ON A WALL AT THE END OF A BEIGE-CARPETED HALLWAY inside a bland building within earshot of Legoland, in Carlsbad, California, a small gold plaque announces the home of the familie—alternative marketing and athlete management.

Step through the door and you'll see a Red Bull mini-fridge and an explosion of action-sports imagery. On one wall hangs a poster of 29-year-old skateboarder Bob Burnquist, upside down as he performs a 360-degree loop inside a full pipe. On another hangs the scuffed-up skateboard of four-time X Games skate-vert (that's halfpipe) champion Bucky Lasek, 33, next to an array of framed jerseys from the current superstars of motocross: Travis Pastrana, the 22-year-old high-flying freestyle king who last year famously nailed a double backflip; Carey Hart, 30, the fiancé of pop singer Pink and the flamboyant originator of the motorcycle backflip; and 23-year-old Chad Reed, an Aussie and 2004 nominee for ESPN's Action Sports Athlete of the Year. Each is signed with some version of "Thanks, Steve, for making my dreams come true."

Steve is the Familie's founder, Steve Astephen (AST-a-fin), a lanky 34-year-old with a long chin, light brown hair, and a love of oversize golf apparel. He's the walking embodiment of a punk agent: He's got a blacked-out AMG Mercedes, hair spiked toward the heavens with gel, and a tattoo on his right forearm that reads self made. He's also rich. In January 2005, he finalized the sale of his sports agency

to the Los Angeles–based Wasserman Media Group (WMG). These days, as president of action sports at WMG, he still maintains autonomy over the management of his athletes.

It's a warm, sunny day in May, and Astephen is headed to lunch when his cell phone rings, as it does incessantly. On the line is one of his 50-odd clients, a 17-year-old amateur motocross rider who's just ridden in his first pro race, despite being dreadfully unprepared, out of shape, and unmotivated—in short, a typical teenager. The kid (whose name Astephen asked me not to use) had barely ended a cell-phone call to his girlfriend in time for the race, a nonstop 30-minute sufferfest around a dirt circuit littered with bumps, jumps, and tight turns. By the time he'd dismounted afterwards, his body temperature had spiked, and without knowing it he'd peed inside his racing suit.

"Dude," Astephen says. "You don't piss yourself if your body is where it needs to be. This is a gnarly sport. I can't be with you during the week, so you have to listen to your parents."

Astephen peppers him with questions: Is he riding the stationary bike? Icing his swollen ankle? "Don't lie to me," he says. "You should be icing it, and instead you're out washing your girlfriend's car."

Later, back at the office, Astephen summons Jimmy Button, one of two former motocross pros who help oversee motocross clients, the agency's most lucrative sector. "Jimmy," he says, "can you build our boy up a little? I just spent ten minutes yelling at him."

Then Astephen gets the kid's exasperated mother on the phone. She'd made the mistake of actually trying to speak to her son at the race. "Listen, I wanted to smack him around for the way he talked to you, but you can't be down there," he tells her. "Go to the [rival] Honda pits—there are no moms handing out soda."

Astephen softens his tone. "No one gets to the pros because of an agent," he reminds her. "Mom and Dad get you to the big leagues, but we take over from there."

He hangs up and rocks back in his Aeron chair. "I don't need this—to be arguing with a 17-year-old," he says. "But I can't not do it. This kid could be the next Travis Pastrana."