The Great Quarterback Switch (4 page)

Stogey Snyder was another. He wasn’t quite as fat as Lumpy, but if he were to race with a turtle, chances were that he’d come
in second.

Some of the guys stopped and talked with the girls, and Michael glanced at Vickie Marsh. He wasn’t surprised to see that she
was standing there all alone. The girls who had been with her had left her stranded while they went to meet their heroes.
But her eyes were on somebody, and Michael saw that she was looking at Tom.

Then, as Tom was coming toward Michael, Tom glanced in her direction, and a faint smile came over his lips.

“Hi, Vickie,” he greeted her.

“Hi, Tom,” she said.

Then she looked at Michael and their eyes met squarely. “Hi, Michael!” she exclaimed. “How are you?”

“Fine, thanks,” he said.

She came toward them. A soft breeze blew a strand of her hair across her face and she pushed it back. “Who are you playing
on Saturday?” she asked Tom.

He thought a moment, then glanced at Michael. It was obvious he couldn’t remember, and Michael wondered if Vickie’s presence
fogged up his memory.

“I think the Moths,” said Tom, unsure.

“The Scorpions,” Michael corrected him, and grinned. “We play the Moths the Saturday after.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Tom blushed. Just then he seemed to have discovered a smudge of dirt on his helmet and started to rub
it off.

“The Scorpions?” Vickie echoed. “Wow! Are they good?”

Tom shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll find out when we play them.”

He stopped rubbing at the smudge, looked up and beyond her. “Your friends are waiting for you,” he said.

She turned and looked behind her. “They’re not my friends,” she said abruptly. “Well, not all of them.” She swung her head
back to let the wind blow the hair away from her face. “I’d better go, though. See you around.”

“Okay,” said Tom.

She turned and ran off, her hair flaring out like the wings of a butterfly.

“I think she has a crush on you, brother,” Michael said, as they started off the field.

“You’re crazy,” said Tom.

“And I bet you like her, too.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You forgot who we play this Saturday, that’s what. And I know your memory isn’t that bad.”

Tom laughed. “Yeah. Guess that was stupid, wasn’t it?”

They reached the gate and got on the sidewalk.

“Did you concentrate on what I was doing?” Tom asked, changing the subject. “Because I was concentrating, almost every minute.”

“I did. But nothing happened. Maybe we’re just not concentrating and wishing hard enough.”

“And maybe it’s a lot of baloney,” said Tom. He sounded defeated. “Maybe it’s just impossible to do what we’re thinking of
doing.”

Michael looked at him. His eyes were narrowed and intensely serious.

“But you heard Ollie, Tom. He said it is possible. And I think it is, too. We both have to concentrate very, very hard on
it. You do want to do it, don’t you? You’re not changing your mind?”

“Of course I want to do it. If it’s possible, I want to do it very much. It would be the greatest thing in the world that
has ever happened to me.”

“And it will happen, because I’m sure we can do it, Tom.” Mike’s eyes gleamed with confidence. “We’ve just got to concentrate
and wish on it with all our might, that’s all.”

T
he Eagles practiced every night of the week except on Friday, and each night Vickie Marsh was present at the field, too.

On Thursday she was there with just one girl, whom she introduced to Michael and Tom as her friend Carol Patterson. Carol,
dark-haired and not quite as skinny as Vickie, hardly said a word all the time they were together. She had been too busy eating
a Popsicle.

“Man, that Carol is some creep,” said Michael, on their way home Thursday evening. “Can’t she talk?”

“She said ‘Hello,’” replied Tom.

“I know. But that’s all she said.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing,” Tom said. “How would you have liked it if she had kept jabbering every minute?”

“It would have driven me up a wall.”

“Right.”

The game on Saturday started at the usual time, 2
P.M.
It was a warm day. Clouds hovered in the sky like balls of cotton, hardly moving. The grandstand, speckled with both Eagles
and Scorpions fans, buzzed like a beehive.

Michael, in his wheelchair, was at his usual place just left of the players’ bench. He had not asked for the privilege of
watching the games from this vantage spot. Coach Cotter had granted it to him, a privilege Michael sincerely appreciated.

He remembered that Ollie Pruitt had said
he’d see them at the games. He looked over his right shoulder, and then over his left.

Suddenly, Michael’s hand rose and waved, and he shouted, “Mr. Pruitt!”

The old man was sitting in the second row near the end of the bleachers, his hat pulled down to shield his eyes from the sun.

“Hi, Michael!” he answered. “Good luck, boy!”

A couple of kids in front of Ollie Pruitt turned and looked up at him. And he smiled back at them.

Good old Mr. Pruitt,
thought Michael.
Maybe with him close by, Tom and I will have luck in doing what we want to do.

The Scorpions won the toss and chose to receive. The teams lined up. Vince Forelli kicked off. The boot was a poor one, slicing
off toward the right side of the field. A Scorpion caught it and carried it to his own forty-two-yard
line, where Butch Bogger smeared him.

The Scorpions got into a huddle. Seconds later they broke out of it and ran to the line of scrimmage. Terry Fisher, their
quarterback, began barking signals.

Playing in the linebacker positions for the Eagles were Vince, Jim, and Angie. Tom was in the safety slot.

The center snapped the ball. Terry got it, turned, handed it off to fullback Ted Connors. Ted bucked through right tackle
for a gain of four yards.

On the next play Nibbs McCay, the Scorpions’ right halfback, took a handoff and sped around left end. He got good blocking,
then stiff-armed Rick Howell for a gain of four yards before Rick regained his balance, cycloned after him, and pulled him
down with a flying tackle.

A short pass over the right side of the line gave the Scorpions a first down. They were in Eagle territory now and hopping
with total confidence.

Michael looked at Tom and began to think of playing in Tom’s place. He didn’t know for certain whether intense, deep concentration
and wishing— both on his part and on Tom’s— would really induce their thought-energies to let them exchange places, but then
again, maybe Ollie Pruitt was right and switching places with another person whose interests and thoughts were attuned to
your own was entirely possible if you concentrated hard enough.

So Michael began focusing his thoughts; he watched Tom’s every move while he pictured himself making the moves. Only Tom,
playing safety, wasn’t doing much on defense. He was just making sure no Scorpion got past him.

The Scorpions had the ball on the Eagles’ thirty-four-yard line when Doug Morton was called on a clipping charge, a fifteen-yard
penalty. The ball was spotted on the nineteen, and it indeed looked as if there would be no stopping the Scorpions.

Ted Connors bucked for a three-yard gain, then again for five yards.

Michael could almost sense what was being said in the Eagles’ huddle as they tried to anticipate what the Scorpions would
do next.

“Watch for a pass! Get Terry, you linebackers! Try to stop him!”

The Eagles scrambled to their defensive positions, Tom in the end zone, his legs spread slightly apart, his arms bent at the
elbows. Again, Michael tried to picture himself in Tom’s place, standing there as Tom was standing, feeling the electric excitement.

Terry shouted signals. The ball was centered. He got it, faded back. Helmets crashed against helmets, shoulder pads against
shoulder pads. And then there were black-and-red uniforms dotting the end zone, which was also sprinkled with the white-and-maroon
uniforms of the Eagles.

Michael felt his heart pound as he saw Terry throw the ball in a perfect spiral toward the right side of the end zone. A Scorpion
was sprinting for the corner, an Eagle after him. The Eagle was number 80, Bob Riley.

“Get it, Bob!” Michael shouted. “Get it!”

Bob didn’t get it. But the Scorpion did. It was a touchdown.

Ted Connors kicked for the point after, and it was good. Scorpions 7, Eagles 0.

Michael felt a sinking in his breast, just as Tom must have felt. Getting behind by
seven points so soon would drain a pound of energy out of anybody.

Ted Connors kicked off for the Scorpions. The kick was long, shallow, and straight as a string. Tom caught it and bolted up
the field, dodging a couple of Scorpions and taking advantage of good blocking by Don Cleaver and Stan Bates. Tom was fast
and agile, an excellent broken-field runner. As Tom spun this way and that to avoid would-be tacklers, Michael again pictured
himself in Tom’s place. As fast as Tom was, Michael knew that he was even faster. That he
had been
faster before the accident. If he could be in Tom’s place now—

He concentrated and wished hard on the exchange, forgetting that he was in a wheelchair as he tried to tune in on Tom’s thoughts,
and Tom’s moves.

He hardly noticed it when he began to
sweat. The Eagles had the ball on their forty-six-yard line, and Tom was calling signals. The ball was snapped. Tom took it,
faded back, looked for a receiver, and then heaved a long pass down the left side of the field. Tom watched the soaring ball;
Michael watched it. Michael’s heart pounded. He hoped that the throw wasn’t too far out of reach of Bob Riley, the intended
receiver.

The ball sailed like a gliding bird. It came down at the end of its arc and dropped into Bob’s outstretched hands. Michael
thought his heart was going to stop as the ball slipped out of Bob’s hands, bounced up, flipped a couple of times, and then
was drawn back again into the security of Bob’s arms.

“Good go, Bob!” Michael yelled. “Now, run, man! Run!”

He was pounding his fist in the air as he watched Bob sprint down the field, a Scorpion
on his tail. But Bob, a long-legged kid who was as fast as they came, kept widening the gap between himself and the would-be
tackler.

And then Bob was in the end zone, slowing down as he circled around the goalposts, the ball raised high over his head. It
was a touchdown! The Eagles’ fans roared and cheered. Some whistled.

Michael raised his fists in triumph. “Way to go, guys!” he shouted.

Vince kicked for the extra point. It just cleared the bar. 7-7.

The teams lined up again for the kickoff. Vince kicked. Ted Connors caught the end-over-end liner, ran up to the Scorpions’
thirty-four-yard line, and was tackled.

Terry Fisher called signals, took the snap, handed it off to Nibbs McCay. Nibbs blasted through right tackle for five yards.

On the next play, Lumpy Harris moved
before the ball was in play. It was a five-yard penalty.

Great,
Michael thought, socking the armrests of his wheelchair in disgust. A first down for the Scorpions.

He suddenly thought of Ollie Pruitt, and glanced back to look at him. He was startled as he saw Ollie looking directly at
him, as if Ollie knew that he, Michael, was going to turn and look at him at that same instant.

Ollie’s lips moved. “Have faith,” they seemed to say.

Michael nodded, and looked away.

The ball was spotted on the Scorpions’ forty-four-yard line. In three plays they got it to the Eagles’ twenty-eight.

First down and ten.

The Scorpions were moving, and they seemed to be unstoppable.

Terry called signals. Michael, watching intently, anticipated a running play. It wasn’t
called. Terry got the snap and dropped back, looking for a receiver.

Michael saw him first. It was Eddie Stone— Stoney— running down the right side of the field. There appeared to be no one near
him.

Get him, Tom! Get him!
Michael screamed to himself.

His body pulsed, aching to move. Every fiber in his arms and legs quivered as they struggled to react.

And then something strange happened.
He was running down the field! He was running after Stoney! He was in Tom’s shoes, in Tom’s uniform!

The Thought-Energy Control had worked! He had exchanged places with Tom!

J
ust short of the ten-yard line, Michael lunged at Stoney, caught him by the waist, and brought him down.

“Nice tackle, Tom,” said Angie, as Michael got to his feet.

Now came another tough ordeal. How to avoid being recognized? If the guys looked at and listened to him closely enough, could
they see he wasn’t Tom, even though they were twins?

Other than the dimple in Michael’s chin, the brothers looked alike. They had the same color eyes and hair. They even parted
their hair on the same side. Was that enough to protect his identity? Michael wondered. He just had to wait and see— and keep
his fingers crossed.

He trotted back into the end zone and waited for the next play.

The Scorpions tried an end-around run, and lost a yard. Then Terry faked a handoff to Ted Connors, faded back a few feet,
and shot a pass to Buzz Haner.

Michael, seeing the play forming, started toward Buzz even before Terry had released the ball. The bullet pass was on the
money, except that Michael got there first. He caught the ball, pulled it into his arms, and started down the field. His legs
churning with power, he sprinted across the five-yard line… the ten… the fifteen…the twenty…

Not a Scorpion got near him. He went all the way.

As he crossed the goal line and lifted the ball high over his head, he cried out in his mind to Tom:
Let’s change places, Tom! I’m tired!

It happened quickly. In the next instant he was back in his wheelchair, looking out upon the field, watching the guys showering
Tom with praises for making that interception and sprinting all the way down the field for a touchdown!