The Great Quarterback Switch Page 2

  “About you and me— switching places. It’s supposed to be impossible, I know. But— ” Tom paused, and Michael felt goose bumps pop out on his arms. “Ever since that accident two years ago, you’ve spent most of your time in that wheelchair. You’ll never play football again, or baseball, or track, or anything else that I enjoy doing.”

  “Heck, have I ever complained?” asked Michael.

  The boys were ten when the accident had happened. A car had backed out of a drive-way and had struck Michael while he was riding his bike on the sidewalk. Ever since then he hadn’t been able to use his legs, and the doctor said he might never again.

  “No,” Tom said. “You’ve been super about that. It’s great you can swim, and you’ve beaten me a dozen times at Ping-Pong. But I know how much you’d like to play other sports. Football, for example.”

  Michael nodded. “I’d give anything.” Then he laughed. “Hey, I’ve already given my legs! Maybe they were the wrong things to give!” He made a face. “A stupid thing to say, wasn’t it?”

  Tom shook his head. “You have an attitude I can’t believe, Mike.”

  “Heck, you’re trying to say I’m bad off. I’m not. Legs aren’t everything. I just can’t walk or run, that’s all.” He was quiet for a moment, then looked his brother in the eye. “Still, I do miss playing football sometimes. So tell me: Have you been thinking the same thing I’ve been thinking? About Ollie Pruitt’s theory on TEC? Thought-Energy Control?”

  “Yes! Let’s talk with Ollie about it, okay? If anybody knows anything about it, it’s Ollie.”

  “Right.”

  Michael’s face brightened. “I bet we can do TEC, Tom. Wouldn’t that be great?”

  Tom smiled. “You bet it would. Come on. Let’s go over and see him right now.”

  Excited about the prospect, Michael started toward the door ahead of Tom. Suddenly he stopped, and looked around at his twin brother.

  “What now?” Tom asked, curious.

  Michael smiled. “Tom, you’re the greatest,” he said. “I’m sure glad you’re my brother.” Then he turned and continued toward the door.

  3

  Ollie Pruitt lived in the tall, two-story house next door. It was set farther back from the street than any other house, was painted a butterscotch color, and was the only one with a steep, wood-shingled roof. His front and back lawns were covered with plants and flowers, one of his two favorite hobbies.

  His other hobby was nobody else’s business, except a handful of friends who were interested in the same thing. Those included the kids next door, Michael and Tom, who figured that Ollie kept the hobby a secret from most people because it was pretty far out. Some people might think that Ollie had gone loony if they knew— a good enough reason, the boys thought, why the old guy didn’t want to share his secret with everybody.

  He was watering a plant when the boys got to his place. They greeted each other. Ollie asked them about the outcome of the game, which channeled the conversation away from the boys’ more important topic for a few minutes.

  Then Ollie seemed to sense that the boys had not come to talk football; he lifted his faded brown hat, scratched his bald head, and looked at them with narrowed eyes.

  “Well, what’s on your collective mind?” he asked. “I can tell it ain’t football.”

  The boys grinned.

  “We’d like to talk with you about something, Mr. Pruitt,” said Michael.

  Michael was nervous, and he suddenly wondered if he and Tom were doing the right thing.

  Ollie Pruitt’s eyes shifted from one brother to the other. “Something personal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Come into my inner sanctum.”

  The boys followed him into the house, slowly, because Ollie— being somewhere between seventy and ninety years old— never rushed into doing anything. His wife had died long ago. He had no children, just a brother and a sister, neither of whom he had seen in forty years. They were probably both dead for all he knew, he had told the boys once.

  His inner sanctum was a large room, lined with shelves of books, in the back of the house. Over a fireplace was the head of a ten-point deer. The carpet was worn clear through to the matting in some places, and the chairs looked like relics from George Washington’s day. All four corners of the redwood ceiling were laced with cobwebs. This was the fifth or sixth time the boys had visited him in here, and the room didn’t look a bit different.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Ollie asked. “Orange juice or something?”

  “No, thanks,” Michael said.

  “Me neither,” said Tom.

  They looked at each other, each waiting for the other to break the barrier. Suddenly the tall grandfather clock next to the fireplace bonged, jolting Michael like an electric shock. The clock bonged four more times.

  Ollie chuckled. “That’s five o’clock. That racket should jar you boys into speaking your piece. No need to be shy about it. We understand each other, don’t we? It’s almost as if we have the same mind at times. Right?”

  “Right,” said Michael. He took a deep breath and went on. “Mr. Pruitt, Tom and I are sure we had an ESP experience today at the football game. I got to thinking of plays I thought he should call, and that’s exactly what he did. He called them.”

  “I’m not surprised to hear that,” said Ollie calmly. He sat down on a worn cushioned chair and motioned Tom to sit on the one next to him. “You boys are unique in that you think so much alike. ESP isn’t all that strange, as you know.”

  “Well, it isn’t only that we were thinking about, Mr. Pruitt,” said Tom, darting a glance at his brother.

  Ollie’s eyes shifted from one boy to the other. “That so? What else have you got on your collective mind?”

  Again the brothers looked at each other, neither of them quite sure whether to bring the subject up. Then Michael thought, We’ve gone this far. We might as well go all the way. If Ollie thinks we’ve lost our marbles, we’ll just go home and forget the whole thing.

  “Mr. Pruitt,” he said seriously, “you once told us that we were all just made up of particles of matter. You said that the day would come when a human being could transport himself to wherever he wished. Remember that?”

  Ollie nodded. “That’s right. As a matter of fact, some people believe that aliens on other planets are doing that very same thing this very minute.”

  “I’ve read about that, too,” said Michael. “But remember when you told us that you’re sure that two people— if they concentrated hard enough on it, and wished hard enough on it— could… well… could change places with each other?”

  “Of course, I remember that,” said Ollie, his eyes brightening with interest. “By deep concentration, and wishing, you put your combined thought-energies to work through TEC, Thought-Energy Control. Your thought-energies project your mind out of your body and it goes where you want it to go. Michael would slip into Tom’s clothes and Tom, into Michael,s.”

  His eyes sparkled as he continued with his explanation of the phenomenon. “For instance, if you two concentrate your thought-energies as hard as you can, Tom would end up sitting in the wheelchair, and you, Michael, would become the healthy athlete.”

  The boys’ eyes glowed with enthusiasm over the idea of experimenting with this wonderful phenomenon.

  Mr. Pruitt smiled. “But, remember, it will take extra energy. Extra concentration. Extra wishing. Chances are that you two might not make it on the first try, or even the second or third. But you mustn’t give up. That’s the secret. It will happen. It might take a lot out of you in the beginning, but it will happen if you stick with it. And after you’ve done it once, it’ll come easier.”

  A proud grin spread across his wrinkled face. “Is that what you’ve got on your minds? You’d like to try TEC?”

  Michael’s heart pounded. He looked at Tom. Tom’s face was beaming.

  “Yes, we’d like to try it,” Michael said excitedly. “Before the accident that paralyzed my
legs, I did nearly all the things that Tom does. Played football, baseball, ran in track— ”

  “He ran faster than I did,” Tom cut in. “And he was a better quarterback, too.”

  “There were a lot of things I did that he does,” Michael went on. “We thought that if we tried TEC, then I’d have a chance to play again.”

  “A splendid idea,” Ollie agreed enthusiastically. “I admire you. Both of you. Shows the love you have for each other. Okay, when and where would you like to try out TEC for the physical exchange?”

  “At the football games,” said Tom.

  Ollie nodded. “Good.” His eyes narrowed again. “Just remember, it’s concentration and wishing— extraordinary concentration, extraordinary wishing— that will get your thought-energies working. And you’ll do it. I’m sure you will.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Pruitt,” said Tom. He got up from his chair. “We’re sure glad you’re our neighbor, Mr. Pruitt,” he added.

  Ollie took off his hat and set it on the floor. His bald head was pink, and wrinkled in back. “You boys give me a lot of pleasure, too,” he admitted. “It was a good many years, you know, that I lived like a hermit in this house, just because people figured I was a little touched upstairs.” He ran a finger in small circles around his right ear. “Then you boys came along. These past five years have been the happiest since before my wife passed away. Yes, sir— books are all right, but they just can’t take the place of people.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Pruitt,” said Michael. “Well, we’ll be seeing you.”

  “Right. And I’ll see you,” said Ollie, “at the games.”

  4

  On Monday, after school, Michael sat on the sidelines, watching the Eagles work out on the east end of the football field. The Moths were working out on the west end at the same time.

  He was among a couple of dozen kids. Some he knew, some he didn’t. Some of them were girls. Two of them, Sally Barton and Martha Withers, were doing a lot of talking and giggling. They just came to hang around the guys, anyway. Neither one had a boyfriend, and the way they talked and giggled it wasn’t hard to understand why they didn’t.

  Some of the other girls, Michael thought, weren’t bad. Vickie Marsh, for example. She was pretty skinny, but she had beautiful skin and long blond hair. She had brains, too. Tom talked about her once in a while, sometimes sounding as if he liked her just a little. But Tom wasn’t stuck on her. He had said so.

  The backfield men drilled on running patterns, the linemen on blocking. Then the two quarterbacks, Tom and Kirk, took turns throwing passes to the ends. Michael watched Tom’s every move with avid concentration. He began to think more and more of himself in Tom’s place; he was concentrating so hard that he could almost feel the smoothness of the leather in his hands as the center snapped the football. He tried to think of himself in Tom’s place as Tom faked a handoff, faded back, came to a standstill, and drilled a pass to an end.

  There was more to passing than just throwing the ball, whether the pass was short or long. The important thing was to throw it ahead of the receiver; and you had to time it right or you were in trouble. Michael knew that. He had studied all the aspects of quarterbacking a team by watching television, by reading books, and by watching Tom.

  After the initial drills were over, Coach Cotter had the team split up into squads. Because there were only eighteen players, the coach had the eleven regulars work on running plays against a seven-man defensive line. On pass plays he boosted the defense to eleven men to make it tougher for the passers and receivers. Nevertheless, Tom was able to complete four passes out of five. Kirk completed two out of five. But this was only his first year as a quarterback. Michael figured that in another year he’d be as good as— or maybe better than— Tom.

  When the drills were over, some of the players dropped on the grass and lay on it as if they couldn’t move another step. Lumpy Harris, a lineman, was one of them. There was almost enough of him to make two linemen.

  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.”

  5

  The 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 s
aid ‘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.