I had to give credit to the girl—Brittney, I think her name was. She knew how to effortlessly utilize her looks and playful demeanor to get someone to open up. I supposed that’s why she worked for the big dogs.
But, luckily, being a pro athlete had some perks, including media training. And for that reason, the idea of putting a very attractive woman in front of me to try to open up about my future—a future that, by the way, I really had not thought that far ahead about—would not work.
Well, it might have worked on some twenty-one-year-old rookies who thought they could sleep with anyone, but not on someone who knew he could—and could be much pickier as a result.
“Well, Nick Ferrari, we appreciate you sitting down with us. Let’s close with some good old Ferrari Wine, huh?”
“Indeed,” I said, reaching for the glass that I had put to my lips many times during this interview—that still had the same amount of alcohol in it as it had at the beginning.
“This is your grandfather’s? Alf?”
“Yep,” I said. “He came here in the sixties in pursuit of the American dream. I’m just trying to make him and my father proud.”
“Well, that’s as good a toast as I’ve heard. You heard it here first, folks. Nick Ferrari, toasting to the American dream.”
“And the Giants organization.”
We clinked, put it to our mouths, and put it back down. I smiled and someone yelled, “and…cut!” Immediately, our bubble of an interview space popped from about half-a-dozen different sides. I’d experienced this type of scene starting with when I’d gotten drafted fifth overall, but it still seemed surreal every time—like one minute, I’d been soaking in a private oasis with typically a very attractive woman, or at least a charming guy who could make good conversation, and the next, it was like I had somehow decided taking a seat in the middle of a Manhattan intersection was a good idea.
Typically, in these spots, I liked to hang back, make small talk with all the folks that wouldn’t make it onto the TV screen, and offer them a tour of Ferrari Vineyards. But before I could say a word, the woman, Brittney, came straight over to me, all but claiming me as her own before anyone else on set could have a word.
“This is really damn good wine,” she said. “Fuck! I always love coming out to the Bay Area. All you get is jack shit everywhere else.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said with a playful laugh. “Ferrari Wines does sell across the country. We’re not just local.”
“Maybe, but there’s nothing like getting it from the source.”
Her eyes never left mine when she spoke, and there was a certain tone to her voice that suggested what she was looking to get was not necessarily wine.
“Well, my father would be happy to give you a tour. Tell ‘em Nick sent you, and ask for Bill Ferrari, I’m sure he’ll be happy to help.”
“You’re not going to give me a tour?”
Damn, and she sounded so earnest in asking that question.
“I’ve got a baseball season to prepare for, Brittney!”
She slightly blushed, but I still think she seemed more than a little surprised that I wasn’t giving it to her so easily.
“Look, I would love to,” I said, which was somewhat of an exaggeration. “But spring training starts in just a few weeks, and when that’s done, the season is in full swing, and it’ll be virtually impossible to give myself a tour, let alone anyone else that’ll probably be traveling just as much as I am. I’ve got a bunch of siblings like me you could ask. There’s Brett—that guy knows more about wine than anyone I know. Layla, she’s a real sharp one. You could ask Leo, although…”
“No worries,” Brittney said, a smile on her face, but her eyes turning cold. “Thanks anyway.”
With that, she turned her back on me, demanded someone grab her lunch, and left me to my own devices. It was just as well. I should have passed her off to Brett or Leo—those two would have loved someone like her.
I headed back into the main office of Ferrari Wines, taking the opportunity to check my phone. I had about a dozen new text messages—two were from my father, asking me to come to his office when the interview wrapped up. Three were in a family chat, two from Brett, one from Layla. A few were from some reporters asking me if I’d be available for an interview. A couple were from some girls that wanted to know when I’d be in town.
In other words, only one person’s texts actually required my attention at that moment.
I walked through the middle of the building, trying to move as quickly as possible so that I wouldn’t have to stop for any autographs. Given that we’d conducted our interview relatively early in the day and on a Tuesday, that didn’t seem too likely, but unfortunately, as a pro athlete, there was no such thing as privacy when out in public. People wanted to be me, but what they didn’t realize is that after about two weeks of everyone thinking they knew you, you just wanted to be another anonymous man moving about the streets of Sacramento or San Francisco.
I reached my father’s door, which was slightly ajar, and put my hand on it.
“Uh-huh.”
I stopped. He was on the phone.
“OK…OK…you’re not going to tell Dad, right? You know he doesn’t want to know about that anymore.”
About what? But I didn’t think too much about it. Although I would eventually take a greater hands-on role in the family business, being a professional athlete did not really allow time for a second role. I certainly leveraged my image and brand name to benefit the family business, but that
