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The Thompson sisters chattered past the alley, then a trash can clattered behind Ned, making him jump. Leopold skittered out from behind the can and sauntered after his elderly mistresses. Ned sank to his haunches and tucked the ball behind him. He’d never get Lester’s football back into the Ben Franklin without notice, and he couldn’t take it home in broad daylight. The only thing to do was to hide the ball and come back for it after dark.

Ned looked around for a place to stash it. The trash can wouldn’t do. The ball could get damaged, and someone might see it if they brought the trash out. And what if the can got emptied before Ned returned? He picked up the ball and walked farther back into the alley. Mr. Pepper kept his snow shovels out here year-round, and they formed a bit of a tent. There was an empty crate and a pile of rags. And behind the pool hall was the 1910 Model T belonging to Mr. Carl himself. That was it. That car hadn’t moved from its spot for as long as Ned remembered. The tires were flat. Mice nested in the seats, the main draw for Leopold and other wandering felines.

Ned ran his hands over the ball again. He pressed it to his chest as if he were catching a long pass; tucked it under his arm as if to run with it down the field. Then he opened the trunk and set it inside. The lid rattled when he closed it. Ned dashed out of the alley and then slowed to a walk so as not to draw attention to himself. His arms and legs felt foreign, and he had to force them to move ahead slowly and surely.

As soon as the moon rose above the gnarled oak, Ned edged out of bed and tiptoed to the window. It was open to the mild early fall breeze. He just had to get out without Gladdy hearing him or waking up before he got back. He opted for going out face-first this time, reaching his hands down and rolling out the low window in a thumping somersault.

There was freedom being outside at night, with no one about. Houses seemed to rise and fall with the breathing chests inside them, and night critters came to life, having their daytime. Cars waited for passengers, a fleet of ships ready for battle. Ned breathed in deeply and felt five feet tall.

He startled a family of raccoons foraging around the trash can by the back door, an army of alien robbers to be vanquished.

Ned walked through the night streets. Every block was as familiar as the laces on his shoes. The Petersons, the Floyds, the Perkinses. The stump of a tree at this corner, the prickly rosebushes at that.

But as he drew closer to Carl’s Alley, a knot grew in his stomach. Here, the moon lit his way, and the occasional streetlight, but there would be no light in Carl’s Alley. And while raccoons didn’t frighten him a lick in his own backyard, the thought of various night creatures foraging in the alley started to work jelly between the sockets of his knees.

He should have asked Tugs. She would have come with him. Maybe he could go get her now. Or Ralph. Ralph liked to be out at night. Suddenly noises Ned hadn’t been noticing were loud and frightening. An owl hooted and flew from one tree to another. A dog barked and Ned ran, for fear the owners would wake up. There was a German shepherd sauntering along by itself, and in the dimness it looked like a wolf from the Tin Man’s pack. Ned ducked behind a car and waited for it to trot out of sight before he continued.

He stood at the mouth of the alley and peered around the corner. There was nothing to be afraid of. It was just dirt and rubbish and doors and the car. Same as in the daylight. If he ran he’d be in and out of there in a wink.

Ned sucked in a breath, held it, and ran for the car. He yanked open the trunk, grabbed the ball, slammed the lid shut without worrying about its racket, and ran. He was Lester Ward with Bronko Nagurski chasing him down the field. He was at the fifty, the forty; he dodged one of Mr. Pepper’s snow shovels, a tight end, and a pile of boxes. He could see the end zone of the Ben Franklin just ahead. He clutched the ball tighter and . . .

Touchdown. The back door of the Ben Franklin. Ned looked down at the ball once more, faked one more pass, then set the ball down next to the door, snug against the frame. He stood up, but the ball rolled off. Ned tried again, setting the ball on the top step this time. Surely it would be seen there first thing. Or maybe not. He carried it around to the front door and set it there.

He took a few steps, then turned back. He picked up the ball again. He placed his fingers between the laces. A well of indignation grew in his belly. Hadn’t Burton stolen the ball from him to begin with?
I’ll bet you’re a fine player
, Lester had said. This was Ned’s football.

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.