The Great Quarterback Switch

by Matt Christopher

  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!

  6

  Just 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 t
ouchdown!

  Michael grinned happily, not minding at all that Tom was receiving the accolades. He turned, caught Ollie’s eye, and gave him the “V for victory” sign. Ollie acknowledged it by showing Michael the same sign, plus his big, teeth-revealing smile.

  Michael turned his attention back to the game, the resounding din of the applause slowly diminishing. Scoring, he thought, was of secondary importance. What was more important was that their thought-energies had worked. By concentrating and wishing as hard as they could, they had accomplished the miracle of exchanging places. That, at last, he had gotten to play football again!

  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, not even interested in seeing Vince kick for the extra point. A loud groan told him that the kick wasn’t good, anyway. So the score remained: Eagles 13, Scorpions 7.

  The Eagles had a rough second quarter. Twice they were penalized for being offside, and twice they were hit with fifteen-yard penalties— for clipping and for holding— a total loss of forty yards, while the Scorpions chalked up another touchdown.

  Each team scored once during the second half, but it was the Scorpions who pulled the squeaker, 21-20.

  “What’s the matter?” Tom asked Michael when they were alone for a brief moment after the game. “Didn’t you want to go back in?”

  “No. I was too tired,” said Michael. “And nervous. I was afraid I might ruin it.”

  “Ruin the game? Heck, we lost it, anyway.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I was bushed. Scared, too.”

  “Scared? Of what?”

  “That somebody might sense that something was different. That would’ve ruined it. Did you see Ollie?” He looked over his shoulder as he spoke. He saw Ollie and waved. Ollie grinned and waved back.

  “Yes, I saw him.” Tom smiled. “Maybe his being here helped.”

  “Uh-oh, squash it,” said Michael, lowering his voice. “Here come Vickie and Carol.”

  The girls came toward them, grinning like Cheshire cats. Carol was eating a Popsicle again.

  “Hi,” greeted Vickie. “Sorry you lost.”

  Tom shrugged. “That second quarter beat us,” he said.

  Carol looked at Michael. “I guess you really get hung up in a game, don’t you?” she said. “I don’t know how many times I said ‘Hi’ to you, and you never turned around once.”

  Michael stared at her through widened eyes. “I’m sorry. What quarter was that?”

  The girls looked at each other to verify the exact time.

  “The first quarter, wasn’t it?” said Carol, frowning.

  Vickie nodded. “Right. The first quarter.”

  The first quarter, thought Michael. It was probably when Tom and I had exchanged places. Oh, great. That’s just great.

  He grinned nervously at her. “That’s right. I really do get hung up in a game. I’m sorry, Carol. I’m really sorry.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” she said. “I wouldn’t get mad at you for a little thing like that.”

  Michael was glad when his mother and father arrived to break up the party. Tom introduced the girls to them, then the girls left, and the Curtis family went on its way home. They rehashed some of the plays of the game, while Michael restrained himself from telling them about the complete, wonderful success of their thought-energy process. He wouldn’t ever tell, no matter what. That was one thing that was a bound secret between him and Tom. And, of course, Ollie Pruitt.

  They weren’t home more than half an hour, just long enough for Tom to get out of his uniform and into clean clothes and knock off a sandwich, when Tom suggested to Michael that they go next door to see Ollie. The idea had been bubbling inside of Michael’s head, too.

  “Sure!” he said excitedly.

  They found Ollie cutting the shoots of a sea grape plant.

  “Well, howdy, boys,” he greeted them cheerfully. “Good game. Too bad you lost it.” He held the shoots while his eyes flicked from one brother to the other. “It worked, didn’t it? You got your TEC to work perfectly.”

  “Yes, we did, Mr. Pruitt,” Michael exclaimed. His body quivered with joy and excitement. At least they could share their experience with Ollie. He was a true believer. He would appreciate it.

  Michael explained it to Ollie first, how he had felt when the game had started, how he had tried to concentrate and wish so hard to put himself in Tom’s place; and then Tom butted in, saying how he had concentrated on the switch, too. And, suddenly, in one split second, the actual exchange: Tom in the wheelchair in Michael’s clothes, and Michael on the field in Tom’s uniform.

  “We proved it’s possible, Mr. Pruitt!” Michael said proudly. “And we’re going to do it again!”

  Ollie’s eyes sparkled. “Of course you’re going to do it again. You’ve got a good thing going, not only for you, Michael, but for Tom, too. Now he can rest while you play, and nobody will know the difference!”

  7

  Eight and two.

  The ball was on the Eagles’ twenty-two-yard line. It was the following Saturday. They were playing the Moths. The Eagles huddled, split, trotted to the line of scrimmage.

  “Eight! Nine! Eleven! Hip! Hip! Hip!”

  Jack centered the ball. Tom caught it, stepped back, faked a handoff to Jim. Jim bolted through the line, pulling a guard and a linebacker after him as if they were magnetized.

  On the right side of the field, Angie was running like a gazelle. Hans Steiner, the Moths’ left end, was after him.

  On the left side of the field was a stampede. Right end Chuck Willis and linebacker Moonie Jones were pounding the turf after Bob Riley.

  Lumpy was doing a good job blocking his man, Moe Finney, the Moths’ lanky guard. Moe might as well have been trying to push aside an army tank.

  But Nick Podopolis got through. Nick was the Moths’ middle linebacker on defense and played fullback on offense. He was big, fast, and strong. He was a midget bull.

  Michael saw him bust through the line between Jack Benson and Doug Morton. Nick went after Tom with his short, chunky legs churning like pistons. His broad shoulders were down, and his arms were stretched out like tentacles.

  Michael felt his heart rise to his throat. He glanced over the field and saw that Angie had buttonhooked in, clearing himself from Hans. Then he glanced back at Tom. An electric shiver coursed through him as he saw that Nick had Tom on the run. Tom was being chased back toward his own goal line!

  Concentrating hard, hoping that his thought-energies would work, Michael tried to switch places with Tom. This was the second quarter and Tom looked tired. That long, sixty-two-yard touchdown run in the first quarter must have drained some of the strength out of him.

  But Michael knew that if Tom wasn’t concentrating and wishing, too, exchanging places with him was out of the question. And apparently Tom wasn’t, for the exchange never came about. Tom was smeared on his own three-yard line.

  “Oh, too bad!” said a voice behind Michael. He recognized it immediately. It belonged to Carol Patterson. He had a notion to turn and look at her; he wondered whether she would be eating another Popsicle. But he didn’t.

  The loss of yardage put the Eagles where the Moths no doubt wanted them. Against the wall. On their second play the Eagles fumbled the ball. The Moths recovered it, then went over for the touchdown. It was Nick who scored, and Nick, again, who kicked the extra point. Eagles 7, Moths 7.

  Michael sat in his wheelchair, hunched forward, as the teams lined up for the kickoff. He was anxious to go in, but was Tom as anxious to come out? he wondered. Darn Tom! he thought angrily. Now that I can go in the game, he won’t let me! He won’t cooperate!

  Michael sat back, fuming. What a rotten deal to make. Tom had agreed to cooperate on the thought-energy control, but now that they made it work, he was reneging! What a brother!

  Suddenly Michael stiffened in his chair. What was he doing? Why was he making such a terrible judgment of Tom just because their exchange had not been made now when he, Michael, wanted it?


  Tom was too wrapped up in the game now. That was the reason, of course. The game was tight. And, being quarterback, Tom had to mastermind the moves. The coach had given him almost full rein to run the team. That had to be the reason Tom wasn’t concentrating on TEC.

  The smart thing to do, Michael figured, was for him and Tom to decide before a game when to concentrate on their thought-energies. It would save time, and be less frustrating, too.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the seat where he had seen Ollie at the last game. This time Ollie’s attention was on the game.

  Michael smiled, and looked away.

  He watched Moonie kick off. It was a nice, long, shallow boot. Tom gobbled it up on the fifteen and did some fancy broken-field running before he was brought down on the thirty-three. Michael smiled with admiration. Darn it! But that kid can really run! he thought.

  Tom called pass plays on the first two downs. Neither one worked.

  He glanced toward the sideline. He looked bushed. Was he worried, too? Could be, Michael thought.

  Michael waved to him. Tom answered by barely making a gesture. Was he looking for help? Maybe even an exchange?

  “The T-forty-three drive!” Michael said, loudly enough to carry only ten feet. “The T-forty-three drive!”

  The Eagles broke out of the huddle and hustled to the line of scrimmage. Michael watched Tom step up close to the center, the other three backfield men forming a T behind him.

  Michael clapped with joy. They were going to run! It was the T-43 drive play!

  Tom barked signals. As the words popped out of his mouth, Michael began to concentrate. He pictured himself in Tom’s place, crouching as Tom was crouching, looking over the line as Tom was looking, yelling the signals as Tom was yelling.

  Jack snapped the ball, faked a handoff to Vince, then chucked a short lateral pass to Jim. Driving forward like a small bulldozer, Jim plowed through tackle for twelve yards!

  Michael saw Tom leap with joy, saw Tom turn toward him, his fists held high as he whooped it up.

  Michael lifted his arms, too, as he joined in with the cry. He felt a thrill, the exhilaration of the play’s success.