Ned looked to the left and to the right. It all looked the same to him, cars and people and tall houses. “Left,” he said.
“Good,” said Mr. Jackson. He turned and they went on another block before they saw an empty spot for the car. They parked and simply followed the crowds. There were men with bottles of beer in their hands. A pair of boys just Ned’s age ran by, yelling, “Iowa! Iowa! Iowa!”
They saw the stadium long before they got to it. It was tall and dark-red brick. There were arches taller than Ned’s house that people were walking through. This is how Dorothy must have felt when she saw Oz. Throngs of people walked, shouting and cheering. There were policemen but they weren’t taking much mind at the commotion. No one seemed to notice the rain, which was really only a thin drizzle by now.
The lot around the stadium was muddy, and the way in was ankle deep. There were planks laid over to help people across the mud. Ned was crowded up behind a woman hurrying in after her friends. Her foot slipped off the plank and Ned reached out to help.
“Thanks!” she said, but she never quit moving. Her shoe stuck right there in the mud and she hurried on, in one sock foot, one shod foot. Ned hesitated, looking at her shoe, wondering if he should pluck it out and bring it to her, but the crowd pressed in behind him and he just kept walking. He showed his ticket to the man at the gate, and passed through into an enormous cavern, keeping Mr. Jackson’s long black coat in sight. He paused while his eyes adjusted to the dimness.
“Which way?” he shouted to be heard above the muffled din, but when he looked up, the black coat was inhabited by another man, a stranger.
Ned recoiled. He turned and pushed his way though the crowd, back toward the planks and the gate. A man grabbed him and spun him around.
“You’re going the wrong way, son.”
Ned ran back into the cavern. He sidled along the wall, jumping up and trying to see over the people. The crowd was thinning as people found their way to the stands.
“Mr. Jackson!” Ned called, but his voice was thin in the vastness of the space. He put his right hand on the cool of the wall and hurried along it, peering into each door and arch he passed, but it seemed there were hundreds of Mr. Jacksons. Every man wore a black coat and a fedora, like Mr. Jackson.
A whistle blew then and the ceiling rumbled. Ned froze. Thirty-foot hole. Ned edged to one of the vast doorways that led to the stands and the playing field. There were people sitting right over his head.
How would he find Mr. Jackson? Ned went back into the hall and followed it around a ways. There was a doorway ajar and he could hear men’s voices. Could Mr. Jackson be down there? He edged inside and found a long hallway. It sloped downward. It was bright at the end. Maybe . . .
Then there was a firm hand on his shoulder.
“You can’t be in here. Players and coaches only. Get on back to your seat.”
Ned stared. Sure enough, just past this guard there were football players, enormous men wearing leather helmets.
“Didn’t you hear me? Scat!”
Ordinarily, Ned would have turned and run at such an admonishment. But this was not an ordinary circumstance.
“I lost Mr. Jackson,” he said. “I don’t know where my seat is and . . .”
“Hold up,” said another voice, and from behind the guard came a man in a Hawkeye sweater. “Aren’t you from Goodhue? One of Burton’s friends?”
It couldn’t be.
“Lester?” Ned said.
“Sure thing.”
“But what are you . . . ? You’re wearing a sweater. I thought you’d be . . .”
“Bummed my ankle,” said Lester. “I’m out, but supposed to sit with the team.”
Ned looked. Lester’s ankle was wrapped.
“Have your ticket? I’ll help you find your seat.”
Ned pulled his ticket from his cap and handed it to Lester.
They went back to the hall and through one of the doorways into the stadium. They came out of the dimness into the largest pit Ned had ever seen. A city could live in that ring, it seemed. The players on the field looked small, smaller than the apples on Ned’s miniature field in Granddaddy’s backyard.
“You’re in the nosebleeds,” said Lester. He took Ned’s shoulders and turned him so he was facing the seats that rose behind them. Mr. Jackson saw them then and hurried down the steps. “Lester Ward!” he exclaimed. “Our boy! You’d better hustle up and change. We’re sitting in seats your father gave us. How about that? Ned, it’s our own Lester Ward!”
“Yes, well, I’d better get back to the team,” said Lester. “Enjoy the game.”
“Wait!” said Ned. He held out his ticket.
“Would you sign this?”
Mr. Jackson fumbled for a pen, and Lester wrote Kindest regards, Lester Ward. Go, Hawks! on the back of Ned’s ticket and handed it back to him.
And then he was gone, down the ramp and into the dark cavern. Ned followed Mr. Jackson up to their row. They edged past knees and stomachs until they reached their places. Ned sat, clutching his ticket and reading Lester’s words again. He took off his cap and tucked it into the space created by a rip in the lining, then put his cap back on.
All Ned could see was the backs and necks and arms of the people in front of him. Everyone shouted wildly and Ned shouted along, not knowing what he was shouting about.
“Willis Glassgow!” he heard over the loudspeaker. And later, “NanNEEE PAPE!” and always, “IoWA! IoWA!”
Ned didn’t feel the cold or the drizzle, or hunger or tiredness from standing. He breathed in the noise and the breath of all those people standing together. He became part of the crowd and found himself shouting along, “IoWA! IoWA!” and waving his arms when the others waved. Shouting when the others shouted.
When the people on the end of the row left, Mr. Jackson and Ned moved to the aisle and Ned could see at last. From up above, it was like the field of Xs and Os, only moving. The players looked like living checkers on a board. It all made sense from up above. He saw Willis Glassgow fake a handoff to his running back. He saw the end run past Monmouth’s defense toward the end zone. He saw Glassgow throw a long pass. The end caught it. Touchdown! The Ike! This was something for the winnings shelf.
There were cars parked up and down the street when Mr. Jackson pulled up in front of Ned’s house. The lights were on at Granddaddy’s place, and Aunts Fiona and Corrine were standing on his porch. Ned pulled the ticket out of his cap and burst out of the car, eager to run in and give it to Granddaddy. But Tugs came out of Ned’s house and ran to meet them before they reached Granddaddy’s porch.
“He’s in there,” she said fidgeting. “He died. He’s dead. He’s still in his nightshirt. In his bed. But he’s dead.”
Mr. Jackson hurried into Granddaddy’s house.
Ned stared at Tugs. He who? “Who?”
“Granddaddy Ike.”
“But you and Gladdy were going to read him The Wonderful Wizard of Oz today,” said Ned.
“We did,” she said. “Until . . . until . . .”
Tugs was wrong. Ned had mistaken Granddaddy for dead on the porch that one afternoon. He was probably just sleeping soundly. He got like that. He slept soundly sometimes.
“He’s sleeping,” said Ned. “He’s going to wake up and surprise everyone. He did that to me a while back.”
“The doctor was here,” said Tugs. “He listened for his heart. You can go see if you want.”
“No!” said Ned. “I don’t want to see!”
It didn’t matter now that he had seen Lester. It didn’t matter that Lester had talked to him. Had signed his ticket. That the Hawkeyes had won. Ned should have stayed home. He should have been the one reading to Granddaddy. “Did Dorothy get back to Kansas?”
“You’ve already read it,” Tugs said.
What did that matter? Granddaddy liked to get Dorothy to Kansas. He shouldn’t have let Tugs and Gladdy read.
“He was supposed to wait for me to tell him about the gam
e!” Ned started for Granddaddy’s house, then stopped. “I got Lester’s autograph for him. He was supposed to wait for me.”
Tugs tried to put her arm around Ned but he pulled away. He looked at the porches filled with aunts and uncles and cousins, and he turned and ran. He ran through downtown, past Al and Irene’s, where Granddaddy played checkers on Wednesdays, past the barbershop, where he’d wheeled Granddaddy to listen to the game. He passed Carl’s Alley and didn’t think to be afraid. Ned ran until he got to Tractor Field.
Where were the fellows? They were supposed to be here. They had a game to play. Where had everyone gone?
Ned was still holding his ticket with Lester’s autograph. He crumpled it and threw it as hard as he could. It was so light it landed at his feet. He kicked it and it got caught on a twig fallen from the big oak and didn’t go anywhere. Ned picked it up and stuffed it in his pocket. He leaned his face into the rough bark of the tree and cried.
Ned fiddled with his shirt collar. Bad enough that it was snug around his neck, but it was Burton Ward’s hand-me-down besides. Mrs. Ward had sent over Burton’s old suit for the funeral when she heard about Granddaddy Ike.
“You sure got a lot of family,” said Ralph.
They were leaning against the church wall while Buttons and townspeople milled about, chatting and getting into cars.
“So do you,” said Ned.
“A lot of brothers and sisters, maybe, but not all these other people like you got,” said Ralph. “No Granddaddy Ike.”
“Me either, anymore.”
“Too bad,” said Ralph.
“Yep,” said Ned.
“You want to fight?” said Ralph. “I’ll let you be Tunney.”
“Nah,” said Ned.
“Me neither,” said Ralph. He picked at the paint peeling on the side of the church. “Suppose we can still beat Burton?”
“Nah,” said Ned.
“Me neither,” said Ralph. He picked up a rock and tossed it in the air and caught it. “Too bad, too. We had that Ike play down. That would have gotten ’em. Your granddaddy would have liked to see that.”
“Yep,” said Ned.
“Yep,” said Ralph.
Tugs ran up then. “You’re supposed to come inside, Ned,” she said. “We’re supposed to get the box of remembrance cards and bring it to Granddaddy’s.”
“OK,” said Ned. “See you, Ralph.”
“See you.” Ralph started out, then turned back. “Hey, Ned!”
“What?”
“Burton and them are meeting us over at Tractor Field later, anyhow. You want to come?”
“Nah,” said Ned.
“Well. If you change your mind.”
“Sure,” said Ned.
Ned hadn’t been inside Granddaddy’s house since the morning of the Hawkeye game. In fact, he’d given the whole place a wide berth. He’d finally gone to get the wheelbarrow at the barbershop but parked it in his own backyard and left the quilt in it, and no one had admonished him to put it back where he’d found it or bring his quilt inside. No one scolded him about anything and it made Ned want to do something terrible, just to put everything back to right. Only, he hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
“Will you bring the box inside, Tugs?” Ned said when they got to Granddaddy’s. “I’ll wait for you out here.”
“Don’t make me go in there alone,” she said. “I haven’t been in there since . . .”
“Me either.”
They took a few steps up the walk, then stood and pondered the porch.
“Suppose we could get Gladdy to do it?” Ned asked.
“Gladdy’s afraid of her own shadow,” said Tugs.
“Right,” said Ned. “Well, I’m not afraid. It’s just . . .”
“Me too,” said Tugs.
“Here. Give it to me,” said Ned. He took the box from Tugs. “I’ll do it.”
“I’ll come with you.”
They climbed the steps. The door behind the screen was closed. Granddaddy only closed his door in winter — and sometimes not even then. Keeps me hale and hearty, he said. Cold air is good for a long life.
Tugs opened the screen door, and Ned turned the knob of the heavy wooden door and pushed, letting it swing inward.
The cottage still smelled like Granddaddy. His nightshirt was lying across the bed, empty. Ned wanted to go bury his head in it.
Tugs went to the window and pulled the curtain aside, throwing light into the room. It all looked exactly the same. Except . . .
“Where did that come from?” said Tugs. She walked over to the winnings shelf. “And where did everything else go?”
Ned stared. He set down the box and walked closer. Oz was there but the pocketknife was gone. The whistle, “The Memphis Blues.” All of Granddaddy’s treasures were gone, and in their place lay one brand-new genuine football. It was fat with air. The brown leather shone, and the laces were taut. Ned reached out, laid both his hands on it. It felt round and impossibly real.
“There’s a note,” said Tugs. She handed it to him.
For Ned.
This was supposed to be a surprise for you on the day of your battle against Burton. Ike was going to bring it to the game. He gave me all his winnings and asked me to get you a football. “That boy’s going places, if he’ll only believe it,” he said, “and I want to give him a push.” So, then. Look lively. Go make him proud.
Sincerely,
Mr. Milo S. Jackson
Ned read the note through twice and handed it back to Tugs. He picked up the ball. He cradled it in one arm, then fit his fingers between the laces and held it back by his ear. He pulled it into his chest.
“I have to go,” he said. “We have to go. Come on.”
Tugs grabbed Oz and they ran out, letting the screen door slam behind them.
The game was under way when they got there. Mel was sitting on the sidelines keeping score. He jumped up when he saw Ned and Tugs.
“You came! G.O. is playing for our side, too, but we’re getting killed anyhow.”
“What’s the score?” Ned asked.
“I kind of lost track after five or six of their touchdowns. We haven’t scored yet.”
“Button!” Franklin shouted. He pulled himself up from under a pile of Burton’s fellows and ran over to Ned.
“No substitutions!” Burton yelled.
“Oops!” said Franklin. He fell dramatically to the ground and pulled himself to the sideline. “I’m hurt! Can you go in for me, Ned?”
Ned handed his football to Tugs and ran onto the field.
“Hey, Ned, isn’t that my suit?” said Burton.
“Was,” said Ned. He threw off the jacket and ran over to his teammates, who were picking themselves up.
They stood around awkwardly, looking at Ned like he was a china plate about to be dropped.
Ned felt suddenly uncertain, too. “Just a minute,” he said. He ran back to Tugs and got his ball. “Huddle up!” he called as he ran back onto the field.
Ralph whistled. “Where did you get that?”
“Granddaddy,” said Ned. “It’s perfect for the Ike. Let’s try it out.”
“The Ike? You sissies should just give up now,” said Burton. “You can’t win.”
Ned ignored him, handed the ball to Ralph, and lined up behind his fellows. “Down,” he said. “Set. Hut! Hut! Hut!”
Ralph tossed the ball through his legs to Ned and ran to his side.
Burton was coming straight at Ned.
Ned faked a handoff to Ralph and dodged Burton. He cut behind Mel, but Burton’s boys were everywhere he turned.
Ned clutched the ball and ran toward the side of the field. He looked back. Burton was chasing him. He was nearly on him.
“I’m open! I’m open!” Ralph shouted from the end zone.
Ned drew back his arm. He was in the apple tree, tossing an apple into Granddaddy’s door. The door was opening and Granddaddy was coming out, laughing. Ned let go and the ball soared through the air.
It soared over Mel and Clyde and Johnny. It soared right into the hands of Ralph Stump.
And then Ned was down, face in the dirt, air thumped from his lungs.
“Hand?” said a voice above him. Ned rolled over and allowed himself to be hauled up by Ralph Stump.
“What happened?” said Ned. He looked at his empty hands. He could see the imprint of the laces.
“Touchdown!” yelled Ralph. He handed Ned his football. The boys were all over him then. His own team tackled him, then dragged him up again and slapped his back. Ralph socked him in the arm, then socked him again. “Touchdown!” he said. “We scored a touchdown!”
“Game’s over!” Mel called.
He and Tugs and Franklin ran onto the field. “Touchdown!” they hollered.
“Can I see it?” said Franklin.
Ned handed him the football. He watched the boys pass it around.
A car honked then. It was Mrs. Ward.
“I have to go,” Burton called to Clyde. He turned to Ned. “Not bad, Button,” he said.
“We’ll get you next time,” said Ned.
“Sure,” said Burton. “See you Monday.”
“See you,” said Ned. He turned back to his team.
“Who wants to try the Lester?”
HAVE YOU READ ANNE YLVISAKER’S PREVIOUS BOOKS?
DEAR PAPA
ANNE YLVISAKER
Paperback ISBN 978-0-7636-3402-5
LITTLE KLEIN
ANNE YLVISAKER
Hardcover ISBN 978-0-7636-3359-2
Paperback ISBN 978-0-7636-4338-6
Also available as an e-book
THE LUCK OF THE BUTTONS
ANNE YLVISAKER
Hardcover ISBN 978-0-7636-5066-7
Paperback ISBN 978-0-7636-6061-1
Also available as an e-book and in audio
www.candlewick.com
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