Bump hadn't seen him in decades. No one had. He disappeared, as if he'd never existed, just months into a brilliant major league career. But there he was, Ron Flury, sitting three stools away in a Jacksonville bar.
To him the field is empty. To him it is the field behind his community grade school. There are no stands. There is nothing; just him, the mound, the ball, his glove and his calloused fingers, and the brim of his cap to keep out the sun.
It's late 1927. The Babe just hit 60, Gehrig won the MVP, and the Yankees are on top of the world. The "Mighty Swatsmen" celebrate with a barnstorming tour and a battle for the Copper Cup. An excerpt from a novel.
The premise behind it was simple enough, though it was one Cooperstown never accepted: The numbers are the numbers. And so, in 2020 the REALHOF, as it came to be known, opened its doors—and opened them to all.