent to Jenn Sterger and the story was subsequently all over the news. Coincidence? I think not.
Although I have no proof, I think Dave played a role in making it happen. I couldn't fathom how a story could stay dormant for so long and then suddenly appear after I tell someone (who is well versed on the Internet). Maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think I am.
Did he sell the details I shared with him? Did he play a role in acquiring the pictures from Jenn Sterger? Was Dave somehow affiliated with DeadSpin.com or did he have nothing to do with it at all? I can only speculate.
I knew better than to throw any accusations his way. If he wasn't involved, I would have looked like an asshol
e for saying he was. Even if he were complicit, he would still say he had nothing to do with it.
"What do you think about your girl being on the news?" my text to Kazmir read.
"It's crazy! She just sent me an email about it," he replied.
"What did it say?" I asked.
"I'll send it to you," texted Scott.
"Hey Scott, My life is a little hectic right now, as you've probably seen. I just want to let you know that I don't want to drag you into this and affect your career in any way. If they ask me about you I am going to tell them we were just friends. Just a heads up if anyone reaches out to you. Anyways, I hope you're doing well and tell your family I said hello!† Here is my new number xxx-xxx-xxxx."
As soon as I read it, I knew I struck gold. Scott and Jenn were more than friends, and furthermore, she admitted how she was willing to lie to the media if she were asked about their relationship.
If Dave was going to (allegedly) play a secret role in this story, then so was I. The only question was...how would I do it?
I couldn't directly report it to the media, because then Scott would know it was me who did it (which was probably similar to Dave's alleged train of thought). Still, I knew I needed to do something because I genuinely wanted to help Brett Favre.
I didn't like how Jenn Sterger was rubbing his name through the mud just so her fake breasts would be plastered on every TV screen in the country. Up until this point, his 20-year career was squeaky clean, which is an accomplishment in itself. Lastly, I didn't blame him or even judge him for doing what he did, anyone is his position would have done the same (minus the Crocs).
There was a disciplinary hearing coming up for the NFL to decide his punishment, and after being around sports agents, I knew his agent would love to get his hands on this email. I did a Google search for "Brett Favre's agent" and found out his name was Bus Cook, so I called his office.
"Hello?" his female secretary answered.
"Hi, I have some information I think Bus would be interested in hearing. It pertains to the Jenn Sterger situation," I told her.
"He is busy right now but I can take your information," the secretary replied, which seemed like a brush off attempt.
"I don't think you understand. This information would really help Brett Favre's case. If Bus is there, you need to get him on the phone," I insisted.
"Hold on," she said.
"This is Bus," a man loudly announced.
"Hey Bus, I have an email I acquired in relation to the Jenn Sterger situation, and I really think it can help Brett's case," I repeated.
"This whole thing has just been a nightmare, and I keep telling Deanna (Brett Favre's wife) that none of it can be true," Bus said, which I took as a hint that she was in the room with him.
"I'm not sure if I'm the person to say that to, because I know it's true. That's not my point though, I think I can help him get out of it," I told him.
"What is the email about?" he asked, moving on from his recent comment.
"I think it'd be better to discuss in person," I told him, insinuating a payment scenario.
"I can fly you to Mississippi," Bus suggested, desperate for a solution.
"Eh, I don't really want to fly to Mississippi," I told him, because I didn't.
"Well, where are you?" he asked.
"Scottsdale, Arizona," I replied.
"There's a kid at the University of Arizona I want to go watch, could you meet me there?" Bus questioned, which was probably a cover story for him flying to see me, maybe it wasn't.
"That's a few hours away in Tucson, I don't really want to drive that far either," I honestly expressed.
"Well could you at least tell me something?" he pleaded.
"It's an email between her and an old boyfriend," I complied.
"Kazmir?" Bus asked, which let me know he did some homework.
"Yeah," I confirmed.
"What was it about?" he pried.
"I want to help you out. Without being too specific, it's a situation where if she were willing to lie about her relationship with another guy, then why wouldn't she lie about Brett? At least that's how you could spin it," I conveyed.
"So she told Kazmir she would lie about their relationship?" Bus relentlessly continued.
"Something like that," I vaguely confirmed.
"Ok, write down my cell number so we can keep in touch," Bus said, and then gave me his number.
I gave him everything he needed; I was sucked dry by a seasoned negotiator. There is no doubt about it; he would have paid me for this information. For me, it wasn't about the money; I just wanted to make a difference.
I posted this picture on my website one day before Brett Favre's meeting with the NFL to decide his punishment. The title was "Brett Favre Isn't Alone Jenn Sterger Sends Nude Pictures Too!"
Then I texted Bus the link to the story and added "I'm doing everything I can to help you out!" I'm sure it scared the hell out of him to realize he was talking on the phone with an active blogger, but I never posted a word about our conversation. In fact, this book is the first time I have ever written anything about it.
Although I can't confirm this, I am pretty confident he used the information I gave him during Brett's meeting with the NFL. Partly because there was no reason not to use it and partly due to the fact that Brett came out of the meeting unscathed with no punishment.
Once again, I have no proof (other than having his cell phone number). I simply put the facts on display; each person is entitled to their own opinion.
I never did speak to Bus again, but I'm sure he remembers me and I like to think he appreciated my contribution.
In the end, I was glad Brett Favre didn't get punished for doing what every guy would have done (minus the Crocs).
Hacking Nike
Hanging around multi-millionaires creates a burning desire to be on their level, to live how they live. It's unpreventable and it will cause you to cut a few corners to make it your reality.
I was sitting on Kazmir's plush leather couch inside his newly leased Scottsdale condo, which he rented months in advance to prepare for spring training with the Angels. He was on the computer ordering a few thousand dollars worth of Nike merchandise; just like before in Tampa.
"How much does Nike give you for gear?" I asked.
"$25,000 a year, if you make the all-star team," he smugly responded.
"Damn," I replied.
"Yeah, but if you don't order the full amount by the end of the year, it's all gone and you start over," informed Scott.
"What a travesty," I sarcastically shot back.
"You just have to get the big orders in for Christmas to drain it," he said.
I looked over his shoulder while he was putting the finishing touches on his NikeElite.com order. Although I wasn't consciously aware at the time; the seed of a Machiavellian plan was being planted in my head.
After returning to my mediocre one-bedroom apartment for the night, I sat down in my computer chair and stared at the screensaver being displayed on my MacBook Pro. I thought about all the years I waited and watched as the lives of those around me steadily progressed; baring witness to what I truly wanted for myself.
I'm not sure if it was Kazmir's Ferrari, Dave's live-at-home millionaire status, BJ's reckless spending habits or Justin's newly installed leather floor (yes, floor) in his bedroom; maybe it was all of them combined. I knew one thing for sure – I reached my breaking point.
So I decided to make a change and I knew, by now, it wouldn't be given to me ... I would have to take it.
I typed NikeElite.com into my Firefox browser and began looking for loopholes in their system. I already knew how to hack email accounts; I was looking to see if I could expose the same flaw.
Once I clicked on the 'Forgot My Password' button, NikeElite's website automatically prompted me to enter a username. I still couldn't figure out if the flaw existed until I entered a username successfully; all I could do was guess.
I went onto N
ike's main website and made a list of all their sponsors athletes who I assumed would have accounts with NikeElite. As soon as the list was complete, I went back to NikeElite.com and began guessing usernames at random. I tried entering over 100 player's name, name with jersey number, last name with jersey number and first name with jersey number – but nothing worked.
After three or fours hours passed by, it was late into the night so I gave up and went to sleep...but I couldn't get the thought out of my head.
Actually, the thought was completely consuming me. A double-life was beginning to take shape; during the day, I acted as if I was content with the status quo, but at night ... I was trying to break out of it.
A sense of purpose overcame me when I stepped into my apartment. I never contemplated whether or not it was ethical or illegal, I just knew it was interesting and challenging. Once I took a shower, I threw on a pair of mesh shorts, black slippers and a hoodie. It seemed like a suitable uniform for a hacker, after all, they say you have to look the part to play the part.
When I rested my arms against the $49 glass computer table I got at Wal-Mart, the only other piece of furniture in the room, and the entire apartment, was a $100 black leather futon with minimal back support. This would all change soon.
This time I tried a variation of the athletes name and team name; still came up empty. Two hours and several failed attempts later, I was growing hopeless, but then I hit the jackpot!
It was actually quite simple I entered the player's first initial and their entire last name. When I came to this epiphany I was working on Pau Gasol, all-star forward for the Los Angeles Lakers, or 'PGasol' as I came to know him by.
"Would you like to reset your password by email or answer your security question?" the screen read upon entering the correct username.
Without access to his email account, my only option was to answer his security question.
"What sport did you play in high school?" the security question read.
Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike Page 20