There was a noise at the end of the street then, and Ned clutched the ball to his chest and ran for home. He climbed in his window, tucked the ball under his bed, and lay on top of the sheet. He thought he would just lay there awake for nerves all night, but then Gladdy was shaking his shoulders.
“You’re late,” she said. “Mama’s boiling mad. You’d better get up, Ned Button. How did you get in your clothes already when you’re still asleep?”
Ned squirmed through the whole day, nervous about the place he’d hidden Lester’s football and thrilled to think about the boys’ faces when they saw him with it. Clyde would probably want to play with Ned now. And G.O. Ned would include Franklin and Mel out of loyalty, and he’d let G.O. join and maybe Clyde. Burton he would flatly refuse.
“Get Franklin and Mel and the boys in a huddle, Ralph,” said Ned as soon as the bell rang. “Tell them I have a surprise.”
He ran across the street to the trash pile on the side of Old Man Lewis’s house. Whenever he was finished with this or that, Mr. Lewis tossed it out his kitchen window, and there it lay, until the pile was nearly sculptural. Ned had had to send Gladdy ahead this morning so he could smuggle the ball to school. He’d been late, but it was worth it now, to see the look on Burton’s face as Ned sauntered back across the street with Lester’s football tucked nonchalantly under his arm.
He walked over to Ralph and the boys, ignoring Burton completely.
“Huddle up, fellows,” he said grandly. “Let’s play football.”
They all started talking at once, and Ned generously let the ball be passed around, until suddenly Franklin ducked.
“Ned!” he hollered.
Before he could turn, Ned was being shoved from behind. He landed face-first and spit out a mouthful of leaves and dirt.
“Don’t try a prank like that again, shrimp,” Burton said. “Next time I won’t be so easy on you.” He snatched the ball from Mel and jogged away.
“Get him!” Ned called weakly as he struggled to his feet. Ralph and Franklin and Mel and the boys ran after Burton, but when he spun around, they retreated.
G.O. had been watching the goings-on but not participating. He came over now.
“That was something, Ned,” he said.
“Thanks,” said Ned. He plucked a leaf out of his hair.
“Still want to play, Ned?” said Franklin. He held out his paper football. “You can be QB.”
But Ned was deflated. “Maybe another day,” he said.
Saturday morning Ned was itching for a way to meet up with Ralph. They’d find G.O. Spy on Burton. But Ned had been charged with raking the backyard and had been at it since just after breakfast. He went inside for a drink of water.
Mother and Gladdy were each kneading a ball of dough on the kitchen table. They didn’t lose a press or a fold at his entrance.
“I think I’ll . . .” he started.
“You’ll go take care of Granddaddy’s yard next,” said his mother. “Get the stepladder and the barrel and pick the crab apples off that tree. They make a mess when they fall.” She gave her dough a nice slap, hefted it into the waiting bowl, and covered it with a towel as Gladdy mimicked her movements with her own lump.
Ned studied the calendar on the kitchen wall, then slouched out the door and dragged the ladder and barrel over to Granddaddy’s. Three long weeks until Lester and the Hawkeyes took the field for their first game of the season. Lester was probably practicing with the team today. And closer by, Burton and Clyde were likely tossing Lester’s football, getting a game together.
Ned stood on the first rung and pulled off an apple. He looked at the barrel and tossed. Missed. He picked another one. Then another. He was the quarterback warming up his passing arm. The barrel was one receiver, the tomato plant another. The porch was the goal line. Lester Ward was running down the field. He was zigging and zagging around Bronko Nagurski. He was open. Ned drew back his arm and let the apple fly. Wham! The apple hit the screen on the back door with such force it popped out and fell into the house.
“What in Sam Hill!” Granddaddy hollered through the hole in the door. “What happened here?”
Ned ran to the door. “Did you see that? Did you see? Where’s the ball? I mean apple!”
Granddaddy laughed and stooped to pick up the offending fruit. “This little thing took out my screen?” Never mind that the screen had been perched precariously to begin with.
“I threw it. All the way from the apple tree.”
“Well, now. Well.” He looked out over the yard scattered with apples. “Looks like we need to work a bit on accuracy, but you just might have yourself an arm.”
Ned opened the door and picked up the screen. The mesh was dented where the apple had popped it. He pressed it back into its casing in the door.
“There,” he said. “Good as new. Guess I better pick some more apples.”
“How about we get these others cleaned up first. Looks like a tornado went through my yard.”
“If that were a real football, it would have gone clear through your house and out the front door,” said Ned as he untucked his shirtfront and gathered apples into it.
“Sure,” said Granddaddy. “Sure it would. The boys must like having you on their team over at the school, then.”
“I wasn’t picked. Burton and Clyde called the teams, because Burton has Lester’s genuine football. Franklin and Mel asked me, but it’s all the rest of us, the scrawny kids, with a paper ball. Football is not about throwing, Granddaddy. It’s tackling. Getting the other fellows down before they get to the end zone.”
Ned went back to the apple tree and started picking a new batch. Granddaddy had a fact about everything, usually made up. Flush with his screen-popping throw, Ned was feeling like the expert today.
“True enough,” said Granddaddy. “That’s defense. But what about getting the ball into the end zone yourself?”
He turned to look at Granddaddy. He was soft like a scarecrow whose stuffing had all settled to the middle. His mustache grew out wide and white in all directions, and his fingers were knobby twigs. How did Ned’s great-granddaddy, the grandfather of his own father, know words like defense and end zone?
“You want to play with those fellows?” Granddaddy said. “I got some tips could help you.”
“I don’t know, Granddaddy. You’re older than football, aren’t you?” said Ned.
“I didn’t stop learning when I was eleven, if that’s what you’re proposing. Haven’t I watched Coach Baldwin whip those Goodhue boys into shape? I’ve thunk on it and I’ve determined that football is about strategy. Plays. I’m too old for football, so I play checkers. You have to look a step ahead. Always try to anticipate what the other fellow is going to do and outsmart him.
“You don’t have to be the biggest player if you know strategy. That’s something your buddies probably don’t have. That’s something Lester Ward knows, or the Hawkeyes wouldn’t have picked him up. Notice, he’s not the biggest fellow.”
“Oh, he’s big all right.”
“You saw the Goodhue boys wipe out Mount Vernon last season. Butch Winthrop could put Lester Ward between two slices of bread and eat him for lunch. But who scored the winning touchdown?”
“Lester,” said Ned. “But he . . .”
“I’m just telling you what I know. Makes me no never mind if you don’t want to learn the real game.”
Ned threw a few more apples in the barrel. He was going to have to stand out here anyhow. He might as well hear what Granddaddy had to say.
“OK. What’s strategy?”
“Rake out a rectangle here,” Granddaddy directed. “About four swipes should do it.”
Ned hesitated. Raking was not football.
“Well?” said Granddaddy.
Ned yanked the rake across a small patch of yard, clearing it of apples and grass and leaf fragments.
“Pull harder than that,” Granddaddy commanded. “That sorry grass isn’t worth saving. We need us some straight-on dirt.”
Ned pulled the teeth across the dry grass again and again until it was heaped in a pile. He looked at his work. It was like he was a giant, looking down on a miniature . . .
“It’s a field!” he exclaimed. “Look, Granddaddy!” He grabbed a stick and knelt down, drawing a line all around the edge, then dividing the field with stripes. He grabbed the basket of apples.
“Here,” Ned said, making two lines of apples in the middle. “This is what the teams look like. And see, if I am here and I —”
“Hold up,” said Granddaddy. “You’ve got that all wrong. Now, I —” Granddaddy leaned over. “Oh, this won’t do. Help me down to the ground, will you? Gentle, now. I don’t bend so easy as I used to.”
Ned turned over the apple barrel and helped Granddaddy sit on it. Granddaddy kicked a pile of apples out of the way with the toe of his boot and picked up a stick. He pointed at the field.
“First thing you got to remember is . . . Well, tell me how the pickup games work. How are the boys playing?”
Ned pondered this.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, I’m not playing. They just play like football is played. They line up facing each other. Someone hikes it to Burton. He runs. Clyde’s team chases him. They tackle.”
“That so?”
“Sure,” said Ned. “That’s what the game is about, Granddaddy. You got to get the guy down before he gets to the end zone.”
“If that’s all there is to it, Ned, then why do you need so many fellows to play the game?”
“That’s what makes me mad. Burton should let everyone play. Doesn’t matter how many are on a team.”
“How big are Burton’s and Clyde’s fellows?”
Ned scoffed. “Big. That’s all they care about. Who’s tallest. Who’s biggest.”
“Tall and big aren’t everything in football.”
“Sure they are,” said Ned. “They even let Theo play and he’s in fourth grade. It’s only because he’s the size of an ox.”
“It’s just as good to be quick and to be able to throw and catch as it is to be able to tackle.”
Ned thought about his toss. Maybe there was hope yet.
“Strategy just means giving each player a job and figuring out how to get the ball to the end zone. There’s more than one way to catch a fish.”
Granddaddy pointed to one of the apples with his stick. “Say you did pick up a team. This is you. And these here are Burton and his team.
“You’re going to have the ball. Burton’s fellows are in your way. They are all going to focus on tackling you, right?”
He drew a line from the Ned apple to another apple. “Here’s one of yours.”
“Ralph,” said Ned.
“Ralph. He’s a back. Say he comes running by and you hand him the ball without Burton’s team noticing. Now they’re all after you and no one is paying attention to Ralph. So he runs around them and heads for the end zone. Touchdown.”
“Huh,” said Ned. “I never thought of it like that. But what if they do see Ralph?”
“You’re the quarterback. It’s up to you to check whether they see Ralph or not. If they do, you pretend to give him the ball, then throw it to an end instead. That’s the fellow who has been lined up on the end of the row. He should be one of your fastest players and a good catch. He’ll run around Burton’s players and look for you to throw him the ball, because you told him ahead of time to do it. The rest of your boys need to block Burton’s players, keep them away from the player with the ball.
“It’s called a play. This is strategy. Like checkers. You’ve got to imagine what the other team is going to do and make a plan to outsmart them. You need your noggin more than a barrel chest.
“Your throwing arm is a valuable thing in football. If you can throw the ball to a player down the field, it will get there a whole lot faster than if you run with it.”
Ned studied the apples. He took his quarterback apple and made it plow into the center player in the other apple lineup. Strategy was good for touchdowns, but mowing down Burton Ward would feel even better.
“Ned! Ralph! Wait up!”
It was Tugs, coming out the girls’ door at the back of the building, with Aggie Millhouse and Felicity Anderson. Gladdy was trailing along.
“Tugs and them are walking me home,” said Gladdy. “I’m going to show them the sparrow nest Betsy Ann and I found.”
Tugs rolled her eyes at Ned over Gladdy’s head.
“Great, Gladdy,” said Ned.
“Mel says the fellows who didn’t get picked are getting up a couple of teams,” said Tugs. “Did you get the football back?”
“No, I . . .” Ned stammered.
“They asked him to be quarterback, but he didn’t want to,” said Ralph.
“Then you can come with us,” said Tugs. “We’ll drop Gladdy off and go downtown. Aggie can get us a soda.”
Ned watched the other boys run out to the field. Burton’s and Clyde’s boys waited for Burton to throw the ball. Franklin and Mel had pulled together two teams on a sliver of the field’s edge. Franklin’s whole team ran in a bunch after Mel, who was carrying the paper football. Burton tossed his ball to one of his players, then purposefully ran into Franklin’s path, tripping him.
“Maybe tomorrow, Tugs,” said Ned. “Come on, Ralph. Let’s get him.”
“That’s our part of the field!” Ned hollered as they ran toward Burton.
“Beat it, Burton!” shouted Ralph.
But Burton was already sauntering back to his team. “You girls better stay out of our way,” he called over his shoulder.
“I know some girls who could play better than you,” Ned yelled. He helped Franklin up.
“Thanks,” said Franklin. “Does this mean you’ll play?”
“I guess,” said Ned. “But I want to try some stuff my granddaddy showed me. Strategy. Like checkers.”
There were no apples, but there was plenty of dirt. He took a stick and drew a line of Xs and a line of Os. “See, the Xs and Os are like players.”
Paul grabbed a stick and drew an unmentionable. Franklin hit him and they tumbled onto the dirt, erasing Ned’s drawings and Paul’s. Ned pushed Ralph for good measure, and Ralph shoved Mel, and soon they were all chasing and whooping it up.
“That’s not very ladylike behavior,” hollered Burton.
Ned and Ralph and the others stood there trying to think of a clever retort. “We’re not ladies,” said Mel.
“Come on,” said Ned. “Let’s just try it.” He showed them again, this time standing them in lines and giving them positions to play.
They were slow and clumsy, but when Ned threw the paper-and-twine football, Ralph caught it and ran for the sidewalk. “Touchdown!”
Goodhue was busting with Hawkeye fever. The green awnings that had shaded the windows of the Ward’s Ben Franklin since aught seven had been replaced with black-and-gold-striped awnings. Yellow mums sprouted in window boxes from Zip’s Hardware all the way down to Pepper’s Photography. Al and Irene printed new luncheon menus, renaming the Reuben sandwich the Lester and the chicken soup Hawk Stew. Irene hand printed a sign for the luncheonette’s window stating LESTER WARD EATS HERE. Zip’s had a special on radios, touting the radio as a “citizen’s way to support our town’s favorite son.”
The stripes on Verlon Leek’s barbershop pole, however, remained red and white despite enthusiastic suggestion that they be repainted.
Today the door stood open, propped by a box of nails. Ned was on his way to buy some tobacco for Granddaddy, but he paused to listen for the radio that played nearly continually in the shop. Ned liked to hear the voices coming through that box. The men sounded big and far away. But near at the same time. A city as vast and distant as Chicago could enter right into Mr. Leek’s barbershop in Goodhue, Iowa. It was something to behold.
“What do you know for sure?” said Mr. Leek.
“They’re going to talk about Lester Ward in there,” Ned said, stepping into t
he shop and nodding his head toward the radio.
“Sure they will,” said Mr. Leek. “If he gets played. Don’t get your hopes up this year. He’s a freshman. He may or may not get on the field.”
“He’s the best. They’ll play him,” said Ned.
Mr. Leek was giving Mr. Jackson a shave.
“Hmmbfff,” said Mr. Jackson.
“What’s that, Milo?” Mr. Leek said, holding the razor off the lathered face.
“I say,” said Mr. Jackson, “they’d better play him at the first game in the new stadium, because I aim to be at that one. October fifth. Monmouth.”
“Not me,” said Mr. Leek. “I heard the place won’t be finished.”
“Oh, it will be done,” said Mr. Jackson. “This is the most proudful moment in Hawkeye history. They’ll play the first game of the season at the old stadium on the twenty-eighth. Against Carroll. I’ll listen to that one on the radio. The very next week, over to the new stadium. They’re working day and night — around the clock, they say — to get it done. Horses, mules, hauling lumber and dirt. The field will be way down below ground level, and the seats will soar far above it. I intend to be there to see what the fuss is about.”
“I heard thirty feet below the ground. Where do you suppose they put all that dirt?” said Ned. He climbed into the other chair. It was a two-chair shop and filled the needs of most men in Goodhue, even the likes of Mr. Millhouse, of Millhouse Bank and Trust, and Mayor Corbett, though it was rumored that Miss Wert, secretary to the mayor, trimmed the mayor’s neck from time to time.
“It was a ravine,” said Mr. Jackson.
“How do you get tickets? How much does it cost?”
“You can stay and listen to the radio, Ned,” Mr. Leek interrupted. “But don’t just hang about. Pick up a broom and sweep while you’re here.”
“Tickets?” said Mr. Jackson. “I got connections. My brother-in-law’s cousin’s wife’s brother is friendly with the assistant coach. I suppose regular people get them at the gate. There’s a knothole section for you scrappers. The cheap seats. The stadium is enormous. Going to seat more than forty-two thousand people.
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