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Was Tom stubbornly refusing to concentrate on TEC because he wanted
     to make up for that fumble? Or was something else going on?
    After a while, Michael, disgusted, gave up trying to make contact with Tom.
The heck with him, he thought. I’m not going to sit here and beg him to exchange places with me all the time. Anyway, maybe
     I’m wrong. Maybe I’m asking for too much. It’s enoughthat Tom lets me play in his place once in a while.
    He sat there quietly and watched the Eagles take a battering from the Moths.
    Suddenly, with five minutes left to play, Michael began to feel the vibrations that told him that Tom was trying to communicate
     with him! He looked at Tom, and joy welled up in him. He apologized silently to Tom for thinking that Tom had reneged on him,
     and concentrated as hard as he could on TEC.
    The Eagles had the ball on their own forty-four-yard line. Michael thought he understood the problem. Tom had tried his best
     to get the ball moving toward the Moths’ goal, but he just couldn’t do it. And now he was asking for Michael’s help.
    In a moment the exchange was made. Michael was on the field, and Tom was in Michael’s wheelchair.
    Michael and the rest of the Eagles were in a huddle.
    “Seventeen sprint-out pass,” said Michael. “On two!”
    He was nervous as he got behind Jack Benson and barked signals. The play had to work. It just had to.
    “Eighteen! Twenty-one! Hip! Hip!”
    He caught the snap, faded back a few steps, and glided to the right. All at once he saw Moonie Jones, the Moths’ tank-sized
     linebacker, break through the line and come at him.
    Panic swept through Michael as he searched the flats for a receiver. Then he saw Bob Riley cutting in from the left sideline,
     evading his guard for a few seconds. Those few seconds could be enough.
    With Moonie only three steps away from him, Michael let go a pass. It barely missed Moonie’s outstretched hands as it sailed
     in aneat spiral down the field. The throw looked as if it might be too far away from Bob, but the swift-footed end put on more
     speed, caught the ball, and sprinted toward the goal line.
    Five yards away from it, he was caught by Eddie Myles, the Moths’ safety man, and brought down.
    “Beautiful pass, Mike!” shouted a voice from the sideline. “Beautiful!”
    Michael stared across the field at Tom, who was waving his clasped hands over his head.
    Someone poked him in the ribs. He looked around at Vince, who was grinning broadly at him.
    “Hear that? Your brother seems so shook up he doesn’t even know who he is! He called you Mike!”

9
    M ichael almost froze to the spot. He felt a shiver buzz through him. His mouth twitched as he tried to smile, hoping that he
     could say something that wouldn’t get Vince curious.
    “Oh, he… uh… he pretends he plays in my place sometimes,” Michael said, rather stiffly. “After all, he’s stuck in that wheelchair
     most of the time. He likes to get out of it once in a while— mentally, anyway. You know what I mean.”
    “Yeah. I guess I do. It must be pretty tough for him.”
    “Sometimes,” said Michael.
    “Hurry up, you guys,” Butch piped up, “before the ref slaps a penalty on us for delaying the game.”
    Thanks, Butch,
Michael thought, grateful for the interruption. Relief swept over him as he took his time going to the huddle. He got to
     thinking about having helped the team, and Tom, by successfully throwing a pass that put the Eagles within scoring distance.
     Now he would like to have Tom himself be in the game and score a touchdown, by a run or a pass.
    He concentrated hard for the exchange, hoping that Tom was tuned in to his thoughts.
    Then suddenly it happened. He was in his wheelchair, and Tom was on the field.
    “Hey! You’re not listening to me!” a voice cried near his elbow. “I asked you a question!”
    Startled, Michael turned and saw Carol beside him, a half-eaten Popsicle clutched in her hand.
    “I— I’m sorry,” he said.