CHAPTER 1
The roar of the crowd was deafening. They screamed and cheered, “Andrew! Andrew! Andrew!”
Andrew Tucker smiled through the cage of his helmet. He had scored the winning touchdown of his most important game ever. The fans snapped photos as he danced in the end zone. They all knew someday he’d be the most famous wide receiver in the country.
Scouts from every college and half of the pro teams in the country were watching too. They took notes and shot video footage. Some of them spoke excitedly on cell phones, no doubt telling their team owners or school presidents they had to get this great, young player, quick.
Someone tapped Andrew on the shoulder and he turned. The sun was behind his dad’s head, and Andrew squinted.
“Are you listening to me, Andrew?” his dad said.
“Huh?” Andrew replied.
Dad laughed. “I think that you’ve been daydreaming again,” he said. “What are you thinking about this time?”
Andrew sighed. “Same as ever,” he said.
The truth was, Andrew wasn’t an all-star wide receiver. He played for the junior high football team, and he even got to start most games. But he was lucky if he made one reception per game and one touchdown per season.
The real all-star was Andrew’s brother, Marcus. Andrew and his dad were at the Westfield High School Wildcats game right now, and Andrew was dreaming that he was as great as his brother.
Marcus was the one with college and pro scouts watching him. Marcus was the one with adoring fans.
Marcus was the one who had just scored the game-winning touchdown . . . again. It was Marcus’s tenth touchdown of the season, and it was only the third game.
Dad stood up from the bleacher. “Another great game for the Wildcats,” he said. “I’ll get the car. You get your brother.”
When Dad had walked off, Andrew got up and headed toward the Wildcats bench. It was crowded with people celebrating and shaking Marcus’s hand.
Marcus had fans of all ages. There were other high school guys, some high school girls, plenty of team parents, and even some of the very old men who hung out at the hardware store. Andrew knew some of those men had played on the Westfield Wildcats fifty or sixty years ago.
“Hey, Marcus,” Andrew called out. “Come on, bro.” He got up on his toes to see over the crowd surrounding his brother. “We have to go.”
Marcus shook a few more hands and even signed some little kid’s jersey. “Okay, little bro,” he said. “Give me a minute.”
Andrew stepped back from the crowd and sat on the bench. After a few more minutes, the people went away, and Marcus stood in front of Andrew.
“Ready?” Marcus asked, smiling.
Andrew slowly got to his feet, his shoulders sagging, and said, “Let’s go.”
The two brothers walked toward Dad’s car. Marcus put an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
Andrew didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t admit he was jealous of his brother or that he wanted to be as great on the field as Marcus was.
Just then, Dad honked the horn. The two brothers rounded the school and spotted the family car.
“Race ya!” Marcus said. Even though he had his shoulder pads under one arm and his helmet in one hand, he took off like a shot.
Andrew didn’t even try to keep up. “That’s why I’m down,” he muttered, even though Marcus couldn’t hear him. “You’re fast, like a wide receiver should be. And I’m not.”