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“It belongs to Lester — I mean, Burton — Ward. Mrs. Kelley announced it this morning. That it’s missing. Everyone thinks I stole it. And I did. But I didn’t mean to. And then —”

“Hold up,” said Granddaddy. “You’d better begin at the beginning.” He patted the bed. “Come sit up here. Give Mr. Jackson the chair.”

Ned climbed up and perched himself on the edge of Granddaddy’s bed. He told them the whole story, from Lester to Mr. Zip to the Rowdies, and Burton crying for Lester.

“So you see, we have to take it back.”

“Well, now, that is a shame,” said Granddaddy. “I thought I’d really done it this time. A football for Ned. Now, that was something.”

They sat in silence for a long spell. Ned held the ball, then passed it to Granddaddy. He held it a bit, then passed it to Mr. Jackson, who passed it back to Ned.

“I’ve got errands to run downtown,” Mr. Jackson said. “I’ll take it down there this afternoon. Don’t suppose . . . no. Nothing to be done about it.”

“It was fun while it lasted,” said Granddaddy Ike. “Me and Milo had quite a time thinking about giving it to you. There was that, anyhow. You’d better get on back to school, now, before your mother gets home.”

Ned held the ball a moment longer, then set it next to Granddaddy. “Thanks, Granddaddy,” he said. “Mr. Jackson, you’ll make sure Mr. Ward doesn’t think I stole it, won’t you?”

“I found it in the park is all,” Mr. Jackson said with a wink. “I’ll stick to the basics.”

Ned didn’t see Granddaddy until supper that night. He had avoided practice altogether and had run home to make sure Mr. Jackson had returned the ball, but Granddaddy was resting and his mother told him not to disturb him.

Gladdy and Mother went to wake Granddaddy for supper, and Ned sat glumly at the table. Mr. Jackson was a talker. What if he had told Mr. Ward the whole story about the football? Ned was doomed.

Granddaddy was quieter than usual, too. Everyone else assumed it was Granddaddy’s heart, but Ned knew what the matter was. The ruse hadn’t worked. Mr. Ward or Officer Singleton would be here after supper. He would be arrested and sent to the pokey. He would never finish the sixth grade. So he’d never get to play college ball even if he could catch, because he’d never graduate high school. The rest of his Saturdays would be filled with chores.

Finally, just before plates were cleared, Granddaddy spoke up.

“I’d like to say something,” he said.

“Sure, Granddaddy,” said Mother. “Don’t strain yourself. What is it?”

“I’ve got something to say and I’m not going to take any argument. Got that, Mina?”

“Well, I . . .”

“Good. I’m an old man and you’re going to give me my wish. I got here two tickets to Saturday’s Hawkeye game opening Iowa Stadium, and I aim to take Ned with me.”

Ned stared.

“Mr. Ward gave tickets to me and Mr. Jackson today. Out of the goodness of his heart for a couple of creakers, I suppose, but tickets all the same. Mr. Jackson already has a ticket, so he says to me, he says, ‘Take your Ned.’ ‘Fine idea,’ I says. ‘Fine idea.’”

“But . . .” Mother started.

“No buts, Mina. I’m going to the game, and you wouldn’t want me there without a family member, would you?”

“Well, I . . . no . . . I . . .”

“Good. It’s settled, then. I’ll keep the boy away from wild driving and what have you. Mr. Jackon is going to pick us up first thing in the morning. He will drive us to Iowa City and drive us home. Milo Jackson, Mina. Slowest driver in Johnson County. No worries about wild driving.”

“Nothing doing,” Mother said. “It’s about to rain. You aren’t well, Granddaddy.”

“A little rain never hurt anyone,” said Granddaddy Ike. But he didn’t make a move to get out of bed.

Mr. Jackson’s car was already idling outside. Ned pulled back Granddaddy’s covers.

“A little rain never hurt anyone,” repeated Ned. “Come on, Granddaddy. I’ve got your gold suspenders. You can sleep in the car on the way over.” He put his arms behind Granddaddy’s back and lifted him to sitting.

“Look lively.” Granddaddy said, and laughed weakly. But then he lay down again. “Your mother’s right, Ned. I hate to admit it, but I’ve got to stay right here. You go on ahead.”

“No!” said Ned. “I’ll stay here with you.”

“Nonsense,” said Granddaddy. “Lester’s expecting you, remember? You’ve got to go and take it all in and come back and tell it back to me.”

“But what will you do all day?”

“I’ll get Gladdy and Tugs to read. I’m every bit as happy to get Dorothy back to Kansas as to go out in foul weather. Get on, now. Don’t keep Mr. Jackson waiting any longer.”

Ned waited for his mother to protest, but she just handed him his cap. “You heard Granddaddy. Don’t keep Mr. Jackson waiting,” she said. “And keep your cap on.”

And then he was in the front seat of Mr. Jackson’s car.

Ned watched as they passed the school and Tractor Field and sputtered out of town. The road cut through fields of broken-over, harvested cornstalks. The sky was heavy and Mr. Jackson drove slowly. They joined a few cars on the road, but Ned could see a long line of cars ahead.

“We’re a little late, but we’ll get there when we get there,” Mr. Jackson muttered to himself. Then to Ned he said, “We don’t need to catch that line up. We’ll just lag back here. I didn’t realize there would be that many people driving this way.”

Ned leaned forward in his seat as if it would get him to Iowa City faster. Granddaddy had been right. Just follow the crowds. All the way from Goodhue, in fact. Follow the yellow brick road.

It started to rain then and Mr. Jackson fumbled for the wipers. Ned shivered and drew himself inside his jacket.

They slowed to pass a car pulled over in the ditch. There was a boy in the backseat. For that moment in passing, Ned and the boy looked at each other. He wasn’t a Goodhue boy, and Ned wondered if he was on his way to Iowa City, too. He wondered at the fact that this boy had eaten breakfast in a house Ned had never seen. A mother like his own had pressed a cap on this boy’s head. And now here they were on the same road going to see the same game. Afterward they would return to their own homes to their own cities — this boy could be from as far away as Manchester or Des Moines! — and never see each other again.

Ned turned to Mr. Jackson, but he was cursing under his breath and fiddling with the wipers.

“Gol-darned rain. Where were you in August?” he railed.

Ned wanted to tell Granddaddy about the boy and the cap and Iowa City. He put his hand on the empty middle seat, where Granddaddy should be sitting. There were so many cars. And each one filled with people Ned did not know. How could there be this many people in all of Iowa?

As they drew into town they slowed. People were parking their cars in yards and empty lots and running with newspapers over their heads and umbrellas parting the crowds. Mr. Jackson stopped the car at an intersection and said, “Well, Ned. Which way?”

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!”