I still don't know if they ever figured out what exactly happened to Willie Jigba.
Player Season Leaks
When you see a popular website make such a great impact on the world around you, it motivates you to have one of your own.
The first story to really take off on PlayerSeason.com was, regrettably, one I originally posted as a joke.
Blake Griffin was probably the most covered athlete at the time, so I created a blog post suggesting he was in a relationship with a girl named Jasmine Shein. In reality, the pictures were of Natalia, and furthermore, I created the fictitious name Jasmine Shein.
I knew it would be convincing because I already had a fake Facebook page setup for her with a few thousand friends. Ironically, the back-story I created for their relationship actually claimed they met on Facebook.
With the blog article and Facebook page active, all I did next was go on a forum where girls asked about Blake Griffin's girlfriend, wrote one sentence alleging he was dating Jasmine Shein and then added my link.
From there, the story took off.
Every sports website in the country was talking about Blake Griffin's relationship with Jasmine Shein, and I was sitting at my desk laughing.
FuelTV even did a segment on air about her, but the pinnacle came when I logged onto TNT.com and saw a link to "Check out Blake Griffin's New Girlfriend Jasmine Shein!"
The links were doing wonders for the traffic on my website. Her article, by itself, brought in around 3,000 hits a day, and her name alone produced well over 100,000 hits on Google search. The best part was how Blake Griffin never said a word about it not being true, but with a girl like her, why would he?
"This is crazy, my friend just saw me on TV," Natalia said to me on the phone.
She wasn't alone; I was also amazed by how fast it was spreading. Then one website questioned the authenticity, and instead of admitting to the hoax, I came up with a plan to convince them it was real.
My method was simple, I asked Natalia to send me a picture of herself holding a piece of paper with "I'm REAL" written in black ink.
Her picture certainly calmed the storm of skepticism, but I kept getting requests for a picture of her and Blake Griffin together. This is when most people would give up, but I didn't. I checked the Clippers schedule and figured out they were coming to Phoenix on March 1st, which was one month away.
I arranged for Natalia to fly to Phoenix, and began plotting on how I would get a picture of them together. There was plenty of time, or so I thought.
More traffic meant more demand for better stories, so I hired my first writer. My moniker was 'The Player President', so he coined himself as 'The General' and, technically, Nike was paying his salary.
From this point on, I decided all of my future stories would be real.
My methods may or may not have been questionable, but either way, I began producing, and publishing, documents no one else could get their hands on.
The first exhibit of documentation was official MLB scouting reports on every single hitter in the New York Yankees lineup.
Derek Jeter, Alex Rodriguez, Mark Teixeira, Robinson Cano, Jorge Posada, Curtis Granderson, Nick Swisher, Brett Gardner, Randy Winn, Marcus Thames and a few others. I even forwarded them to David Price for personal use, but he replied back saying he doesn't look at scouting reports, which was a shocking response from a Vanderbilt graduate.
If he didn't put them to good use, at least I was. There's nothing better for a website than posting original content, and my Google juice was flowing.
Giving one of Nike's top athletes bad press was, in hindsight, another bad play. I was unknowingly digging my own grave, and I wasn't done yet.
I 'stumbled across' a document titled "Rotohog Payouts". Once I opened it, I realized the contents were far more valuable than the scouting reports.
The spreadsheet contained a list of MLB baseball players who played in a fantasy football league together. They were big names too, like Chipper Jones, Kevin Millar, Sean Casey and Travis Hafner. There was even a professional poker player in the mix named Josh Arieh.
This wasn't your average fantasy league, they were betting big money (to an average person). The regular season winner, Kerry Lightenberg, took home $18,500.
My favorite part is the list of team names, particularly 'Boats & Hoes'. I still can't figure out what Chipper Jones' team name is supposed to mean. Fake bizzies?
Anyways, I was happy. I had my own place, a potentially successful website and most importantly; I wasn't living under my friends wings anymore – and then all hell broke loose.
Raided By the Secret Service
"Have you seen this girl Bibi Jones?" asked Dave, in a gmail chat.
"No, who's that?" I replied.
"She's a porn star and she lives in Scottsdale. You should go talk to her, she's perfect," he suggested.
After being directed to her twitter feed, which Dave regularly followed, I realized he wasn't joking – she was perfect.
"How would I meet her?" I ambitiously asked.
"She's stripping tonight in Phoenix, just go there," Dave recommended.
So I did.
Two minutes after I walked inside the dark and dungy strip-club, Bibi was walking out the door – and I had no choice but to pursue her on foot.
In the next 15 seconds, I strategized my game plan. I couldn't just ask for her number; it doesn't work for girls in her occupation – and I was literally following her outside, I would only have 10 seconds to make my pitch, tops.
Everyone has a weakness, and girls in her occupation have a big one – money. I planned my opening line accordingly.
"Hey, are you Bibi?" I asked, as bouncing chest turned towards me.
"Yeah," she quietly replied, probably thinking I was some crazed fan.
"I have a job for you, and it'll pay $5,000 every time you do it," I said, attacking her weakness with my business proposal, which was entirely made-up.
"Ok, write your number down and I will get in touch with you," Bibi responded, and I complied.
I wasn't entirely sure if she really planned on getting back to me about my fake offer. Only time would tell.
When I returned to my penthouse condo in Tempe, I began wondering if my place would impress a girl of Bibi's caliber. One thing was certain; she would never see a condo with more sports gear.
A colony of Nike shoeboxes populated my entire spare bedroom, and rightfully so, they were paying rent. Just around the corner, a copious community of Nike Sportbands settled in what used to be a walk-in closet.
A month and a half went by since submitting my last order on NikeElite.com, I told myself I was done. Just like blackjack, you have to know when to stand up and walk away. Ideally, this time comes when you're ahead, and after securing $60,000 worth of gear in December; relinquishing the operation was the only logical step forward.
I still held access to the accounts, which was tempting. How could I just let it all go? Technically speaking, when it came to free gear, I had the largest Nike endorsement in the world.
The thought alone consumed my every waking moment. Each night, I logged in just to see if any new products were released. I was addicted, and these were my symptoms of withdrawal.
So far, the angel on my shoulder was defeating the devil. That is, until I found a legitimate excuse to make another order.
It was Friday, and my 25th birthday was on Tuesday. Normally my Fridays were filled with excitement and adventure. However, my friendship with Justin was strained; we weren't even speaking to one another.
I sat in my upscale condo completely alone. Sure, there were some missteps along the way, but I was only trying to make a life for myself. I suppose I succeeded, but at what cost?
Being doubtful anyone would bless me with a birthday gift, I decided to get on Nike's website and treat myself. They just released a new Air Jordan retro jacket with matching sandals, and I wanted them.
All of the login information was held on a pal
m-sized external hard drive, so I plugged it in and picked out a new account. Ironically, it was Michael Jordan's.
Having never made an order under his name, I assumed nothing could go wrong. So I added the jacket, sandals and a few other items to my virtual shopping cart and clicked send. The total was only $600, far less than the average $3,000 orders I was placing back in December. I just hoped the boxes would arrive in time for my birthday.
Over the weekend, I made a few sales on eBay, mostly to clear up space in my spare bedroom. A few days later, I turned 25.
Knock, knock, knock.
Someone was at the door, presumably with my Nike gear, and the timing was perfect; it was my birthday. I slowly crept towards the peephole, like I did many times before, and peeked at the FedEx delivery guy. I stood silently, waiting for him to drop the packages on the ground and walk away...but he didn't.
Well, he did walk away, but he still had the packages with him. Without rationalizing the situation, I opened the door and called for him.
"Come back!" I pleaded.
Then I signed for the delivery, using the old tenant's name.
The boxes weren't inside for more than a minute before being sliced open and gutted. Arm by arm, I proudly placed the jacket on my shoulders like a golfer who just won The Masters. Then I slipped into my sandals and checked myself out in the mirror; all without stopping to think why this delivery was the first to require a signature. I was blinded by greed.
"I like your jacket," said Katie, who came over for my birthday.
"I can probably get you one," I sarcastically told her.
We went out to Gordon Biersch for a nice dinner, sat down in a corner booth and ordered a few drinks. Then Katie initiated an unforeseen and eye-opening conversation.
"You know, in the past few months, I think everything we've talked about has been about Nike," Katie claimed, philosophically.
"You're probably right," I replied, after briefly reminiscing.
"It's not good, I think you're obsessed," Katie informed, with a sly grin.
"I think you're obsessed," I countered, smiling back.
She was right, but it wasn't an obsession; it was an addiction. When we left, she walked in front of me wearing a sleek black dress. I was relieved to know I wasn't alone in my thoughts. She actually confirmed the inner truth I was trying to avoid; I had a problem.
On Wednesday, Roxy walked in wearing tight black yoga pants and a strapless purple tank top. Luckily some time passed since her back was lodged with glass shards following the botched threesome attempt in Tampa; so we were on good terms once again.
She was there to ship the items I sold on eBay, and I was paying her to do it – mostly to make up for the aforementioned debacle.
Roxy never asked where or how I obtained so much gear. The truth is, she didn't know where they came from, because I never told her.
"Ok, I'll be back in thirty minutes," she said, hoisting a stack of boxes out the door.
"Text me on your way back," I told her.
I settled down in my computer chair and started working on PlayerSeason.com for the day. After getting a couch the week before, my desk was against the wall in the living room; roughly ten to fifteen feet away from the front door.
An hour passed and Roxy was taking an unusually long time to get back from FedEx. So I texted her, "What's taking you so long?"
A few short minutes later, I got my answer.
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!†
"Brad!† We know you're in there!"
Initially, I didn't know what to think. Then it hit me; this knock at the door was what I fearfully expected every day for the last five months.
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!
"Brad! Open the door!"
I was motionless, frozen. I looked at the door with a terrified stare, my eyes open so wide they looked like basketballs.
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM!
"BRAD! OPEN THE DOOR OR WE'RE COMING IN!"
My heart was pounding; I was stricken with panic. There was no time to hide an entire room and closet packed full of gear. Actually, it wasn't just gear anymore – now it was evidence.
I thought there might be time to hide the most damaging piece of it all; the external hard drive storing the Nike login information.
The panic transformed into adrenaline and spiked through every vein in my body. I could feel my heart beating in both arms.
I pressed my chair into the floor so I didn't make a noise when standing up. Then I latched onto my hard drive and swiftly tiptoed into the spare bedroom, in search of a hiding spot.
First, I put it on the top shelf of the closet, and then immediately jumped up to retrieve it. They would have found it within seconds.
Then I stuffed it deep inside one of BJ's used Adidas baseball cleats. Two ticks later, I fetched it back out. Although Adidas gear would likely serve as formidable camouflage in this scenario, I couldn't take the risk.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
They knocked from a distance, my time was running out.
I turned around, facing the door to the balcony. The lake wasn't too close, but it wasn't too far away either. If I ever needed to put my baseball skills to good use – now was the time.
So I sprinted to the balcony, slung the door open, gained two steps of momentum and launched my hard drive into the Arizona sun with every ounce of my might. I walked away and turned back like a desperado; watching it splash firmly in the lake.
The instant I stepped foot off the balcony and back onto the carpeted floor, I heard an earsplitting bash. It was either a battering ram, or they brought Paul Bunyan. There was no time for second-guessing; my door was being busted down.
I dropped to my knees in the spare bedroom, which, from their viewpoint, was located to the right side of the condo.
Once they gained entry, I heard footsteps rumbling and clattering like a West African stampede.
"Secret Service! Search Warrant!" they shouted.
"I'm in here!" I nervously yelled back.
Five Secret Service agents rushed in the spare bedroom with bulletproof vests on top of plain clothes; with guns drawn. Not only were they drawn, but they were also pointed directly at my face.
"Get on the fucking ground!" one of them demanded.
"I'm on the ground!" I tried to explain.
"Who else is in here?" the agent wearing jeans and a collared t-shirt asked.
"No one," I responded.
"WHO ELSE IS IN HERE!!!" he repeated, discrediting my previous answer.
"No one, it's just me!" I insisted.
Instead of walking me into the living room, they dragged me. Two agents grabbed each bicep and hoisted me forward while my knees slid along the carpet. During my transport, I looked up at one of the agents with an outward show of confusion.
"I'll fucking shoot your ass!" the agent responded, even though I didn't say a word to him.
They put me face down in the living room, both agents digging their knees into my back while bounding me in handcuffs, as if there was a viable escape route. Then they began scouring every room, while I was spread out on the floor, horrified. Everything was moving so fast, it didn't even seem real to me – it felt like a movie scene.
However, this was real.
They lifted me up and placed me back down in my computer chair. Then their search for evidence began. Ziplock bags were continually filled and sealed with Nike equipment, each item decorated with it's own individual label. There were so many Sportbands they were forced to go downstairs and get extra large trash bags; the kind used by a school janitor.
"Can I please put a dip in?" I asked one of the agents.
"What?" he said.
"The can of tobacco on my kitchen counter, can I put some of it in my mouth?† I'm stressed," I explained.
"Yeah, sure," he surprisingly responded, and then unfastened my handcuffs, placing them back on once my dip was in place.
There I was, sitting in a computer chair, hands tied behind my back, le
aning over to spit in a cup while federal agents dismantled my condo.
Suddenly, Roxy appeared at the front door, being ushered in by a Tempe policeman; with handcuffs behind her back.
Apparently they followed her to FedEx and then pulled her car over on the way back to my place. I noticed the shipment receipts in one of the officer's hand, so much for my eBay buyers receiving their tracking information.
I could tell Roxy was puzzled, and she should have been. Like I previously stated, she didn't have the slightest clue about what I was doing with the Nike accounts. She was gone long enough where I imagined the agents already put her through questioning, and I couldn't have been happier with my decision to keep her out of the loop; they probably thought she was just an extremely loyal accomplice.
(Roxy later told me they asked her to knock on the door so they could gain access, but she refused ... what a good girl.)
I continued to watch as the agents carried 141 wristbands, 31 pairs of shoes, 19 golf clubs, 9 pairs of batting gloves, 7 boxes of golf balls, 6 hats, 4 t-shirts, 3 shorts, 3 sweatshirts, 2 polo shirts, one golf bag, one backpack and one pair of pants.
It's safe to say they had a mountain of evidence against me.
Once the gear was tagged and taken away, a younger tan-skinned man with short dark hair approached me.
"Hey Brad, my name is Mike Roberto, I'm the case agent with the United States Postal Service," he said, in a friendly manner.
"Hi," I replied, not knowing what else to say in this situation.
"Let's go downstairs so we can talk," he directed, while reaching his hand towards the door to guide me.
As someone who's overly observant of human behavior, I perceived something unordinary about his conspicuously nice demeanor. In his eyes, I was a suspected criminal. There was no reason for him to be nice...unless he wanted me to confess.
We took the elevator down to the first floor, and then walked to the residents' lounge, which was a large room near the buildings front door. All the while I'm passing by other guests who are baffled as to why I'm in handcuffs.
Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike Page 23