Mementos

Story Info
Who's been messing with my stuff?
8.7k words
4.4
141.9k
94
Share this Story

Font Size

Default Font Size

Font Spacing

Default Font Spacing

Font Face

Default Font Face

Reading Theme

Default Theme (White)
You need to Log In or Sign Up to have your customization saved in your Literotica profile.
PUBLIC BETA

Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.

You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.

Click here
OldHideki
OldHideki
421 Followers

This is a work of fiction. No actual people were cheated on, or harmed in the writing of this story. This is meant strictly as entertainment, so please enjoy reading it. I would like to thank KnightShado2 for reviewing the story, and giving me useful feedback.

***** Present day, driving north on Interstate 30 *****

Did you ever have that feeling that something was wrong, but you couldn't figure out what it was? I've had that feeling for the last 150 miles, and it is pissing me off.

My name is John Moretti. I am 30, married, and living in a suburb of North Dallas called Plano. My college buddies picked some place in Arkansas to go fishing this year, and I am just starting my third hour of driving, and getting close to Oklahoma City, which is where a bunch of us are going to meet up, and caravan the rest of the way to Arkansas for a fishing trip.

We do this every year, and part of the joy of this is the road trip. We all went to Oklahoma University (Go Sooners!), and I look forward to my trip with my fraternity brothers every year. My wife went with us the first two years of our marriage, but didn't go last year. There are only two of us in the van right now, Antonio Perez and myself, but after stopping in Oklahoma City, there will be four of us.

I still can't figure out what is wrong. I go over the stuff in the van once more in my mind:

Suitcase and Overnight – Check.

Laptop – Check. (OK, I am a workaholic... Deal with it!)

Fishing Gear – Check.

Coolers – Check, Check, and Check.

Beer – No, but we'll get that in Arkansas.

Food – Check.

Pork Rinds – Check. (OK, SOME people actually think this is food, but not me.)

Charcoal – Check.

Grill – No, but each cabin is supposed to have a grill.

More Beer – No. (See answer above)

First Aid Kit – Check.

Road Emergency Kit – Check.

It was all there. I then went through my home. Did I remember to lock the door? Did I leave the stove on or something? Did I leave the toilet seat up?

Nothing! Everything was OK. And I had gone through the list thirty times since kissing Ellen goodbye at noon and leaving home. Something was wrong, but I couldn't put a finger on it.

I went over work related things. I had filled out the vacation slip, I had given my location, and my cell number to my boss, so that he could reach me. I even had my laptop.

I then thought about Ellen, my wife. Everything was how it was every other year that I had gone on one of these trips. I couldn't find anything in the last week of so that would indicate that something unusual was happening. For just a moment, I had a thought, and then I dismissed it immediately, was Ellen cheating on me?

She knew I had become jealous when Ellen received extra attention at a restaurant, or at a dinner party. But after being married, Ellen had always blown the advances off, and had become an ornament on my arm. I couldn't even fathom that this woman would stray. I sent a clear message when I called off the wedding a month before we were married.

***** four years ago *****

Ellen had tried to have one last fling with an old boyfriend, Brian Jennings. They went out of one last date to say goodbye. I expected her to be mine once she has said "Yes" and put the engagement ring on her finger. I heard about the 'date', and had slipped into the bar of the restaurant and watched. If galled me to see her kissing another man passionately with my engagement ring on her finger. After the third kiss, I interrupted the date, and asked for the engagement ring back.

I held out my hand. "It's very simple Ellen. You can have your final date with him, or any other men, but not with my ring on your finger."

She pulled the ring off. "But we WILL get married. I just need to say goodbye."

I continued to hold my hand out. "If I ask you to be my wife again, and you say 'Yes', we will get married. But, I will have to ask you again. The engagement is off."

"WHAT!"

I calmly looked at her, "What's wrong? I said that you could go out on your date. A single woman can go out on a date with anyone she chooses. If you want to be a single woman, and not a fiancée, just give me back the ring, and we will not be engaged. You will be single again, and say goodbye to him, in any way that you wish to."

She just stared at me with her mouth open.

I grabbed the ring from her fingers and turned to her ex-boyfriend, "Brian, Please excuse me. I didn't want to cause you to any trouble. Enjoy your date." I walked away. I was clear and precise, and stood my ground. To me, a woman or a man with a ring on their fingers was announcing to others that they had removed themselves from buffet of pleasure for others, so to speak.

Before I got to the door of the restaurant, a frantic Ellen caught up with me. "No John, please don't do this, I want to be married to you!"

I turned around, "Ellen, you're causing a scene. Please go back to your date, and we'll talk later. You still need to say goodbye to all of your old boyfriends, don't you?"

She looked over at her old flame, and back at me. "No, I love you, and only you. Please take me back. I promise! I am done with dating other men!"

For the second time in my life, I went down on one knee, held out my hand with the ring in it, and asked Ellen to marry me. The diners at the restaurant applauded as she took the ring. I had held firm to my principles of honor and duty, and imposed my standard of faithfulness on our relationship.

***** Back to the present *****

For the thirty first time, nothing came up, and I was at a loss, because SOMETHING was wrong. I knew it, I just knew it.

We were going past Norman, and I needed to start paying more attention to traffic, so I put my pondering at the back of my head. Antonio and I talked about meeting up with the other guys in Bricktown, the Oklahoma City's entertainment district. We were staying at the Renaissance which was in the heart of Bricktown. From my four years at OU, I knew this stretch of road, and where to go. One half hour later, we were checking in at that Renaissance, and putting our bags into our room. It was now a quarter past three o'clock.

Our phone was blinking; Antonio looked over at me, and said two words, "Bricktown Brewery." I responded with "Toby Keith's". Antonio picked up the phone, tapped a few buttons, and responded, "Earl's Rib Palace". We both looked at each other and said "Tony beat us here, didn't he?" almost in unison. We both let out a deep sigh.

When you roll with two Tony's, one becomes Tony, and the other becomes Antonio. I came with one called Antonio, because he was one year behind Tony, and Tony had "Tony" first. Antonio also took Italian for the first three years of college. Tony loved ribs, and anytime he got to pick the restaurant, it would be a rib joint. Tony had been the first to arrive today, so he got to pick the meeting place.

I didn't mind eating ribs, but for a meeting place, I would have preferred a bar and grill. It nearing four o'clock, and I expected that the guys would be shuffling in for two to three hours. We could be hanging around at the bar while everyone arrived, and then we could figure out where to eat. Earl's was a rib joint, and to stick around a rib joint for three hours was going to get tedious. The first thing we needed to do would be to go to Earl's, find Tony wolfing down a plate of ribs, and get him to change the location.

Antonio dropped his bag on the bed, "Think we can change his mind?"

I dropped my bags beside my bed, "Only after he has finished his ribs. Since Toby Keith's is less than a block away, how about we work together on this one?"

Antonio nodded, and we both left for Earl's.

Once we were walking to Earl's, I figured it out. Well, I looked at the street sign, Johnny Bench Drive, and figured it out. Earl's and Toby Keith's were both on Johnny Bench drive, and that got me thinking about baseball. And then I thought about my baseball, and I knew it had been touched by someone.

When I went to pull out my fishing tackle, I glanced at my baseball, and it was proudly displaying the signature of Nolan Ryan. That was the problem. It wasn't my Nolan Ryan baseball. This was my Pete Incaviglia baseball that Nolan Ryan happened to sign. It was a home run ball that Pete had hit during a game at Arlington Stadium in August of 1989. It wasn't thrown by Ryan, it was hit by Incaviglia, and I had caught it!

***** August 1989 *****

I was nine years old. To a little boy, sitting with your father in the outfield bleachers was heaven! It was just the two of us, my father, Parker Moretti, and me, his nine year old son, with his glove in the ready position. It was August, and it may have been over a hundred degrees that day, but I wouldn't remove my glove from my hand, even with sweat dripping out of it. I knew that I was going to catch a ball today, just like I knew that I was going to catch a ball every time we went to the stadium. I would go home disappointed, but saying to myself I had not tried hard enough. If I had not looked away in the fourth inning, it would have been my day to catch a ball. I had to be pure and focused on the game, and then, and only then, I would get my ball.

I wouldn't leave my seat, and would not eat, and would never look away from the batter's box, once a batter stepped in. After the batter stepped into the batters box, I would go into my mantra, "HIT it to me. Hit IT to me. Hit it to ME." I would repeat my mantra over and over again. In the eight inning, Pete Incaviglia stepped into the box, and proceeded to swing for the bleachers, as he always did.

I probably need to tell you who Pete Incaviglia is. In 1986, Pete Incaviglia became the 15th player to Major League History to debut in the show without ever playing a single game of minor league ball. That year, he set club records for home runs, and strike outs. I had seen Pete hit one past the outfield bleachers twice. He had actually hit the ball "out of the ballpark". He was a slugger, and my hero.

On this at bat, Pete was patient, and started out ahead. This wasn't the classical Pete that I knew and loved. The pitcher's arm was fading, but I didn't know that. I just knew that my hero wasn't swinging at the pitches, like I knew he should. I mean, how could I catch a home run ball, if he didn't swing? When the count went to 2 and 0, Pete reeled back and ripped one, just foul. He then let another by and then fouled off a few more pitches. After the fifth foul ball, and at full count, the pitcher made a mistake, and threw a hanging slider that wouldn't drop, and Pete crushed it, right into my glove!

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.

OldHideki
OldHideki
421 Followers