"Heeeyyyy!” Artie said as he stood peering closely into a dusty glass box—close enough that he left a nose print in the middle of one pane. Whatever the artifact inside was, it clearly had him excited. “Check it out, little ladies …” He waved an arm, beckoning them over. “Babe Ruth’s baseball! It’s even signed!” The others crowded around for a look. Sure enough, the little brass plaque glued to the display case on a slightly wonky angle read: B. RUTH’s First Home Run Hit! … and the off-white orb on the stand in the middle of a square of artificial grass sported faded red stitching and a scrawled signature written in age-pale ink. “Umm, are you sure?” Tweed asked, squinting at the ball. “That signature looks more like ‘Bob Ruth’ to me.” “Also?” Pilot straightened up and tapped the glass. “ That’s a softball. I don’t think Babe played slo-pitch.” Artie looked a bit crestfallen. “Maybe in his spare time?” Pilot shook his head and picked up an exhibit program from a stack on a crate, thumbing through the outlandish descriptions of what was, in all likelihood, just a bunch of old junk.
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