Everything had paid off, my patience, my mantra, my glove, and I had my treasure. For the rest of the game, I studied the ball until I knew every stitch and every mark on it. My father took me after the game to the player's entrance to get it signed. I begged to policeman at the gate to ask Pete Incaviglia if he would sign the ball. There must have been something in my persistence, or in my big sad puppy eyes. But, after about a minute of two of pleading, he got a trainer to take the ball to the locker room to see if Pete would sign it.
When the trainer came back, with a signed ball, I turned the ball around, and started crying. "This isn't my ball! Where's my ball! They took my ball Pa, I want MY BALL!" There were tears running down my cheeks, and my chin was quivering, and when the guard told us to move on, but I stood my ground. My father tried to point out the signature, which looked real, but I wasn't buying it. When the guard told us for the second time to move along, my father started to get angry with me, and pulled me away from the gate.
My legs collapsed, and I fell as my father dragged me away. "It's got grass stains on it Pa! Grass stains! This isn't MY BALL!"
My father stopped, and turned around and looked at me, and back at the guard. He then helped me up, and walked me over to the gate. "OK, son, Convince me."
I was only nine years old, but I gave the best speech that I could. "The umpire threw it to the pitcher, and the pitcher pitched the ball, and Pete hit it, and I caught it. Pete Incaviglia ran the count to full, and fouled off many balls. The umpire had to give the pitcher a new ball after each foul ball. The ball Pete Incaviglia hit never touched the ground, Pa. It was only handled by the players. It never touched the grass Pa. It shouldn't have grass stains on it." I started to babble and repeat myself, but my father saw the truth in what I was saying, and knew I was right.
He turned to the guard, "He's right, you know. That ball was only used for one pitch, and it was hit for a home run. The ball my son Johnny wants to take home with him is the home run ball that he caught in the outfield bleachers. I don't care if Pete Incaviglia has signed it, I want my son to get his ball back!" At this point, and for the rest of my life, my father became my hero. He had backed me up, a little nine year old, when grown men were telling him to do otherwise. He taught me to stand by my conviction, and on that day, he believed in me, and I was his conviction.
Word went back to the locker room, about the kid who knew that the balls had been switched, and the next thing I knew, six balls were brought out for me to choose from. I ignored any signatures that the players had put on the balls, and I picked out the one with Nolan Ryan's signature on it. When I was asked to explain, I proceeded to describe the difference in the stitches, and the smudge on the ball where the bat had made contact. I even described where the Lena Blackburn's rubbing mud was caked on the ball, when the Umpire had prepped the ball before the game.
I had gotten it right! Right down to the smudge, which showed three of the digits that partially identified Pete's bat model number. Pete had made contact in the sweet spot of the bat, and the markings were clearly visible. With wobble legs, I pressed the ball into my chest and let out wail.
I never took my eyes off my ball as I described all details I knew about MY BALL. I handled it at if it was a sacred jewel. I must have gone on about that ball for five minutes. Then I finally looked up, there was six players in street clothes standing around smiling at me, including Pete Incaviglia. One turned to Pete, and said, "You gotta see if the ball matches the bat, Inky."
Pa and I were invited in to the locker room, the sacred home of baseball, and we went to Pete's locker. Pete pulled the bat that he had used to hit the ball, and sat down. Sure enough, the bat actually had the markings smudged where it had made contact with the ball, and the smudges matched.
There were several balls in the locker, and all were signed. Pete explained what had happened. After he had hit the game winning home run, he wanted to give out some signed balls to the fans on his way out of the stadium. He signed a half a dozen balls that he scrounged up, and put them in his locker before showering. When the trainer came in, Pete was in the shower, so he simply exchanged the home run ball for one of the signed balls.
Pete apologized for the mix-up, and then signed the ball and the bat. My eyes couldn't stop watering as he handed both of them to me. I was in heaven for quite a while.I never remember being driven home, or being put to bed. I must have slept with that bat and ball for a week before my father came home with a ball holder, so that the smudge would not wear down. He even enjoyed telling the story to his friends. After a month, Pa convinced me to stop sleeping with the bat too.
***** Back to the present *****
It's a memory that will stick with me for life, and helped make me the man I have become. So you have to understand, it was not a Nolan Ryan baseball, it was a Pete Incaviglia home run baseball that I had caught. It was MY BALL, The ball that I had picked out, and it would always be displayed with Pete's signature proudly in front, and not Nolan's.
I would have never have left the ball in that state. It had to have been looked at by someone else, and replaced. It had not registered consciously, but subconsciously in my mind, as I grabbed my fishing tackle from the shelf. The image was clear though, my eyes had seen Nolan Ryan's signature, and I would have never have left the ball in that position, ever!
As I walked down Johnny Bench Drive, I was in a daze as these memories flooded back to me. I lagged behind Antonio, but kept up with him, as we neared Earl's Rib Palace. When Antonio pivoted and changed direction, I followed. When the scent of barbecue finally entered my consciousness, I woke up and quickened my pace. We entered, and found Tony and George, each with a plate of ribs in front of them. George's wife Diane was also there, along with her younger sister, Ashley.
We said our "Hello's" and sat down. We argued a bit with Tony about moving to Toby Keith's, and Tony's made his feelings know by giving Ashley a twenty and asking her to get some more ribs. The rules were there, and Tony had gotten here first. Antonio got up and came back with two beers, and I slowly sipped mine, and pondered what to do about my ball.
There was really not much I could do. I would feel silly driving back down to Dallas to fix a baseball on a trophy shelf. It would also not tell me what I wanted to know, which was: Who the hell was messing with my stuff? I kept pondering what to do, when George knocked me out of my funk. "John, are you going to become a sad drunk tonight?"
"What?"
"John, you've only had half a beer and you're getting moody. Snap out of it! Whatever is happening at the office, let it go. You're on vacation! Cheer up, and enjoy yourself."
I nodded, perked up, and clinked bottles with George. What else could I do? I then had the thought that if someone had done something with my baseball, they might have done something with my fishing tackle, and THAT was something I had back at the hotel. I stood up, downed my beer, and excused myself, telling everyone that I had to check on something in the van.
I ran into two other people on the way back to the hotel, but it was still early, around four thirty when I went through my tackle box. Sure enough, three lures were missing, two of the ones I had used to catch stripers with Ellen's boss Carl earlier this summer. I had used each of them to catch whoppers and Carl had come up short.
What was worse, I was hoping to use those lures this weekend. I was pissed! I didn't want to replace the lures, which would have been easy. I wanted MY LURES! I had caught tournament sized stripers off of those lures, and Carl had witnessed it. It wasn't but ten seconds later that I had my keys in the ignition and turning over the engine.
As I strapped on my seat belt, I had a moment of hesitation. I put my foot on the brake and a hand on the shifter and paused. Was I crazy? I was about to drive three hours back to Dallas to re-position a baseball, and find my missing lures. I would then have to drive back three hours to the hotel. If I was lucky, I would be back by eleven. This was pretty stupid.
But... If I pushed it... I could get back by ten, or ten thirty...
I thought of something else to pick up while I was on the way back. Photo albums, I had some photo albums from my years at college, and from the reunions. (OK. I get it... I'm a little anal retentive. Deal with it!) We could pass these around in the evenings, and they were great starters for stories.
I put the van in gear, and was off. Before I got out of the parking lot, George called. I told him that I was going to take a nap at the hotel, and join them later. I then looked down at my cell phone, and turned it off. I didn't know if Ellen knew that my stuff had been tampered with. I also wanted to find out when Carl had been over to our house. I felt something was up, and I wanted my trip back to Dallas to be untraceable.
