T.K. huddles his team around him. They’re about in the center of the playing area. Mentally, T.K. checks off the important considerations. The Prospectors have suffered more physically than the Minutemen. Harv Matision’s skills at last minute scoring are almost the equal of T.K.’s own. T.K. weighs the situation. He’d like to drive for the goalyard, rack up a security touchdown, take out some insurance. To do so would be dangerous. The Minutemen’s hidden safety still has his bullet. A long drive out in the open would give him too many chances to use it. T.K.’s not willing to trade men for points. He decides on a time eating stall. “Matision and his line have been putting the rush on me for the past four plays,” T.K. says. “This time, I’m going to take advantage of it. We’ll run a twenty seven screen.” A short pass to the center, Harland Minick. “Let’s try and make this the last play of the game.” Minick is one of the best hideout men in the league. If anybody can buy them thirty six minutes, he can. On this particular play, the line will let the defense through into the backfield. The pass will go over their heads to Minick, who should have plenty of room to run for cover. “On two.”

They line up. T.K. checks the opposition. Standard ten man scrimmage defense, a 5-3-2. He takes a quick look around at the street. A streetlight burns just behind him. The illumination is good, almost too good. If the defensive line doesn’t take the fake, if one of them hangs back, Minick might have a tough time getting into the darkness.

“Hut one, hut two.” Minick snaps the ball.

Something goes wrong! Matision doesn’t blitz. He hangs back, as does the rest of his inner line.

Matision’s ends come swooping down on T.K. like two avenging angels. T.K. backs off, five yards and sets. He’s totally exposed. Minick, his primary, is covered three ways. So are the guards, his two secondaries.

Then he sees Eddie Hougart completely open in the flat. At the same time the first of the two ends reaches T.K., he lets the ball go in Eddie’s direction.

It’s a perfect, spiraling pass. It hits Hougart firmly at chest level. Except it comes to him from out of the glare of the streetlight. Hougart grabs the ball, a reflex action, but his failing eyesight is filled with the streetlight’s brilliance. He can’t see to run. He hesitates for only an instant, but it’s an instant too long.

Harv Matision is on him.