The Great Baseball Heist

A Short Story

Fitz and I tagged along with Mickey Morgan to see how much his Smokey Davis autograph appreciated. Since Smokey had passed away the previous week, we knew the resale value had to skyrocket, giving Mickey the bread for college and a brand new Camaro. For high school sophomores on parental relief and oddball jobs, we felt like Mickey hit the jackpot.

The three of us galloped towards Ken’s Sports Collectibles, hoping the owner banked enough loot to do business. Mickey carried Smokey’s signed baseball in a plastic case with the official paperwork in a separate envelope.

“What do you fellas have there?” asked Ken, sharing his friendly grin.

Once Mickey spoke up, Ken liked what he heard, clearing the counter for Mickey to plunk down his prize. The scarcity of Smokey’s signature coupled with his Hall-of-Fame career spiked the baseball’s value. A boon that Mickey’s dad even snagged it in the first place.

Mr. Morgan attended a trade show where he paid a handsome sum for the ex-pitcher to sign a Major League baseball. The score raised Mickey’s cred around the high school while vaulting Mr. Morgan to rock star status.

Ken wasn’t known to hustle Monet’s for magic beans, so we trusted his spiel on market trends and corrections. Ken eyeballed the lithograph and watermark, and used his jeweler’s loupe to examine Smokey’s signature.

“I can’t buy this baseball. It’s counterfeit,” said Ken.

“The paperwork’s real,” Mickey protested, tugging the bill of his baseball cap.

“It’s not the paperwork. It’s the ball. The signature’s been forged,” Ken said, handing the baseball back to Mickey. The sports chief arched his eyebrows and frowned, guessing the gang had been duped.

The heck with Smokey Davis, it was Captain Morgan on the perch now. The same father who worked overtime and drove a taxi cab on weekends to afford things, like the rare script on a baseball. No chance Mr. Morgan pulled a prank like this, especially on his son. Ken had to be mistaken.

Still a bit sea sick, the team sought a second opinion, racing for Lou Leonard’s World of Sports. We didn’t share much history with Lou. A few baseball cards here and there, since our loyalty remained with Ken.

“I don’t know what’s going on with this signature. Another kid, about your ages came in here a few days ago with the same baseball,” Lou said.

“What did you do?” asked a nervous Mickey, knowing he couldn’t afford to buy it back.

“Nothing. He failed to provide the paperwork. No docs, no sale. Store policy,” said the collector.

“Could you describe ‘im?” asked Fitz.

“Why don’t I just show you fellas,” Lou said, and brought us to a back room tricked out into a spy pod.

Once Lou retrieved the footage from his store cams, the broadcast unfolded. We watched Clem Dinardo, the school mobster, stroll into Lou’s with the artifact in question. Between the high definition and size of Lou’s flat screen, we all pegged the creep right away. No doubt about it.

Last month, Mickey went with his folks to the Catskill Mountains. Mickey’s older brother stayed behind and tossed a weekend bash. Clem must have snared Mickey’s baseball on Friday, and returned Saturday with the forged one. The klepto even managed to duplicate the stamp and serial number. Pretty crafty for a fifteen-year-old.

Outside Lou’s, we all went online.

“The bastard has it for sale, and it’s getting a ton of hits,” said Fitz, holding his tablet while staring at the stolen baseball on eBay.

“Lemme see,” I said.

Hits nothing, Clem sparked a bidding war. We had twenty-four hours to intercept the baseball before the auction ended. We weren’t sure how, but Fitz and I assured Mickey we’d fix this mess.

We headed home for grub with plans to meet later on. After supper, I poked around Clem’s social media sites. On his Facebook page, I read: RO2D. HA. NCA. OMMB. I deciphered the code as: Rents Out To Dinner. Home Alone. No Company Allowed. Old Man Means Business.

So do we, Clemster. The gang converged at the park with black gloves, ski masks, and a game plan. Fitz went high hog, wearing tiger camo and combat boots. He also packed a toy crossbow with plunger arrows.

“Are you kiddin’ me?” I asked Fitz. We’re special ops, not a bloopers show.

“A few a these in the cheeks — he’ll be cryin’ uncle,” Fitz claimed, as we boarded our bicycles and heaved it up the hill.

Stony Ridge was an affluent area deserving its own zip code. All the spreads atop the cliffs were big shot stuff, dwarfing our valley section in size and value. Mr. Dinardo ran hedge fund portfolios, sporting the biggest McMansion in the clouds.

The stinger that ticked us off. This spoiled rich kid had no business stealing. Not that he should be handing out twenties after school, but Clem could buy his own souvenirs. I wondered if the robbery angered me and Fitz more than Mickey. We were out for blood. All Mickey wanted was his baseball.

The house remained dark, but down below, the basement was all lit up. The cellar was Clem’s boy cave. A giant rec room with a pool table, flat screens, and a basketball court.

Clear passage until we spotted Harley, Clem’s pet Doberman. Stiff at attention, anchored by the flagpole between the castle and a patch of woods. All muscle, spiked collar, rows of teeth like a zipper. A home invasion wasn’t going down while Harley patrolled the fort, even on the chain.

Once the gang came into focus, Harley’s husky chest and black shoulders dipped and lurched forward. His antennae-like ears popped up and stiffened, daring us to cross the cul-de-sac and toe the sidewalk. That’s when we stopped at the edge of the street, trying our best not to set him off.

“I knew we shoulda bought rat poison,” said Fitz.

Mickey and I watched his braces cut a smile through his ski mask and told Fitz to quit fooling around. By tomorrow afternoon, Mickey’s baseball would be lost for good.

Curbside and dumbstruck, with no idea how to reach the basement now. This dragon was born for fire watch, refusing to leave his post and let us through. The mission might have paused, but the standoff carried on.

“Burgers. I bet Harley likes hamburgers,” said Mickey, breaking the tension.

Good idea, praying we had enough dough. All of our allowances were burned down, stranding the gang in Brokesville. One look at this vista, you’d think none of the pets around here could stomach fast food. And the way things stood, our only shot to scale the walls remained a Hail Mary from White Castle.

We scrambled off for Murder Burgers and pooled our life savings. Crumpled dollar bills and a batch of pocket change kept us in the game. The gang raised enough coin without tipping the UNICEF box, leaving White Castle with a sack of belly bombers.

We sealed the fried cannonballs in Mickey’s backpack and humped the gold up the hill. Fearing we’d flick Harley’s sic ’em switch, we decided to roll up our ski masks. We parked the bikes and entered the property, slashing the pitch like a tactical team.

Once Harley sniffed the recon, the bugger charged, catapulting from a corner of the house. The peach fuzz on my neck started to rise as my ticker went berserk. Harley’s limbs cranked more like the pistons from an engine than the front and hind legs of a watchdog. Too late to run, I froze. We all did. Waiting to see who Harley picked to topple and maul.

Feet from the team, Harley slugged the brakes. His front paws gripped the grass as if he ran out of chain. He didn’t. Instead, Harley started prancing for the payload Mickey waved in the air.

We divvied up the burgers, taking turns feeding the security. An All-Star foodie, Harley devoured each burger in five flat. His jaws slapped while his eyeballs glowed. Harley sure loved White Castle and his new pals.

All patty, no fingers. Not one nick between us. He even licked all the grease and spilled extras from our palms. For dessert, Harley decided to slobber Fitz’s moon pie mug. We all laughed at that one. Harley then darted off for squirrels and rabbits, giving up the beachhead.

We pulled down our ski masks and conquered a grass dune hemmed in by timber and the basement. Huddled at a window, we watched Clem Dinardo stalking his pool table.

“I say we go in there and put this punk down,” said Fitz.

Sounded good to us. We sprung from our three-point stances and followed our big cat to the basement door.

Fitz gripped the knob and twisted. Once the catch failed to freeze, we knew the loon left it open. Fitz leaned forward and entered, while Mickey and I tagged behind.

As Clem crouched and aimed for a corner pocket, his eyes bugged-out once he looked over and spotted the raid. In moments, the strike force had our perp surrounded. Fitz stepped closer, right up in Clem’s face.

“We want the baseball you swiped from Mickey’s bedroom,” Fitz told Clem.

“What baseball?” asked a defiant Clem.

Fitz dipped his shoulder into Clem’s gut and plowed him towards the couch in a quarterback blitz. Clem dropped the cue stick as his feet left the floor. Once they landed on the sofa, Fitz had the jerk in a headlock.

“Cut the crap, Clem, and get the baseball,” said Fitz while whipping out his cell phone.

Fitz shoved the eBay listing up to Clem’s nostrils. Charged up watching Fitz manhandle this smart ass, as he squirmed on his sofa. Clem was known around town for his posse of chooches to laugh at his put-downs and bullying. Stripped of his cronies, Clem was a fraidy cat. Sure, he tried to put on the tough guy act, but we had him and he knew it.

We told Clem to get cracking or we’d be calling the police station for real backup. Clem knew the identities behind the masks and we didn’t care. We kept ’em on, making us feel cool, like we were the stars of an action movie.

Clem wised up and Fitz released the choke hold. Clem called out to Mickey and lead him to his computer room. While they were gone, Fitz began scooping all the balls from the billiards table.

“I want this dirt bag to know what it feels like gettin’ boosted,” said Fitz, filling up his cargo pockets and stretching out the tiger stripes.

Clem and Mickey returned to the area with our main man holding his official and authentic baseball.

“You guys better be careful, we’re even now,” Clem said. No apology, no confession. According to Clem, the brat’s only crime was getting pinched.

That’s when Mickey gripped the bogus baseball from his hoodie, and fired a fastball at Clem’s coconut. Whap! Once the baseball struck Clem’s forehead, he collapsed to his knees and started bawling.

“Now we’re even,” Mickey said, as Clem’s phony baseball bounced along the floor of his basketball court.

“You guys are dead meat,” Clem shouted, snuffing up his tears while rubbing out the fresh raspberry on his noggin.

“We’ll see about that,” said Fitz, snapping a plunger arrow into the plastic crossbow.

“Check this out. You gotta see it,” Fitz told us, as he raised the toy weapon, aiming for Clem’s rump.

A set of headlights splashed the basement windows and we heard a Bentley steaming up the driveway. Fitz bagged the toy crossbow and chased Mickey and I dashing out the cellar door. The real rich kids scampered down the slope, grabbed our bicycles, and pedaled home.