For Big Al and Barbara,

also known as Mom and Dad

Copyright © 2014 by Kwame Alexander

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

www.hmhco.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file.

ISBN 978-0-544-10771-7

eISBN 978-0-544-28959-8
v1.0314

Dribbling

At the top of the key, I’m

MOVING & GROOVING,

POPping and ROCKING—

Why you BUMPING?

Why you LOCKING?

Man, take this THUMPING.

Be careful though,

’cause now I’m CRUNKing

CrissCROSSING

FLOSSING

flipping

and my dipping will leave you

S

   L

      I

         P

            P

               I

                  N

                     G on the floor, while I

SWOOP in

to the finish with a fierce finger roll . . .

Straight in the hole:

Swoooooooooooosh.

Josh Bell

is my name.

But Filthy McNasty is my claim to fame.

Folks call me that

’cause my game’s acclaimed,

so downright dirty, it’ll put you to shame.

My hair is long, my height’s tall.

See, I’m the next Kevin Durant,

LeBron, and Chris Paul.

Remember the greats,

my dad likes to gloat:

I balled with Magic and the Goat.

But tricks are for kids, I reply.

Don’t need your pets

my game’s so

fly.

Mom says,

Your dad’s old school,

like an ol’ Chevette.

You’re fresh and new,

like a red Corvette.

Your game so sweet, it’s a crêpes suzette.

Each time you play

it’s ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLL net.

If anyone else called me

fresh and sweet,

I’d burn mad as a flame.

But I know she’s only talking about my game.

See, when I play ball,

I’m on fire.

When I shoot,

I inspire.

The hoop’s for sale,

and I’m the buyer.

How I Got My Nickname

I’m not that big on jazz music, but Dad is.

One day we were listening to a CD

of a musician named Horace Silver, and Dad says,

Josh, this cat is the real deal.

Listen to that piano, fast and free,

Just like you and JB on the court.

It’s okay, I guess, Dad.

Okay? DID YOU SAY OKAY?

Boy, you better recognize

greatness when you hear it.

Horace Silver is one of the hippest.

If you shoot half as good as he jams—

Dad, no one says “hippest” anymore.

Well, they ought to, ’cause this cat

is so hip, when he sits down he’s still standing, he says.

Real funny, Dad.

You know what, Josh?

What, Dad?

I’m dedicating this next song to you.

What’s the next song?

Only the best song,

the funkiest song

on Silver’s Paris Blues album:

“FILTHY

McNASTY.”

At first

I didn’t like

the name

because so many kids

made fun of me

on the school bus,

at lunch, in the bathroom.

Even Mom had jokes.

It fits you perfectly, Josh, she said:

You never clean your closet, and

that bed of yours is always filled

with cookie crumbs and candy wrappers.

It’s just plain nasty, son.

But, as I got older

and started getting game,

the name took on a new meaning.

And even though I wasn’t into

all that jazz,

every time I’d score,

rebound,

or steal a ball,

Dad would jump up

smiling and screamin’,

That’s my boy out there.

Keep it funky, Filthy!

And that made me feel

real good

about my nickname.

Filthy McNasty

is a MYTHical MANchild

Of rather dubious distinction

Always AGITATING

COMBINATING

and ELEVATING                  his game

He      dribbles

fakes

then  takes

the ROCK to the

glass, fast, and on BLAST

But watch out when he shoots

or you’ll get SCHOOLed

  FOOLed

UNCOOLed

’Cause when FILTHY gets hot

He has a SLAMMERIFIC SHOT

It’s

Dunkalicious CLASSY

Supersonic SASSY

and    D

O

W

N right

in your face

mcNASTY

Jordan Bell

My twin brother is a baller.

The only thing he loves

more than basketball

is betting. If it’s ninety degrees

outside and the sky is cloudless,

he will bet you

that it’s going to rain.

It’s annoying

and sometimes

funny.

Jordan insists that everyone

call him JB. His favorite player is

Michael Jordan, but he

doesn’t want people to think

he’s sweating him.

Even though he is.

Evidence: He has one pair

of Air Jordan sneakers

for every month

of the year

including Air Jordan 1 Low

Barack Obama Limited Editions,

which he never wears.

Plus he has MJ sheets, pillowcases,

slippers, socks, underwear, notebooks,

pencils, cups, hats, wristbands,

and sunglasses.

With the fifty dollars he won from a bet

he and Dad made over whether

the Krispy Kreme Hot sign was on (it wasn’t)

he purchased

a Michael Jordan toothbrush

(“Only used once!”) on eBay.

He’s right, he’s not sweating him.

HE’S STALKING HIM.

On the way to the game

I’m banished to the back

seat with JB,

who only stops

playing with my locks

when I slap him

across his bald head

with my jockstrap.

Five Reasons I Have Locks

5. Some of my favorite rappers have them:

Lil Wayne, 2 Chainz, and Wale.

4. They make me feel

like a king.

3. No one else

on the team has them, and

2. it helps people know

that I am me and not JB.

But

mostly because

1. ever since I watched

the clip of Dad

posterizing

that seven-foot Croatian center

on ESPN’s Best Dunks Ever;

soaring through the air—his

long twisted hair like wings

carrying him

high above

the rim—I knew

one day

I’d need

my own wings

to fly.

Mom tells Dad

that he has to sit

in the top row

of the bleachers

during the game.

You’re too confrontational, she says.

Filthy, don’t forget to

follow through

on your jump shot,

Dad tells me.

JB tells Mom,

We’re almost in high school,

so no hugs before the game, please.

Dad says, You boys

ought to treasure your mother’s love.

My mom was like gold to me.

Yeah, but your mom

didn’t come to ALL

of your games, JB says.

And she wasn’t the assistant school principal either,

I add.

Conversation

Dad, do you miss playing basketball? I ask.

Like jazz misses Dizzy, he says.

Huh?

Like hip-hop misses Tupac, Filthy, he says.

Oh! But you’re still young,

you could probably still play, right?

My playing days are over, son.

My job now is to take care of this family.

Don’t you get bored sitting

around the house all day?

You could get a job or something.

Filthy, what’s all this talk about a job?

You don’t think your ol’ man knows

how to handle his business?

Boy, I saved my basketball money—

this family is fine. Yeah, I miss

basketball A LOT, and

I do have some feelers out there

about coaching. But honestly,

right now I’m fine coaching this house

and keeping up with you and your brother.

Now go get JB so we won’t be late

to the game and Coach benches you.

Why don’t you ever wear your championship ring?

Is this Jeopardy or something? What’s with the questions?

Yeah, I wear it, when I want to floss. Dad smiles.

Can I wear it to school once?

Can you bounce a ball on the roof, off a tree, in the hoop?

Uh . . . no.

Then, I guess you’re not Da Man. Only Da Man wears Da Ring.

Aw, come on, Dad.

Tell you what: You bring home the trophy this year, and we’ll see.

Thanks, Dad. You know, if you get bored

you could always write a book, like Vondie’s mom did.

She wrote one about spaceships.

A book? What would you have me write about?

Maybe a book of those rules

you give me and JB

before each of our games.

“I’m Da Man” by Chuck Bell, Dad laughs.

That’s lame, Dad, I say.

Who you calling lame? Dad says, headlocking me.

Dad, tell me again why they called you Da Man?

Filthy, back in the day, I was the boss, never lost,

I had the sickest double cross, and I kissed

so many pretty ladies, they called me Lip-Gloss.

Oh, really? Mom says, sneaking up on us

like she always seems to do.

Yeah, you Da Man, Dad, I laugh,

then throw my gym bag in the trunk.

Basketball Rule #1

In this game of life

your family is the court

and the ball is your heart.

No matter how good you are,

no matter how down you get,

always leave

your heart

on the court.

JB and I

are almost thirteen. Twins. Two basketball goals at

opposite ends of the court. Identical.

It’s easy to tell us apart though. I’m

an inch taller, with dreads to my neck. He gets

his head shaved once a month. I want to go to Duke,

he flaunts Carolina Blue. If we didn’t love each other,

we’d HATE each other. He’s a shooting guard.

I play forward. JB’s the second

most phenomenal baller on our team.

He has the better jumper, but I’m the better

slasher. And much faster. We both

pass well. Especially to each other.

To get ready for the season, I went

to three summer camps. JB only went to

one. Said he didn’t want to miss Bible school.

What does he think, I’m stupid? Ever since

Kim Bazemore kissed him in Sunday school,

he’s been acting all religious,

thinking less and less about

basketball, and more and more about

GIRLS.

At the End of Warm-Ups, My Brother Tries to Dunk

Not even close, JB.

What’s the matter?

The hoop too high for you? I snicker

but it’s not funny to him,

especially when I take off from center court,

my hair like wings,

each lock lifting me higher and HIGHER

like a 747 ZOOM ZOOM!

I throw down so hard,

the fiberglass trembles.

BOO YAH, Dad screams

from the top row.

I’m the only kid

on the team

who can do that.

The gym is a loud, crowded circus.

My stomach is a roller coaster.

My head, a carousel.

The air, heavy with the smell

of sweat, popcorn,

and the sweet perfume

of mothers watching sons.

Our mom, a.k.a. Dr. Bell, a.k.a. The Assistant Principal,

is talking to some of the teachers

on the other side of the gym.

I’m feeling better already.

Coach calls us in,

does his Phil Jackson impersonation.

Love ignites the spirit, brings teams together, he says.

JB and I glance at each other,

ready to bust out laughing,

but Vondie, our best friend,

beats us to it.

The whistle goes off.

Players gather at center circle,

dap each other,

pound each other.

Referee tosses the jump ball.

Game on.

The Sportscaster

JB likes to taunt and

trash talk

during games

like Dad

used to do

when he played.

When I walk onto

the court

I prefer silence

so I can

Watch

React

Surprise.

I talk too,

but mostly

to myself,

like sometimes

when I do

my own

play-by-play

in my head.

Josh’s Play-by-Play

It’s game three for the two-and-oh Wildcats.

Number seventeen, Vondie Little, grabs it.

Nothing little about that kid.

The Wildcats have it,

first play of the game.

The hopes are high tonight at

Reggie Lewis Junior High.

We destroyed Hoover Middle

last week, thirty-two to four,

and we won’t stop,

can’t stop,

till we claim the championship trophy.

Vondie overhead passes me.

I fling a quick chest pass to my twin brother, JB,

number twenty-three, a.k.a. the Jumper.

I’ve seen him launch it from thirty feet before,

ALL NET.

That boy is special, and it doesn’t hurt

that Chuck “Da Man” Bell is his father.

And mine, too.

JB bounces the ball back to me.

JB’s a shooter, but I’m sneaky

and silky as a snake—

and you thought my hair was long.

I’m six feet, all legs.

OH, WOW—DID YOU SEE THAT NASTY CROSSOVER?

Now you see why they call me Filthy.

Folks, I hope you got your tickets,

because I’m about to put on a show.

cross·o·ver

[KRAWS-OH-VER] noun

A simple basketball move

in which a player dribbles

the ball quickly

from one hand

to the other.

As in: When done right,

a crossover can break

an opponent’s ankles.

As in: Deron Williams’s crossover

is nice, but Allen Iverson’s crossover

was so deadly, he could’ve set up

his own podiatry practice.

As in: Dad taught me

how to give a soft cross first

to see if your opponent falls

for it,

then hit ’em

with the hard crossover.

The Show

A quick shoulder SHAKE,

a slick eye FAKE—

Number 28 is               way past late.

He’s reading me like a

BOOK

but I turn the page

and watch him look,

which can only mean I got him

SHOOK.

His feet are the bank

and I’m the crook.

Breaking, Braking,

taking him to the left—

now he’s took.

Number 14 joins in . . .

Now he’s on the          H

                                       O

                                          O

                                             K

I got TWO in my kitchen

and I’m fixing to COOK.

Preppin’ my meal, ready for glass . . .

Nobody’s expecting Filthy to p a s s

I see Vondie under the hoop

so I serve him up my

Alley-oop.

The Bet, Part One

We’re down by seven

at halftime.

Trouble owns our faces

but Coach isn’t worried.

Says we haven’t found our rhythm yet.

Then, all of a sudden, out of nowhere

Vondie starts dancing the Snake,

only he looks like a seal.

Then Coach blasts his favorite dance music,

and before you know it

we’re all doing the Cha-Cha Slide:

To the left, take it back now, y’all.

One hop this time, right foot, let’s stomp.

JB high-fives me, with a familiar look.

You want to bet, don’t you? I ask.

Yep, he says,

then touches

my hair.

Ode to My Hair

If my hair were a tree

I’d climb it.

I’d kneel down beneath

and enshrine it.

I’d treat it like gold

and then mine it.

Each day before school

I unwind it.

And right before games

I entwine it.

These locks on my head,

I designed it.

And one last thing if

you don’t mind it:

That bet you just made?

I DECLINE IT.

The Bet, Part Two

IF. I. LOSE.

THE. BET.

YOU. WANT. TO.

WHAT?

If the score gets tied, he says, and

if it comes down to the last shot, he says, and

if I get the ball, he says, and

if I don’t miss, he says,

I get to cut off

your hair.

Sure, I say, as serious

as a heart attack.

You can cut my locks off,

but if I win the bet

you have to walk around

with no pants on

and no underwear

tomorrow

in school

during lunch.

Vondie

and the rest

of the fellas

laugh like hyenas.

Not to be outdone,

JB revises the bet:

Okay, he says.

How about if you lose

I cut one lock

and if you win

I will moon

that nerdy group

of sixth-graders

that sit

near our table

at lunch?

Even though I used to be one of those nerdy sixth-graders,

even though I love my hair the way Dad loves Krispy Kreme,

even though I don’t want us to lose the game,

odds are this is one of JB’s legendary bets I’ll win,

because

that’s a lot of ifs.

The game is tied

when JB’s soft jumper sails

tick

through the air.

tock

The crowd stills,

tick

mouths drop,

tock

and when his last-second shot

tick

hits net,

tock

the clock stops.

The gym explodes.

Its hard bleachers

empty

and my head

aches.

In the locker room

after the game,

JB cackles like a crow.

He walks up to me

grinning,

holds his hand out

so I can see

the red scissors from Coach’s desk

smiling at me, their

steel blades sharp

and ready.

I love this game

like the winter loves snow

even though I spent

the final quarter

in foul trouble

on the bench.

JB was on fire

and we won

and I lost

the bet.

Cut

Time to pay up, Filthy, JB says,

laughing

and waving

the scissors

in the air

like a flag.

My teammates gather around

to salute.

FILTHY, FILTHY, FILTHY, they chant.

He opens the scissors,

grabs my hair

to slash a strand.

I don’t hear

my golden lock

hit the floor,

but I do hear

the sound

of calamity

when Vondie

hollers,

OH, SNAP!

ca·lam·i·ty

[KUH-LAM-IH-TEE] noun

An unexpected,

undesirable event;

often physically injurious.

As in: If JB hadn’t been acting

so silly and

playing around,

he would have cut

one lock

instead of five

from my head

and avoided

this calamity.

As in: The HUGE bald patch

on the side

of my head

is a dreadful

calamity.

As in: After the game

Mom almost has a fit

When she sees my hair,

What a calamity, she says,

shaking her head

and telling Dad to take me

to the barber shop

on Saturday

to have the rest

cut off.

Mom doesn’t like us eating out

but once a month she lets

one of us choose a restaurant

and even though she won’t let him touch

half the things on the buffet,

it’s Dad’s turn

and he chooses Chinese.

I know what he really wants

is Pollard’s Chicken and BBQ,

but Mom has banned

us from that place.

In the Golden Dragon,

Mom is still frowning

at JB for messing up my hair.

But, Mom, it was an accident, he says.

Accident or not, you owe

your brother an apology, she tells him.

I’m sorry for cutting your filthy hair, Filthy, JB laughs.

Not so funny now, is it? I say, my knuckles

digging into his scalp

till Dad saves him from the noogie

with one of his lame jokes:

Why can’t you play sports in the jungle? he asks.

Mom repeats the question because

Dad won’t continue until someone does.

Because of the cheetahs, he snaps back,

so amused, he almost falls out of his chair,

which causes all of us to laugh, and

get past my hair issue

for now.

I fill my plate with egg rolls and dumplings.

JB asks Dad how we did.

Y’all did okay, Dad says, but, JB, why did you

let that kid post you up? And, Filthy,

what was up with that lazy crossover?

When I was playing, we never . . .

And while Dad is telling us another story

for the hundredth time, Mom removes the salt

from the table and JB goes to the buffet.

He brings back three packages

of duck sauce and a cup of wonton soup

and hands them all to me.

Dad pauses, and Mom looks at JB.

That was random, she says.

What, isn’t that what you wanted, Filthy? JB asks.

And even though I never opened my mouth,

I say, Thanks,

because

it is.

Missing

I am not

a mathematician—

a + b seldom

equals c.

Pluses and minuses,

we get along

but we are not close.

I am no Pythagoras.

And so each time

I count the locks

of hair

beneath my pillow

I end up with thirty-seven

plus one tear,

which never

adds up.

The inside of Mom and Dad’s bedroom closet

is off-limits,

so every time JB asks me

to go in there to look

through Dad’s stuff, I say no.

But today when I ask Mom

for a box to put my dreadlocks in,

she tells me to take

one of her Sunday hat boxes

from the top shelf

of her closet.

Next to her purple hat box is

Dad’s small silver safety box

with the key in the lock

and practically begging me

to open it,

so I do, when, unexpectedly:

What are you doing, Filthy?

Standing in the doorway

is JB with a look that says BUSTED!

Filthy, you still giving me the silent treatment?

. . .

I really am sorry about your hair, man.

I owe you, Filthy, so I’m gonna cut

the grass for the rest of the year and

pick up the leaves . . . and I’ll wash the cars

and I’ll even wash your hair.

Oh, you got jokes, huh? I say, then grab him

and give him another noogie.

So, what are you doing in here, Filthy?

Nothing, Mom said I could use her hat box.

That doesn’t look like a hat box, Filthy.

Let me see that, he says.

And just like that

we’re rummaging through

a box filled with newspaper clippings

about Chuck “Da Man” Bell

and torn ticket stubs

and old flyers

and . . .

WHOA! There it is, Filthy, JB says.

And even though we’ve seen Dad

wear it many times, actually holding

his glossy championship ring

in our hands

is more than magical.

Let’s try it on, I whisper.

But JB is a step ahead, already sliding

it on each of his fingers

until he finds one it fits.

What else is in there, JB? I ask,

hoping he will realize it’s my turn

to wear Dad’s championship ring.

There’s a bunch of articles about

Dad’s triple-doubles, three-point records,

and the time he made fifty free throws

in a row at the Olympic finals, he says,

finally handing me the ring,

and an Italian article

about Dad’s bellissimo crossover

and his million-dollar multiyear contract

with the European league.

We already know all this stuff, JB.

Anything new, or secret-type stuff? I ask.

And then JB pulls out a manila envelope.

I grab it, glance at the PRIVATE

stamped on the front.

In the moment

that I decide to put it back,

JB snatches it.

Let’s do this, he says.

I resist, ready to take

the purple hat box

and jet,

but I guess the mystery

is just too much.

We open it. There are two letters.

The first letter reads:

Chuck Bell, the Los Angeles Lakers would like to

invite you to our free-agent tryouts.

We open the other. It starts:

Your decision not to have surgery

means that realistically,

with patella tendonitis,

you may not be able to play

again.

pa·tel·la ten·di·ni·tis

[PUH-TEL-UH TEN-DUH-NAHY-TIS] noun

The condition

that arises when the muscle

that connects the kneecap

to the shin bone

becomes irritated

due to overuse,

especially from jumping activities.

As in: On the top shelf

of Mom and Dad’s closet

in a silver safety box

JB and I discovered

that my dad has jumper’s knee,

a.k.a. patella tendonitis.

As in: As a rookie,

my dad led his team

to the Euroleague championship,

but thanks to patella tendonitis,

he went from a superstar

with a million-dollar fadeaway jumper

to a star

whose career

had faded away.

As in: I wonder why my dad

never had surgery

on his patella tendonitis.

Sundays After Church

When the prayers end

and the doors open

the Bells hit center stage

and the curtain opens up on

the afternoon pick-up game

in the gym

at the county recreation center.

The cast is full of regulars

and rookies

with cartoon names like

FlapJack,

Scoobs,

and Cookie.

The hip-hop soundtrack blasts.

The bass booms.

The crowd looms.

There’s music and mocking,

teasing nonstop, but

when the play begins

all the talk ceases.

Dad shovel-passes the ball to me.

I behind-the-back pass to JB,

who sinks a twenty-foot three.

See, this is how we act

Sundays after church.

Basketball Rule #2

(Random text from Dad)

Hustle dig

Grind push

Run fast

Change pivot

Chase pull

Aim shoot

Work smart

Live smarter

Play hard

Practice harder

Girls

I walk into the lunchroom with JB.

Heads turn.

I’m not bald like JB,

but my hair’s close enough

so that people sprinting past us

do double-takes.

Finally, after we sit at our table,

the questions come:

Why’d you cut your hair, Filthy?

How can we tell who’s who?

JB answers, I’m the cool one

who makes free throws,

and I holler,

I’M THE ONE WHO CAN DUNK.

We both get laughs.

Some girl who we’ve never seen before,

in tight jeans and pink Reeboks,

comes up to the table.

JB’s eyes are ocean wide,

his mouth swimming on the floor,

his clownish grin, embarrassing.

So when she says,

Is it true that twins

know what each other are thinking?

I tell her

you don’t have to be his twin

to know

what he’s thinking.

While Vondie and JB

debate whether the new girl

is a knockout or just beautiful,

a hottie or a cutie,

a lay-up or a dunk,

I finish my vocabulary homework—

and my brother’s vocabulary homework,

which I don’t mind

since English is my favorite subject

and he did the dishes for me last week.

But it’s hard to concentrate

in the lunchroom

with the girls’ step team

practicing in one corner,

a rap group performing in the other,

and Vondie and JB

waxing poetic

about love and basketball.

So when they ask,

What do you think, Filthy?

I tell ’em,

She’s pulchritudinous.

pul·chri·tu·di·nous

[PALL-KRE-TOO-DEN-NUS] adjective

Having great physical

beauty and appeal.

As in: Every guy

in the lunchroom

is trying to flirt

with the new girl

because she’s so pulchritudinous.

As in: I’ve never had a girlfriend,

but if I did, you better believe

she’d be pulchritudinous.

As in: Wait a minute—

why is the pulchritudinous new girl

now talking

to my brother?

Practice

Coach reads to us from

The Art of War:

A winning strategy is

not about planning, he says.

It’s about quick responses

to changing conditions.

Then he has us do

footwork drills

followed by

forty wind sprints

from the baseline

to half court.

The winner doesn’t

have to practice today, Coach says,

and Vondie blasts off

like Apollo 17,

his long legs

giving him an edge,

but I’m the quickest guy

on the team,

so on the last lap

I run hard,

take the lead by a foot,

and even though I don’t plan it,

I let him win

and get ready to practice

harder.

Walking Home

Hey, JB, you think we can win

the county championship this year?

I don’t know, man.

Hey, JB, why do you think

Dad never had

knee surgery?

Man, I don’t know.

Hey, JB, why can’t Dad eat—

Look, Filthy, we’ll win

if you stop missing free throws.

Nobody likes doctors.

And Dad can’t eat foods with too much salt

because Mom told him he can’t.

Any more questions?

Yeah, one more.

You want to play

to twenty-one

when we get home?

Sure. You got ten dollars? he asks.

Man to Man

In the driveway, I’m

SHAKING AND BAKING.

You don’t want none of this, I say.

I’m about to TAKE IT TO THE HOLE.

Keep your eye on the ball.

I’d hate to see you

F

A

L

L

You shoulda gone with your GIRLFRIEND

to the mall.

Just play ball, JB shouts.

Okay, but WATCH OUT, my BROTHER,

TARHEEL LOVER.

I’m about to go   UNDER

COVER.

Then bring it, he says.

And I do, all the way to the top.

So SMOOOOOOOOTH, I make him

drop.

So nasty, the floor should be mopped.

But before I can shoot,

Mom makes us stop:

Josh, come clean your room!

After dinner

Dad takes us

to the Rec

to practice

shooting free throws

with one hand

while he stands

two feet in front

of us,

waving frantically

in our faces.

It will teach you focus, he reminds us.

Three players

from the local college

recognize Dad

and ask him

for autographs

“for our parents.”

Dad chuckles

along with them.

JB ignores them.

I challenge them:

It won’t be so funny

when we shut

you amateurs down,

will it? I say.

OHHHH, this young boy got hops

like his ol’ man? the tallest one says.

Talk is cheap, Dad says. If y’all want to run,

let’s do this. First one to eleven.

The tall one asks Dad if he needs crutches,

then checks the ball to me,

and the game begins,

right after JB screams:

Loser pays twenty bucks!

After we win

I see the pink

Reeboks–wearing girl

shooting baskets

on the other court.

She plays ball, too?

JB walks over to her

and I can tell

he likes her

because when she goes in

for a lay-up,

he doesn’t slap

the ball silly

like he tries

to do with me.

He just stands there

looking silly,

smiling

on the other court

at the pink

Reeboks–wearing girl.

Dad Takes Us to Krispy Kreme and Tells Us His Favorite Story (Again)

Didn’t Mom say no more doughnuts? JB asks Dad.

What your mother doesn’t know

won’t hurt her, he answers, biting

into his third chocolate glazed cruller.

Good shooting today. We beat

those boys like they stole something, he adds.

Why didn’t we take their money, Dad? I ask.

They were kids, Filthy, just like y’all.

The look on their faces

after we beat them

eleven to nothing

was enough for me.

Remember

when you were two

and I taught you the game?

You had a bottle in one hand

and a ball in the other,

and your mom thought I was crazy.

I WAS crazy.

Crazy in love.

With my twin boys.

Once, when you were three,

I took you to the park

to shoot free throws.

The guy who worked there said,

“This basket is ten feet tall.

For older kids. Kids like yours

might as well shoot

at the sun.” And then he laughed.

And I asked him if a deaf person

could write music. And he said,

“Huh?” then

took out his wrench and told me,

“I’m gonna lower the goal for y’all.”

We remember, Dad.

And then you told us Beethoven

was a famous musician who was deaf,

and how many times do we have to hear

the same—

And

Dad interrupts me:

Interrupt me again and I’ll start all over.

Like I was saying,

I handed both of you a ball.

Stood you between the foul line

and the rim. Told you to shoot.

You did. And it was musical. Like

the opening of Beethoven’s Fifth.

Da da da duhhhhhhhhhh. Da da da duuuuuuuuuuh.

Your shots whistled. Like a train

pulling into the station. I expected

you to make it. And you did.

The guy was in shock.

He looked at me

like

he’d missed

the train.

Basketball Rule #3

Never let anyone

lower your goals.

Others’ expectations

of you are determined

by their limitations

of life.

The sky is your limit, sons.

Always shoot

for the sun

and you will shine.

Josh’s Play-by-Play

The Red Rockets,

defending county champions,

are in the house tonight.

They brought their whole school.

This place is oozing crimson.

They’re beating us

twenty-nine to twenty-eight

with less than a minute to go.

I’m at the free-throw line.

All I have to do

is make both shots

to take the lead.

The first is up, UP, and—

CLANK!—it hits the rim.

The second looks . . . real . . . goo . . .

MISSED AGAIN!

But

Vondie grabs the rebound,

a fresh twenty-four on the shot clock.

Number thirty-three on the Rockets

strips the ball from Vondie.

This game is like Ping-Pong,

with all the back-and-forth.

He races downcourt

for an easy lay—

OHHHHHHH!

Houston, we have a problem!

I catch him

and slap

the ball on the glass.

Ever seen anything like this from a seventh-grader?

Didn’t think so!

Me and JB are stars in the making.

The Rockets full-court-press me.

But I get it across the line just in time.

Ten seconds left.

I pass the ball to JB.

They double-team him in a hurry—don’t want to give

him an easy three.

Five seconds left.

JB lobs the ball,

I rise like a Learjet—

seventh-graders aren’t supposed to dunk.

But guess what?

I snatch the ball out of the air and

SLAM!

YAM! IN YOUR MUG!

Who’s Da Man?

Let’s look at that again.

Oh, I forgot, this is junior high.

No instant replay until college.

Well, with game like this

that’s where me and JB

are headed.

The new girl

comes up to me

after the game,

her smile ocean wide

my mouth wide shut.

Nice dunk, she says.

Thanks.

Y’all coming to the gym

over the Thanksgiving break?

Probably!

Cool. By the way, why’d you cut your locks?

They were kind of cute.

Standing right behind me, Vondie giggles.

Kind of cute, he mocks.

Then JB walks up.

Hey, JB, great game.

I brought you some iced tea, she says.

Is it sweet? he asks.

And just like that

JB and the new girl

are sipping sweet tea

together.

I Missed Three Free Throws Tonight

Each night

after dinner

Dad makes us

shoot

free throws

until we make ten

in a row.

Tonight he says

I have to make

fifteen.

Basketball Rule #4

If you miss

enough of life’s

free throws

you will pay

in the end.

Having a mother

is good when she rescues you

from free-throw attempt number thirty-six,

your arms as heavy as sea anchors.

But it can be bad

when your mother

is a principal at your school.

Bad in so many ways.

It’s always education

this and education that.

After a double-overtime

basketball game I only want

three things: food, bath, sleep.

The last thing I want is EDUCATION!

But, each night,

Mom makes us read.

Don’t know how he does it, but

JB listens to his iPod

at the same time,

so he doesn’t hear me

when I ask him

is Miss Sweet Tea his girlfriend.

He claims he’s listening to French classical,

that it helps him concentrate.

Yeah, right! Sounds more like

Jay-Z and Kanye

in Paris.

Which is why when Mom and Dad start arguing,

he doesn’t hear them, either.

Mom shouts

Get a checkup. Hypertension is genetic.

I’m fine, stop high-posting me, baby, Dad whispers.

Don’t play me, Charles—this isn’t a basketball game.

I don’t need a doctor, I’m fine.

Your father didn’t “need” a doctor either.

He was alive when he went into the hospital.

So now you’re afraid of hospitals?

Nobody’s afraid. I’m fine. It’s not that serious.

Fainting is a joke, is it?

I saw you, baby, and I got a little excited. Come kiss me.

Don’t do that . . .

Baby, it’s nothing. I just got a little dizzy.

You love me?

Like summer loves short nights.

Get a checkup, then.

Only cure I need is you.

I’m serious about this, Chuck.

Only doctor I need is Dr. Crystal Bell. Now come here . . .

And then there is silence, so I put the pillow over my head

because when they stop talking,

I know what that means.

Uggghh!

hy·per·ten·sion

[HI-PER-TEN-SHUHN] noun

A disease

otherwise known as

high blood pressure.

As in: Mom doesn’t want Dad

eating salt, because too much of it

increases the volume

of blood,

which can cause hypertension.

As in: Hypertension

can affect all types of people,

but you have a higher risk

if someone in your family

has had the disease.

As in: I think

my grandfather

died of hypertension?

To fall asleep

I count

and recount

the thirty-seven strands

of my past

in the box

beneath my bed.

Why We Only Ate Salad for Thanksgiving

Because every year

Grandma makes

a big delicious dinner

but this year

two days before

Thanksgiving

she fell off

her front stoop

on the way

to buy groceries

so Uncle Bob

my mom’s younger brother

(who smokes cigars

and thinks he’s a chef

because he watches

Food TV)

decided he would

prepare a feast

for the whole family

which consisted of

macaroni with no cheese

concrete-hard cornbread

and a greenish-looking ham

that prompted Mom

to ask if he had any eggs

to go along with it

which made grandma laugh so hard

she fell again, this time

right out of her wheelchair.

How Do You Spell Trouble?

During the vocabulary test

JB passes me a folded note

to give to

Miss Sweet Tea,

who sits at the desk

in front of me

and who looks

pretty tight

in her pink denim capris

and matching sneaks.

Someone cracks a window.

A cold breeze whistles.

Her hair dances to its own song.

In this moment I forget

about the test

and the note

until JB hits me in the head with his No. 2.

Somewhere between

camaraderie and imbecile

I tap her beige bare shoulder

with the note.

At that exact moment

the teacher’s head creeps

up from his desk, his eyes directly on me.

I’m a fly caught in a web.

What do I do?

Hand over the note, embarrass JB;

or hide the note, take the heat.

I look at my brother,

his forehead a factory of sweat.

Miss Sweet Tea smiles,

gorgeous pink lips and all.

I know what I have to do.

Bad News

I sit in Mom’s office

for an hour,

reading

brochures and pamphlets

about the Air Force and the Marines.

She’s in and out

handling principal stuff:

a parent protesting her daughter’s F;

a pranked substitute teacher crying;

a broken window.

After an hour

she finally sits

in the chair next to me

and says, The good news is,

I’m not going to suspend you.

The bad news, Josh,

is that

neither Duke nor any other college

accepts cheaters. Since I can’t

seem to make a decent man out of you

perhaps the Air Force or Marines can.

I want to tell her I wasn’t cheating,

that this is all JB and Miss Sweet Tea’s fault,

that this will never happen again,

that Duke is the only thing that matters,

but a water pipe bursts in the girls’ bathroom.

So I tell her I’m sorry,

it won’t happen again,

then head off to my next class.

Gym class

is supposed to be about balls:

volleyballs, basketballs, softballs,

soccer balls—sometimes sit-ups

and always sweat.

But today Mr. Lane tells

us not to dress out.

He’s standing in front of the class,

a dummy laid out on the floor,

plastic, faceless, torso cut in half.

I’m not paying attention

to anything he’s saying

or to the dummy

because

I’m watching Jordan pass notes

to Miss Sweet Tea. And I

wonder what’s in the notes.

Josh, why don’t you come up

and assist me.

What? Huh?

The class snickers,

and before I know it

I’m tilting the dummy’s head back,

pinching his nose,

blowing in his mouth,

and pumping his chest

thirty times.

All the while

thinking that if life is really fair

one day I’ll be the one

writing notes to some sweet girl

and JB will have to squash his lips

on some dummy’s sweaty mouth.

Conversation

Hey, JB,

I played a pickup game

at the Rec today.

At first, the older guys laughed

and wouldn’t let me in

unless I could hit from half-court . . .

Of course, I did. All net.

I wait for JB to say something,

but he just smiles,

his eyes all moony.

I showed them guys

how the Bells ball.

I scored fourteen points.

They told me I should

try out for junior varsity next year

’cause I got hops . . .

JB, are you listening?

JB nods, his fingers tapping away

on the computer, chatting

probably with

Miss Sweet Tea.

I told the big guys about you, too.

They said we could come back and

run with them anytime.

What do you think about that?

HELLO—Earth to JB?

Even though I know he hears me,

the only thing JB is listening to

is the sound of his heart

bouncing

on the court

of love.

Conversation

Dad, this girl is making

Jordan act weird.

He’s here, but he’s not.

He’s always smiling.

His eyes get all spacey

whenever she’s around,

and sometimes when she’s not.

He wears your cologne.

He’s always

texting her.

He even wore loafers to school.

Dad, you gotta do something.

Dad does something.

He laughs.

Filthy, talking to your brother

right now

would be like pushing water uphill

with a rake, son.

This isn’t funny, Dad.

Say something

to him. Please.

Filthy, if some girl

done locked up JB,

he’s going to jail.

Now let’s go get some doughnuts.

Basketball Rule #5

When

you stop

playing

your game

you’ve already

lost.

Showoff

UP by sixteen

with six seconds

showing, JB smiles,

then STRUTS

side

steps

stutters

Spins, and

S

I

N

K

S

a sick SLICK SLIDING

SWeeeeeeeeeeT

SEVEN-foot shot.

What a showoff.

Out of Control

Are you kidding me?

Come on. Ref, open your eyes.

Ray Charles could have seen

that kid walked.

CALL THE TRAVELING VIOLATION!

You guys are TERRIBLE!

Mom wasn’t

at the game

tonight,

which meant

that all night

Dad was free

to yell

at the officials,

which he did.

Mom calls me into the kitchen

after we get home from beating

St. Francis. Normally she wants

me to sample the macaroni and cheese

to make sure it’s cheesy enough,

or the oven-baked fried chicken

to make sure it’s not greasy and

stuff, but today on the table

is some gross-looking

orange creamy dip with brown specks in it.

A tray of pita-bread triangles is beside it.

Maybe Mom is having one of

her book club meetings.

Sit down, she says. I sit as far

away from the dip as possible.

Maybe the chicken is in the oven.

Where is your brother? she asks.

Probably on the phone with that girl.

She hands me a pita.

No thanks, I say, then stand up

to leave, but she gives me a look

that tells me she’s not finished

with me. Maybe the mac is in the oven.

We’ve talked to you two about

your grandfather, she says.

He was a good man. I’m sorry you never got to meet him, Josh.

Me too, he looked cool in his uniforms.

That man was way past cool.

Dad said he used to curse

a lot and talk about the war.

Mom’s laugh is short, then she’s serious again.

I know we told

you Grandpop died after a fall, but

the truth is he fell because he had a stroke.

He had a heart disease. Too

many years of bad eating and not taking

care of himself and so—

What does this have

to do with anything? I ask,

even though I think I already know.

Well, our family has a history

of heart problems, she says,

so we’re going to start eating better.

Especially Dad. And we’re going to

start tonight with

some hummus and

pita bread.

FOR MY VICTORY DINNER?

Josh, we’re going to try to lay off the fried foods

and Golden Dragon. And when your dad

takes you to the recreation center,

no Pollard’s or Krispy Kreme afterward, understand?

And I understand more than she thinks I do.

But is hummus really the answer?

35–18

is the final score

of game six.

A local reporter

asks JB and I

how we got so good.

Dad screams from behind us,

They learned from Da Man!

The crowd of parents and students

behind us laughs.

On the way home

Dad asks if we should stop

at Pollard’s.

I tell him I’m not hungry,

plus I have a lot of homework,

even though

I skipped lunch today

and finished my homework

during halftime.

Too Good

Lately, I’ve been feeling

like everything in my life

is going right:

I beat JB in Madden.

Our team is undefeated.

I scored an A+ on the vocabulary test.

Plus, Mom’s away at a conference,

which means

so is the Assistant Principal.

I am a little worried, though,

because, as Coach likes to say,

you can get used to

things going well,

but you’re never prepared

for something

going wrong.

I’m on Free Throw Number Twenty-Seven

We take turns,

switching every time we miss.

JB has hit forty-one,

the last twelve in a row.

Filthy, keep up, man, keep up, he says.

Dad laughs loud, and says,

Filthy, your brother is putting on

a free-throw clinic. You better—

And suddenly he bowls over,

a look of horror on his face,

and starts coughing

while clutching his chest,

only no sound comes. I freeze.

JB runs over to him.

Dad, you okay? he asks.

I still can’t move. There is a stream

of sweat on Dad’s face. Maybe

he’s overheating, I say.

His mouth is curled up

like a little tunnel. JB grabs

the water hose, turns the

faucet on full blast, and sprays

Dad. Some of it goes in Dad’s mouth.

Then I hear the sound

of coughing, and Dad is no longer leaning

against the car, now he’s moving

toward the hose, and laughing.

So is JB.

Then Dad grabs the hose

and sprays both of us.

Now I’m laughing too,

but only

on the outside.

He probably

just got something stuck

in his throat,

JB says

when I ask him

if he thought

Dad was sick

and shouldn’t we

tell Mom

what happened.

So, when the phone rings,

it’s ironic

that after saying hello,

he throws the phone to me,

because, even though

his lips are moving,

JB is speechless,

like he’s got something stuck

in his

throat.

i·ron·ic

[AY-RON-IK] adjective

Having a curious or humorous

unexpected sequence of events

marked by coincidence.

As in: The fact that Vondie

hates astronomy

and his mom works for NASA

is ironic.

As in: It’s not ironic

that Grandpop died

in a hospital

and Dad doesn’t like

doctors.

As in: Isn’t it ironic

that showoff JB,

with all his swagger,

is too shy

to talk

to Miss Sweet Tea,

so he gives me the phone?

This Is Alexis—May I Please Speak to Jordan?

Identical twins

are no different

from everyone else,

except we look and

sometimes sound

exactly alike.

Phone Conversation (I Sub for JB)

Was that your brother?

Yep, that was Josh. I’m JB.

I know who you are, silly—I called you.

Uh, right. You have any siblings, Alexis?

Two sisters. I’m the youngest.

And the prettiest.

You haven’t seen them.

I don’t need to.

That’s sweet.

Sweet as pomegranate.

Okay, that was random.

That’s me.

Jordan, can I ask you something?

Yep.

Did you get my text?

Uh, yeah.

So, what’s your answer?

Uh, my answer. I don’t know.

Stop being silly, Jordan.

I’m not.

Then tell me your answer. Are y’all rich?

I don’t know.

Didn’t your dad play in the NBA?

No, he played in Italy.

But still, he made a lot of money, right?

It’s not like we’re opulent.

Who says “opulent”?

I do.

You never use big words like that at school . . .

I have a reputation to uphold.

Is he cool?

Who?

Your dad.

Very.

So, when are you gonna introduce me?

Introduce you?

To your parents.

I’m waiting for the right moment.

Which is when?

Uh—

So, am I your girlfriend or not?

Uh, can you hold on for a second?

Sure, she says.

Cover the mouthpiece, JB mouths to me.

I do, then whisper to him:

She wants to know are you her boyfriend.

And when are you gonna introduce her

to Mom and Dad. What should I tell her, JB?

Tell her yeah, I guess, I mean, I don’t know.

I gotta pee, JB says, running

out of the room, leaving me still in his shoes.

Okay, I’m back, Alexis.

So, what’s the verdict, Jordan?

Do you want to be my girlfriend?

Are you asking me to be your girl?

Uh, I think so.

You think so? Well, I have to go now.

Yes.

Yes, what?

I like you. A lot.

I like you, too . . . Precious.

So, now I’m Precious?

Everyone calls you JB.

Then I guess it’s official.

Text me later.

Good night, Miss Sweet—

What did you call me?

Uh, good night, my sweetness.

Good night, Precious.

JB comes running out of the bathroom.

What’d she say, Josh? Come on, tell me.

She said she likes me a lot, I tell him.

You mean she likes me a lot? he asks.

Yeah . . .

that’s what I meant.

JB and I

eat lunch

together

every day,

taking bites

of Mom’s

tuna salad

on wheat

between arguments:

Who’s the better dunker,

Blake or LeBron?

Which is superior,

Nike

or Converse?

Only today

I wait

at our table

in the back

for twenty-five minutes,

texting Vondie

(home sick),

eating a fruit cup

(alone),

before I see

JB strut

into the cafeteria

with Miss Sweet Tea

holding his

precious hand.

Boy walks into a room

with a girl.

They come over.

He says, Hey, Filthy McNasty

like he’s said forever,

but it sounds different

this time,

and when he snickers,

she does too,

like it’s some inside joke,

and my nickname,

some dirty

punch

line.

At practice

Coach says we need to work

on our mental game.

If we think

we can beat Independence Junior High—

the defending champions,

the number one seed,

the only other undefeated team—

then we will.

But instead of drills

and sprints,

we sit on our butts,

make weird sounds—

Ohmmmmmmmm Ohmmmmmmmm—

and meditate.

Suddenly I get this vision

of JB in a hospital.

I quickly open my eyes,

turn around,

and see him looking dead

at me like he’s just seen

a ghost.

Second-Person

After practice, you walk home alone.

This feels strange to you, because

as long as you can remember

there has always been a second person.

On today’s long, hot mile,

you bounce your basketball,

but your mind

is on something else.

Not whether you will make the playoffs.

Not homework.

Not even what’s for dinner.

You wonder what JB

and his pink Reebok–wearing girlfriend are doing.

You do not want to go to the library.

But you go.

Because your report on The Giver is due

tomorrow.

And JB has your copy.

But he’s with her.

Not here with you.

Which is unfair.

Because he doesn’t argue

with you about who’s the greatest,

Michael Jordan or Bill Russell,

like he used to.

Because JB will not eat lunch

with you tomorrow

or the next day,

or next week.

Because you are walking home

by yourself

and your brother owns the world.

Third Wheel

You walk into the library,

glance over at the music section.

You look through the magazines.

You even sit at a desk and pretend to study.

You ask the librarian where you can find The Giver.

She says something odd:

Did you find your friend?

Then she points upstairs.

On the second floor,

you pass by the computers.

Kids checking their Facebook.

More kids in line waiting

to check their Facebook.

In the Biography section

you see an old man

reading The Tipping Point.

You walk down the last aisle,

Teen Fiction,

and come to the reason you’re here.

You remove the book

from the shelf.

And there,

behind the last row of books,

you find

the “friend”

the librarian was talking about.

Only she’s not your friend

and she’s kissing

your brother.

tip·ping point

[TIH-PING POYNT] noun

The point

when an object shifts

from one position

into a new,

entirely different one.

As in: My dad says the tipping point

of our country’s economy

was housing gamblers

and greedy bankers.

As in: If we get one C

on our report cards,

I’m afraid

Mom will reach

her tipping point

and that will be the end

of basketball.

As in: Today at the library,

I went upstairs,

walked down an aisle,

pulled The Giver

off the shelf,

and found

my tipping point.

The main reason I can’t sleep

is not because

of the game tomorrow tonight,

is not because

the stubble on my head feels

like bugs are break dancing on it,

is not even because I’m worried about Dad.

The main reason

I can’t sleep tonight

is because

Jordan is on the phone

with Miss Sweet Tea

and between the giggling

and the breathing

he tells her

how much she’s

the apple of

his eye

and that he wants

to peel her

and get under her skin

and give me a break.

I’m still hungry

and right about now

I wish I had

an apple

of my own.

Surprised

I have it all planned out.

When we walk to the game

I will talk to JB

man to man

about how he’s spending

way more time with Alexis

than with me

and Dad.

Except when I hear

the horn,

I look outside

my window and it’s raining

and JB is jumping

into a car

with Miss Sweet Tea and her dad,

ruining my plan.

Conversation

In the car

I ask Dad

if going to the doctor

will kill him.

He tells me

he doesn’t trust doctors,

that my grandfather did

and look where it got him:

six feet under

at forty-five.

But Mom says your dad

was really sick, I tell him,

and Dad just rolls his eyes,

so I try something different.

I tell him

that just because your teammate

gets fouled on a lay-up

doesn’t mean you shouldn’t

ever drive to the lane again.

He looks at me and

laughs so loud,

we almost don’t hear

the flashing blues

behind us.

Game Time: 6:00 p.m.

At 5:28 p.m.

a cop

pulls us over

because Dad has

a broken

taillight.

At 5:30

the officer approaches

our car

and asks Dad

for his driver’s license

and registration.

At 5:32

the team leaves

the locker room and

pregame warm-ups

begin

without me.

At 5:34

Dad explains

to the officer

that his license

is in his wallet,

which is in his jacket

at home.

At 5:37

Dad says, Look, sir,

my name is Chuck Bell,

and I’m just trying

to get my boy

to his basketball game.

At 5:47

while Coach leads

the Wildcats

in team prayer,

I pray Dad

won’t get arrested.

At 5:48

the cop smiles

after verifying

Dad’s identity

on Google, and says,

You “Da Man”!

At 5:50

Dad autographs

a Krispy Kreme napkin

for the officer

and gets a warning

for his broken taillight.

At 6:01

we arrive at the game

but on my sprint

into the gym

I slip and fall

in the mud.

This is my second year

playing

for the Reggie Lewis Wildcats

and I’ve started every game

until tonight,

when Coach tells me

to go get cleaned up

then find a seat

on the bench.

When I try to tell him

it wasn’t my fault,

he doesn’t want to hear

about sirens and broken taillights.

Josh, better an hour too soon

than a minute too late, he says,

turning his attention back

to JB and the guys

on the court,

all of whom are pointing

and laughing

at me.

Basketball Rule #6

A great team

has a good scorer

with a teammate

who’s on point

and ready

to assist.

Josh’s Play-by-Play

At the beginning

of the second half

we’re up twenty-three to twelve.

I enter the game

for the first time.

I’m just happy

to be back on the floor.

When my brother and I

are on the court together

this team is

unstoppable,

unfadeable.

And, yes,

undefeated.

JB brings the ball up the court.

Passes the ball to Vondie.

He shoots it back to JB.

I call for the ball.

JB finds me in the corner.

I know y’all think

it’s time for the pick-and-roll,

but I got something else in mind.

I get the ball on the left side.

JB is setting the pick.

Here it comes—

I roll to his right.

The double-team is on me,

leaving JB free.

He’s got his hands in the air,

looking for the dish

from me.

Dad likes to say,

When Jordan Bell is open

you can take his three to the bank,

cash it in, ’cause it’s all money.

Tonight, I’m going for broke.

I see JB’s still wide open.

McDonald’s drive-thru open.

But I got my own plans.

The double-team is still on me

like feathers on a bird.

Ever seen an eagle soar?

So high, so fly.

Me and my wings are—

and that’s when I remember:

MY. WINGS. ARE. GONE.

Coach Hawkins is out of his seat.

Dad is on his feet, screaming.

JB’s screaming.

The crowd’s screaming,

FILTHY, PASS THE BALL!

The shot clock is at 5.

I dribble out of the double-team.

4

Everything comes to a head.

3

I see Jordan.

2

You want it that bad? HERE YA GO!

1 . . .

Before

Today, I walk into the gym

covered in more dirt than a chimney.

When JB screams FILTHY’S McNasty,

the whole team laughs. Even Coach.

Then I get benched for the entire first half. For being late.

Today, I watch as we take a big lead,

and JB makes four threes in a row.

I hear the crowd cheer for JB, especially Dad and Mom.

Then I see JB wink at Miss Sweet Tea

after he hits a stupid free throw.

Today, I finally get into the game

at the start of the second half.

JB sets a wicked pick for me

just like Coach showed us in practice,

And I get double-teamed on the roll

just like we expect.

Today, I watch JB get open and wave for me to pass.

Instead I dribble, trying to get out of the trap,

and watch as Coach and Dad scream

for me to pass.

Today, I plan on passing the ball to JB,

but when I hear him say “FILTHY,

give me the ball,” I dribble

over to my brother

and fire a pass

so hard,

it levels him,

the blood

from his nose

still shooting

long after the shot-

clock buzzer goes off.

After

On the short ride home

from the hospital

there is no jazz music

or hoop talk,

only brutal silence,

the unspoken words

volcanic and weighty.

Dad and Mom,

solemn and wounded.

JB, bandaged and hurt,

leans against his back-seat window

and with less than two feet

between us

I feel miles away

from all of them.

Suspension

Sit down, Mom says.

Feels like we’re in her office.

Can I make you a sandwich?

But we’re in the kitchen.

You want a tall glass of orange soda?

Mom doesn’t ever let us drink soda.

Eat up, because this may be your last meal.

Here it comes . . .

Boys with no self-control become men behind bars.

. . .

Have you lost your mind, son?

No.

Did your father and I raise you to be churlish?

No.

So, what’s been wrong with you these past few weeks?

. . .

Put that sandwich down and answer me.

I guess I’ve been just—

You’ve been just what? DERANGED?

Uh—

DON’T “UH” ME! Talk like you have some sense.

I didn’t mean to hurt him.

You could have permanently injured your brother.

I know. I’m sorry, Mom.

You’re sorry for what?

. . .

I’m confused, Josh. Make me understand. When did you become a thug?

I don’t know. I just was a little ang—

Are you going to get “angry” every time JB has a girlfriend?

It wasn’t just that.

Then what was it? I’m waiting.

I don’t know.

Okay, well, since you don’t know, here’s what I know—

I just got a little upset.

Not good enough. Your behavior was unacceptable.

I said I’m sorry.

Indeed you did. But you need to tell your brother, not me.

I will.

There are always consequences, Josh.

Here it comes: Dishes for a week, no phone, or, worse, no Sundays at the Rec.

Josh, you and JB are growing up.

I know.

You’re twins, not the same person.

But that doesn’t mean he has to stop loving me.

Your brother will always love you, Josh.

I guess.

Boys with no discipline end up in prison.

Yeah, I heard you the first time.

Don’t you get smart with me and end up in more trouble.

Why are you always trying to scare me?

We’re done. Your dad is waiting for you.

Okay, but what are the consequences?

You’re suspended.

From school?

From the team.

. . .

chur·lish

[CHUHR-LISH] adjective

Having a bad temper, and

being difficult to work with.

As in: I wanted a pair

of Stephon Marbury’s sneakers

(Starburys),

but Dad called him

a selfish millionaire

with a bad attitude,

and why would I want

to be associated

with such a churlish

choke artist.

As in: I don’t understand

how I went

from annoyed

to grumpy

to downright

churlish.

As in: How do you apologize

to your twin brother

for being churlish—

for almost

breaking

his nose?

This week, I

get my report card.

Make the honor roll.

Watch the team win

game nine.

Volunteer

at the library.

Eat lunch alone

five times.

Avoid

Miss Sweet Tea.

Walk home

by myself.

Clean the garage

during practice.

Try to atone

day and night.

Sit beside JB at dinner.

He moves.

Tell him a joke.

He doesn’t even smile.

Do his chores.

He pays no attention.

Say I’m sorry

but he won’t listen.

Basketball Rule #7

Rebounding

is the art

of anticipating,

of always being prepared

to grab it.

But you can’t

drop the ball.

The Nosebleed Section

Our seats are in the clouds,

and every time Dad thinks

the ref makes a bad call,

he rains.

All Mom does is pop up

like an umbrella,

then Dad sits

back down.

JB’s got nineteen points,

six rebounds,

and three assists.

He’s on fire,

blazing from

baseline to baseline.

Dad screams,

Somebody needs to call

the fire department,

’cause JB is burning up

this place.

The other team calls a time-out.

Dad, JB still won’t speak to me, I say.

Right now JB can’t

see you, son, Dad says.

You just have to let the smoke

clear, and then he’ll be okay.

For now, why don’t you

write him a letter?

Good idea, I think.

But what should I say? I ask him.

By then,

Dad is on his feet

with the rest of the gym

as JB steals the ball

and takes off

like a wildfire.

Fast Break

He’s a

Backcourt Baller

On the b r e a k,

a RUNNING GUNNING

SHOOTING STAR

FLYING F A S T.

JB’s FIXING for the GLASS—

BOUNCE BOUNCE             ball beside him

NOW he’s GETTING

FLYER and FLYER,

CLIMBing                sky.

He nods his head

and pumps a FAKE,

Explodes the lane.

CRISS ball CROSS ball CRISS

and takes the break

K

   A

      B

         O

            O

               M

Above the rim,

A THUNDEROUS almost DUNK.

That elbow just sent JB

K

   E

      R

         P

            L

               U

                  N

                     K

to the floor.

F O U L.

Storm

Like a strong wind, Dad

rises from the clouds, strikes

down the stairs, swift and

sharp and mad as

lightning. Flagrant foul, ref!

he yells to everyone in the

gym. Now he’s hail and blizzard.

His face, cold and hard as ice.

His hands pulsing through

the air. His mouth, loud as thunder.

He tackled JB—

this ain’t football,

Dad roars in the face

of the ref, while JB

and his attacker do

the eye dance. I want to

join in, offer my squall,

but Mom shoots me a look

that says, Stay out of the rain,

son. So, I just watch

as she and Coach chase

Dad’s tornado. I watch

as she wraps her arms

around Dad’s waist. I watch

as she slowly brings him back

to wind and cloud. I watch

Mom take a tissue from

her purse to wipe her tears,

and the sudden onset of

blood from Dad’s nose.

The next morning

at breakfast

Mom tells Dad,

Call Dr. Youngblood today                  or else.

The name’s ironic, I think.

I’m sorry for losing

my cool,

Dad tells us.

JB asks Mom

can he go to the mall

after practice today?

There’s a new video game

we can check out,

I say to JB.

He hasn’t spoken to me in five days.

Your brother has apologized

profusely for his mistake,

Mom says to JB.

Tell him that I saw the look

in his eyes, and it wasn’t a mistake,

JB replies.

pro·fuse·ly

[PRUH-FYOOS-LEE] adverb

Pouring forth

in great quantity.

As in: JB gets all nervous and

sweats profusely

every time

Miss Sweet Tea walks

into a room.

As in: The team has thanked

JB profusely

for leading us

into

the playoffs.

As in: Mom said

Dad’s blood pressure

was so high

during the game that when

he went into a rage

it caused

his nose

to start bleeding

profusely.

Article #1 in the Daily News (December 14)

The Reggie Lewis Wildcats

capped off their remarkable season

with a fiery win against

Olive Branch Junior High.

Playing without suspended phenom

Josh Bell didn’t seem to faze

Coach Hawkins’ undefeated ’Cats.

After a brief melee caused by a hard foul,

Josh’s twin, Jordan, led the team,

like GW crossing the Delaware,

to victory, and to their

second straight playoff appearance.

With a first-round bye,

they begin their quest

for the county trophy

next week

against the Independence Red Rockets,

the defending champions,

while playing without

Josh “Filthy McNasty” Bell

the Daily News’s

Most Valuable Player.

Mostly everyone

in class applauds,

congratulating me

on being selected

as the Junior High MVP

by the Daily News.

Everyone except

Miss Sweet Tea:

YOU’RE MEAN, JOSH!

And I don’t know why

they gave you that award

after what you did to Jordan.

JERK!

JB looks at me.

I wait for him to say something, anything

in defense of his only brother.

But his eyes, empty as fired cannons,

shoot way past me.

Sometimes it’s the things that aren’t said

that kill you.

Final Jeopardy

The only sounds,

teeth munching melon and strawberry

from Mom’s fruit cocktail dessert

and Alex Trebek’s annoying voice:

This fourteen-time NBA all-star

also played minor-league baseball

for the Birmingham Barons.

Even Mom knows the answer.

Hey, Dad, the playoffs start in two days

and the team needs me, I say.

Plus my grades were good.

JB rolls his eyes and says to Alex

what we all know: Who is “Michael Jeffrey Jordan”?

Josh, this isn’t about your grades, Mom says.

How you behave going forward is what matters to us.

I loooove Christmas.

Can’t wait for your mother’s

maple turkey, Dad says, trying

to break the tension. Nobody responds,

so he continues:

Y’all know what the mama turkey

said to her naughty son?

If your papa could see you now,

he’d turn over in his gravy!

None of us laughs.

Then all of us laugh.

Chuck, you are a silly man, Mom says.

Jordan, we want to meet your new friend, she adds.

Yeah, invite her to dinner, Dad agrees.

Filthy and I

want to get to know the girl who stole JB.

Stop that, Chuck! Mom says, hitting Dad on the arm.

What is “I’ll think about it”? JB replies,

kissing Mom, dapping Dad, and not once

looking

at

me.

Dear Jordan

without u

i am empty,

the goal

with no net.

seems

my life was

broken,

shattered,

like puzzle pieces

on the court.

i can no longer fit.

can you

help me heal,

run with me,

slash with me

like we used to?

like two stars

stealing sun,

like two brothers

burning up.

together.

PS. I’m sorry.

I don’t know

if he read

my letter,

but this morning

on the bus

to school

when I said,

Vondie, your head

is so big,

you don’t have a forehead,

you have a five-head,

I could feel

JB laughing

a little.

No Pizza and Fries

The spinach

and tofu

salad

Mom packed

for my lunch

today is cruel,

but not as cruel

as the evil look

Miss Sweet Tea

shoots me

from across

the cafeteria.

Even Vondie

has a girlfriend now.

She wants to be a doctor one day.

She’s a candy striper

and a cheerleader

and a talker

with skinny legs

and a butt

as big

as Vermont,

which according to her

has the best tomatoes,

which she claims

come in all colors,

even purple,

which she tells me

is her favorite color,

which I already know

because of her hair.

This is still better

than having

no girlfriend at all.

Which is what I have

now.

Uh-oh

While I’m on the phone

with Vondie

talking about

my chances of playing

in another game

this season,

I hear panting

coming from Mom

and Dad’s room,

but we don’t own

a dog.

I run into Dad’s room

to see what all the noise is

and find him kneeling

on the floor, rubbing a towel

in the rug. It reeks of vomit.

You threw up, Dad? I ask.

Must have been something I ate.

He sits up on the bed, holds

his chest like he’s pledging

allegiance. Only there’s no flag.

Y’all ready to eat? he mutters.

You okay, Dad? I ask.

He nods and shows me

a letter he’s reading.

Dad, was that you coughing?

I’ve got great news, Filthy.

What is it? I ask.

I got a coaching offer at a nearby

college starting next month.

A job? What about the house?

What about Mom? What about me

and JB? Who’s gonna shoot

free throws with us every night? I ask.

Filthy, you and JB are getting older,

more mature—you’ll manage, he says.

And, what’s with the switch? First

you want me to get a job, now

you don’t? What’s up, Filthy?

Dad, Mom thinks you should

take it easy, for your health, right?

I mean, didn’t you make a million dollars

playing basketball? You don’t

really need to work.

Filthy, what I need is to get back

on the court. That’s what your dad NEEDS!

I prefer to be called Josh, Dad.

Not Filthy.

Oh, really, Filthy? he laughs.

I’m serious, Dad—please don’t call me

that name anymore.

You gonna take the job, Dad?

Son, I miss “swish.”

I miss the smell of orange leather.

I miss eatin’ up cats

who think they can run with Da Man.

The court is my kitchen.

Son, I miss being the top chef.

So, yeah, I’m gonna take it . . .

if your mother lets me.

Well, I will talk to her about

this job thing, since it means

so much to you. But, you know

she’s really worried about you, Dad.

Filth—I mean Josh, okay, you talk

to her, he laughs.

And maybe, in return, Dad, you can talk

to her about letting me back on the team

for the playoffs.

I feel like

I’m letting my teammates down.

You let your family down too, Josh, he replies,

still holding his chest.

So what should I do, Dad? I ask.

Well, right now you should

go set the dinner table, Mom says,

standing at the door

watching Dad with eyes

full of panic.

Behind Closed Doors

We decided no more basketball, Chuck, Mom yells.

Baby, it’s not ball, it’s coaching, Dad tells her.

It’s still stress. You don’t need to be on the court.

The doctor said it’s fine, baby.

What doctor? When did you go to the doctor?

I go a couple times a week. Dr. WebMD.

Are you serious! This is not some joke, Charles.

. . .

Going online is not going to save your life.

Truth is, I’ve had enough of this talk about me being sick.

So have I. I’m scheduling an appointment for you.

Fine!

I shouldn’t be so worried about your heart—it’s your head that’s crazy.

Crazy for you, lil’ mama.

Stop that. I said stop. It’s time for dinner, Chuck . . . oooh.

Who’s Da Man?

And then there is silence, so I go set the dinner table,

because when they stop talking,

I know what that means.

Uggghh!

The girl who stole my brother

is her new name.

She’s no longer sweet.

Bitter is her taste.

Even worse,

she asks for seconds

of vegetable lasagna,

which makes Mom smile

’cause JB and I can’t get with

this whole better-eating thing

and we never ask for seconds

until tonight, when JB,

still grinning and cheesing

for some invisible camera

that Miss Bitter (Sweet) Tea holds,

asks for more salad,

which makes Dad laugh

and prompts Mom

to ask,

How did you two meet?

Surprisingly, JB is a motor mouth,

giving us all the details about

that first time in the cafeteria:

She came into the lunchroom.

It was her first day at our school,

and we just started talking about

all kinds of stuff, and she said she played

basketball at her last school, and then

Vondie was like, “JB, she’s hot,” and

I was like, “Yeah, she is kinda

pulchritudinous.”

And for the first time

in fifteen days, JB looks

at me for a split second,

and I almost see

the hint of a

smile.

Things I Learn at Dinner

She went to Nike Hoops Camp for Girls.

Her favorite player is Skylar Diggins.

She can name each of the 2010 NBA Champion Lakers.

Her dad went to college with Shaquille O’Neal.

She knows how to do a crossover.

Her AAU team won a championship.

She’s got game.

Her parents are divorced.

She’s going to visit her mom next week for Christmas break.

She lives with her dad.

She shoots hoop at the Rec to relax.

Her mom doesn’t want her playing basketball.

Her dad’s coming to our game tomorrow to see JB play.

She’s sorry I won’t be playing.

Her smile is as sweet as Mom’s carrot cake.

She smells like sugarplum.

She has a sister in college.

HER SISTER GOES TO DUKE.

Dishes

When the last plate is scrubbed,

the leftovers put up,

and the floor swept clean,

Mom comes into the kitchen.

When is Dad’s doctor appointment? I ask.

Josh, you know I don’t like

you eavesdropping.

I get it from you, Mom, I say.

And she laughs, ’cause she knows

I’m not saying nothing but the truth.

It’s next week.

School’s out next week.

Maybe I can go

with you

to the doctor?

Maybe, she says.

I put the broom down,

wrap my arms around her,

and tell her thank you.

For loving us, and Dad, and

letting us play basketball,

and being the best mother

in the world.

Keep this up, she says, and

you’ll be back on the court

in no time.

Does that mean

I can play in tomorrow’s

playoff game? I ask.

Don’t press your luck, son.

It’s going to take more than a hug.

Now help me dry these dishes.

Coach’s Talk Before the Game

Tonight

I decide to sit

on the bench

with the team

during the game

instead of the bleachers

with Dad

and Mom, who’s sitting

next to him

just in case

he decides to

act churlish

again.

Coach says:

We’ve won

ten games

in a row.

The difference between

a winning streak

and a losing streak

is one game.

Now, Josh is not with us

again, so somebody’s

gonna have to step up

in the low post.

I sit back down

on the bench

and watch JB lead our Wildcats

to the court.

When the game finally starts,

I glance up at Dad and Mom,

but they’re not there.

When I look back

at the court,

JB is staring at me

like we’ve both just seen

another ghost.

Josh’s Play-by-Play

The team’s in trouble.

If they don’t find an answer soon

our championship dreams are over.

Down by three, they’re playing

like kittens, not Wildcats.

With less than a minute to go

Vondie brings the ball up the court.

Will he go inside for a quick two

or get the ball to JB

for the three-ball?

He passes the ball to number twenty-nine

on the right wing

and tries to dribble out,

but the defense is suffocating.

They’re on him like

black on midnight.

He shoots it over to JB,

who looks up at the clock.

He’s gonna let it get as close

as possible.

They’ve gotta miss me right now.

Vondie comes over, sets a high pick.

JB’s open, he’s gonna take the three.

It’s up.

That’s a good-looking ball there.

But not good enough.

It clangs off the rim.

The buzzer

rings

and the Wildcats

lose

the first half.

Text Messages from Mom, Part One

7:04

Dad wasn’t feeling

well, so we went outside

for some air. Back soon.

7:17

I think we’re

heading home. At halftime,

let your brother know.

7:45

Home now. Dad wants

to know the score. How is Jordan

doing? You okay?

7:47

Y’all hang in there. The

second half will be better.

Hi to Alexis. Get

7:47

a ride with Coach

or Vondie. Yes, Dad’s okay.

I think. See you soon.

7:48

I shouldn’t have said

“I think.” He’s fine, just tired.

He says don’t come home

7:48

if you lose. LOL.

The Second Half

Vondie strips the ball

at center court,

shoots a short pass

to JB, who

skips

downtown

zips

around,

then double dips

it in the bowl.

SWOOSH

Man, that was cold.

We’re up by two.

These cats are BALLING.

JB is on fire,

taking the score

higher and higher,

and the team

and Coach

and Alexis

and me . . .

we’re his choir.

WILDCATS! WILDCATS!

My brother is

Superman tonight,

Sliding

and Gliding

into rare air,

lighting up the sky

and the scoreboard.

Saving the world

and our chance

at a championship.

Tomorrow Is the Last Day of School Before Christmas Vacation

Tonight, I’m studying.

Usually I help JB

prepare for his tests,

but since the incident

he’s been studying alone,

which has me a little scared

because tomorrow is also the big

vocabulary standards test.

(But don’t say that word

around Mom. She thinks

that “standards” are a lousy idea).

So, after the game

I go home and pull out

my study sheet with all

the words

we’ve been studying

and my clues

to remember them.

Like heirloom.

As in: Dad treats his championship ring

like some kind of family heirloom

that we can’t wear

until one of us becomes Da Man.

I put eight pages of words

on JB’s pillow

while he’s brushing

his teeth,

then turn off my light

and go to sleep.

When he climbs into bed,

I hear the sound of ruffling paper.

Then his night-light comes on

and I don’t hear anything else

except

Thanks.

Coach comes over

to my table

during lunch,

sits down

with a bag

from McDonald’s,

hands me a fry

and Vondie a fry,

bites into his

McRib sandwich,

and says:

Look, Josh,

you and your brother need

to squash this beef.

If my two stars

aren’t aligned,

there’s no way

the universe is kind to us.

Huh? Vondie says.

My brother and I

got into a bad fight

when we were in high school,

and we’ve been estranged

ever since.

You want that?

I shake my head.

Then fix it, Filthy.

Fix it fast.

We don’t need any distractions

on this journey.

And while you’re working

on that, give your mom

something special this holiday.

She says you’ve served

your sentence well

and that she’ll consider

letting you back

on the team

if we make it

to the championship game.

Merry Christmas, Josh.

es·tranged

[IH-STREYNJD] adjective

The interruption of a bond,

when one person becomes

a stranger

to someone

who was close:

a relative, friend,

or loved one.

As in: Alexis’s mom and dad

are estranged.

As in: When I threw the ball

at JB,

I think I was estranged

from myself,

if that’s possible.

As in: Even though JB and I

are estranged,

Dad’s making us play

together

in a three-on-three tournament

on the Rec playground

tomorrow.

School’s Out

Mom has to work late,

so Dad picks us up.

Even though JB’s

still not talking to me

Dad’s cracking jokes

and we’re both laughing

like it’s the good ol’ times.

What are we getting for Christmas, Dad? JB asks.

What we always get. Books, I reply,

and we both laugh

just like the good ol’ times.

Boys, your talent will help you win games, Dad says,

but your intelligence, that will help you win at life.

Who said that? I ask.

I said it, didn’t you hear me?

Michael Jordan said it, JB says,

still looking at Dad.

Look, boys, you’ve both done good

in school this year, and

your mom and I appreciate that.

So you choose a gift, and I’ll get it.

You mean no books? I ask. Yes!

Nope. You’re still getting the books, player.

Santa’s just letting you pick something extra.

At the stoplight,

JB and I look out

the window

at the exact moment

we pass by the mall

and I know exactly

what JB wants.

Dad, can we stop

at that sneaker store

in the mall?

Yeah, Dad, can we? JB echoes.

And the word we

never sounded

sweeter.

The Phone Rings

Mom’s decorating the tree,

Dad’s outside shooting free throws,

warming up for the tournament.

Hello, I answer.

Hi, Josh, she replies.

May I please speak

with Precious?

He’s, uh, busy right now,

I tell her.

Well, just tell him

I will see him at the Rec,

she says, and now

I understand

why JB’s

taking his second shower

this morning

when he barely takes ONE

most school mornings.

Basketball Rule #8

Sometimes

you have to

lean back

a little

and

fade away

to get

the best

shot.

When we get to the court

I challenge Dad

to a quick game

of one-on-one

before the tournament

so we can both warm up.

He laughs and says, Check,

then gives me the ball,

but it hits me in the chest

because I’m busy looking over

at the swings where Jordan and

Miss Sweet Tea are talking

and holding hands.

Pay attention, Filthy—I mean Josh.

I’m about to CLEAN you up, boy, Dad says.

I pump fake him then sugar shake him

for an easy two. I hear applause.

Kids are coming over to watch.

On the next play I switch it up

and launch a three from downtown.

It rolls round and round and IN.

The benches are filling up.

Even Jordan and Alexis are now watching.

Five-oh is the score,

third play of the game.

I try my crossover, but

Dad steals the ball

like a thief in the night,

camps out at the top for a minute.

What you doing, old man? I say.

Don’t worry ’bout me, son.

I’m contemplatin’,

preparing to shut down

all your playa hatin’, Dad says.

Son, I ever tell you

about this cat named

Willie I played with in Italy?

And before I can answer

he unleashes a

killer crossover,

leaving me wishing for a cushion.

The kids are off the benches.

On their feet hollerin’,

Ohhhhhhhhhh, Whoop Whoop!

Meet the Press, Josh Bell, Dad laughs,

on his way to the hoop.

But then—

At Noon, in the Gym, with Dad

People watching

Players boasting

Me scoring

Dad snoring

Crowd growing

We balling

Me pumping

Dad jumping

Me faking

Nasty shot

Nasty moves

Five–zero

My lead

Next play

Dribble bounce

Dribble steal

Dad laughs

Palms ball

You okay?

Dad winks

Watch this

He dips

Sweat drips

Left y’all

Right y’all

I fall

Crowd wild

Dad drives

Steps strides

Runs fast

Hoop bound

Stutter steps

Lets loose

Screams loud

Stands still

Breath short

More sweat

Grabs chest

Eyes roll

Ball drops

Dad drops

I scream

“Help, please”

Sweet Tea

Dials cell

Jordan runs

Brings water

Splashes face

Dad nothing

Out cold

I remember

Gym class

Tilt pinch

Blow pump

Blow pump

Still nothing

Blow pump

Sirens blast

Pulse gone

Eyes shut.

The doctor pats Jordan and me on the back and says

Your dad should be fine. If you’re lucky,

you boys will be fishing with him in no time.

We don’t fish, I tell him.

Mom shoots me a mean look.

Mrs. Bell, the myocardial infarction has caused some

complications. Your husband’s stable, but he is in a coma.

In between sobs, JB barely gets his question out:

Will my dad be home for Christmas?

He looks at us and says: Try talking to him,

maybe he can hear you, which could help him come back.

Well, MAYBE we’re not in a talking mood, I say.

Joshua Bell, be respectful! Mom tells me.

I shouldn’t even be here.

I should be putting on my uniform, stretching,

getting ready to play in the county semifinals.

But instead, I’m sitting in a smelly room

in St. Luke’s Hospital,

listening to Mom sing “Kumbaya,”

watching Jordan hold Dad’s hand,

wondering why I have

to push water uphill

with a rake

to talk to someone

who isn’t even listening.

To miss the biggest game

of my life.

my·o·car·di·al  in·farc·tion

[MY-OH-CAR-DEE-YUHL IN-FARK-SHUN] noun

Occurs when blood flow

to an area of the heart

is blocked

for a long enough time

that part of the heart muscle

is damaged

or dies.

As in: JB says that he hates

basketball because it was

the one thing that

Dad loved the most

besides us

and it was the one thing

that caused his

myocardial infarction.

As in: The doctor sees me Googling

the symptoms—coughing, sweating,

vomiting, nosebleeds—and he says,

You know we can’t be sure what causes

a myocardial infarction. I say, What about

doughnuts and fried chicken and genetics?

The doctor looks at my mom,

then leaves.

As in: Dad’s in a coma

because of a myocardial infarction,

which is the same thing

my grandfather died of.

So what does that mean for me

and JB?

Okay, Dad

The doctor says

I should talk to you,

that maybe you can hear

and maybe you can’t.

Mom and JB

have been talking

your ear off

all morning.

So, if you’re listening,

I’d like to know,

when did you decide to jump

ship? I thought you were

Da Man.

And one more thing:

If we make it

to the finals,

I will not miss

the big game

for a small

maybe.

Mom, since you asked, I’ll tell you why I’m so angry

Because Dad tried to dunk.

Because I want to win a championship.

Because I can’t win a championship if I’m sitting in this smelly hospital.

Because Dad told you he’d be here forever.

Because I thought forever was like Mars—far away.

Because it turns out forever is like the mall—right around the corner.

Because Jordan doesn’t talk basketball anymore.

Because Jordan cut my hair and didn’t care.

Because he’s always drinking Sweet Tea.

Because sometimes I get thirsty.

Because I don’t have anybody to talk to now.

Because I feel empty with no hair.

Because CPR DOESN’T WORK!

Because my crossover should be better.

Because if it was better, then Dad wouldn’t have had the ball.

Because if Dad hadn’t had the ball, then he wouldn’t have tried to dunk.

Because if Dad hadn’t tried to dunk, then we wouldn’t be here.

Because I don’t want to be here.

Because the only thing that matters is swish.

Because our backboard is splintered.

Text Messages from Vondie

8:05

Filthy, the game went

double overtime

before the last possession.

8:05

Coach called a time-out

and had us all do a special chant

on the sideline.

8:06

It was kinda creepy. The

other team was LOL.

I guess it worked, ’cause

8:06

we won, 40–39.

We dedicated the game ball

to your pop.

8:07

Is he better? You and JB

coming to practice?

Filthy, you there?

On Christmas Eve

Dad finally wakes up. He

smiles at

Mom, high-fives Jordan,

then looks right at me

and says,

Filthy, I didn’t jump ship.

Santa Claus Stops By

We’re celebrating

Christmas

in Dad’s hospital room.

Flowers and gifts and cheer

surround him. Relatives from

five states. Aunts with collards and yams,

cousins with hoots and hollers,

and runny noses. Mom’s singing,

Dad’s playing spades with his brothers.

I know the nurses can’t wait for visiting hours

to end. I can’t either. Uncle Bob’s turkey

tastes like cardboard

and his lemon pound cake looks like Jell-O, but

Hospital Santa has everyone singing and

all this joy is spoiling my mood. I can’t

remember the last time I smiled. Happy is

a huge river right now and I’ve forgotten

how to swim. After two hours, Mom

tells everyone it’s time for Dad to

get some rest. I hug fourteen people, which is

like drowning. When they leave, Dad

calls Jordan and me over to the bed.

Do y’all remember

when you were seven and JB

wanted to swing but all the swings were

filled, and Filthy pushed the little redhead

kid out of the swing so JB could take it?

Well, it wasn’t the right behavior, but

the intention was righteous.

You were there for each other.

I want you both

to always be there

for each other.

Jordan starts crying.

Mom holds him,

and takes him outside

for a walk.

Me and Dad stare

at each other

for ten minutes

without saying a word.

I tell him,

I don’t have anything to say.

Filthy, silence doesn’t mean

we have run out of things to say,

only that we are trying

not to say them.

So, let’s do this.

I’ll ask you a question,

then you ask me a question,

and we’ll just keep asking until

we can both get some answers.

Okay?

Sure, I say,

but you go first.

Questions

Have you been practicing your free throws?

Why didn’t you go to the doctor when Mom asked you?

When is the game?

Why didn’t you ever take us fishing?

Does your brother still have a girlfriend?

Are you going to die?

Do you really want to know?

Why couldn’t I save you?

Don’t you see that you did?

Do you remember I kept pumping and breathing?

Aren’t I alive?

. . . ?

Did y’all arrest Uncle Bob’s turkey? It was just criminal what he did to that bird, wasn’t it?

You think this is funny?

How’s your brother?

Is our family falling apart?

You still think I should write a book?

What does that have to do with anything?

What if I call it “Basketball Rules”?

Are you going to die?

Do you know I love you, son?

Don’t you know the big game’s tomorrow?

Is it true Mom is letting you play?

You think I shouldn’t play?

What do you think, Filthy?

What about Jordan?

Does he want to play?

Don’t you know he won’t as long as you’re in here?

Don’t you know I know that?

So, why don’t you come home?

Can’t you see I can’t?

Why not?

Don’t you know it’s complicated, Filthy?

Why can’t you call me by my real name?

Josh, do you know what a heart attack is?

Don’t you remember I was there?

Don’t you see I need to be here so they can fix the damage that’s been done to my heart?

Who’s gonna fix the damage that’s been done to mine?

Tanka for Language Arts Class

This Christmas was not

Merry, and I have not found

joy in the new year

with Dad in the hospital

for nineteen days and counting.

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to

walking home from school | alone
playing Madden | alone
listening to Lil Wayne | alone
going to the library | alone
shooting free throws | alone
watching ESPN | alone
eating doughnuts | alone
saying my prayers | alone
Now that Jordan’s in love |
and Dad’s living in a hospital |

Basketball Rule #9

When the game is on

the line,

don’t fear.

Grab the ball.

Take it

to the hoop.

As we’re about to leave for the final game

the phone rings.

Mom shrieks.

I think the worst.

I ask JB if he heard that.

He’s on his bunk

listening to his iPod.

Mom rushes past our room,

out of breath.

JB jumps down

from his bunk.

What’s wrong, Mom? I ask.

She says:

Dad. Had. Another. Attack.

Now. Don’t. Worry.

I’m. Going. Hospital.

See. You. Two. At. Game.

Vroooooommmmmmm.

Her car starts.

JB, what should we do? I ask.

He’s no longer listening to music,

but his tears are loud enough

to dance to.

He laces his sneakers,

runs out of our room.

The garage door opens.

I hear FLOP FLOP FLOP

from the straws

on the spokes

of his bicycle wheels

as he follows Mom

to the hospital.

I hear the clock: TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.

I hear Dad: You should play in the game, son.

A horn blows.

I hear SLAM SLAM SLAM

as I shut the door

of Vondie’s dad’s car.

I hear SCREECH SCREECH SCREECH

as we pull away

from the curb

on our way

to the county championship game.

During warm-ups

I miss four lay-ups in

a row, and Coach Hawkins says,

Josh, you sure you’re able

to play? It’s more than okay if you

need to go to the hospital with your fam—

Coach, my dad is going to be fine,

I say. Plus he wants me to play.

Son, you telling me you’re okay?

Can a deaf person write

music? I ask Coach.

He raises his eyebrows,

shakes his head, and

tells me to go sit

on the bench. I excuse myself

to the locker room

to check my cell phone,

and there are texts

from Mom.

Text Messages from Mom, Part Two

5:47

Dad’s having complications.

But he’s gonna

be fine and says

he loves you.

Good luck tonight. Dad’s

5:47

gonna be fine. Jordan says

he still doesn’t feel like

playing, but I made him

5:48

go to the game to show

support. Look for him and

don’t get lazy on your

5:48

crossover.

For Dad

My free throw flirts with the rim and

loops, twirls, for a million years,

then drops, and for once, we’re up, 49–48,

five dancers on stage, leaping, jumping

so high, so fly,

eleven seconds from sky

A hard drive, a fast break, their best player

slices the thick air toward the goal.

His pull-up jumper

floats through the net,

then everything goes slow motion:

the ball, the player . . .

Coach calls time-out

with only five seconds to go.

I wish the ref could stop

the clock of my life.

Just one more game.

I think my father is dying,

and now I am out of bounds

when I see a familiar face

behind our bench. My brother,

Jordan Bell, head buried

in Sweet Tea, his eyes

welling with horror.

Before I know it, the whistle blows,

the ball in my hand,

the clock running down,

my tears running faster.

The Last Shot

5 . . . A bolt of lightning on my kicks . . .

The court is   SIZZLING

My sweat is              DRIZZLING

Stop all that quivering

Cuz tonight I’m delivering

I’m driving down

the lane

SLIDING

4 . . . Dribbling to the middle, gliding like a black eagle.

The crowd is RUMBLINGRUSTLING

ROARING

Take it to the hoop.

TAKE      IT      TO      THE      HOOP

3 . . . 2 . . . Watch out, ’cuz I’m about to get D I R T Y

with it

about to pour FILTHY’S sauce all over you.

Ohhhhh, did you see McNASTY cross over you?

Now I’m taking you

Ankle BREAKING you

You’re on your knees.

Screamin’ PLEASE, BABY, PLEASE

One . . . It’s a bird, It’s a plane. No, it’s up up

uppppppppppp.

My shot is F L O W I N G, Flying, fLuTtErInG

OHHHHHHHH, the chains are JINGALING

ringaling and SWINGALING

Swish.

Game/over.

Article #2 in the Daily News (January 14)

Professional basketball player

Charlie (Chuck) “Da Man” Bell

collapsed in a game

of one-on-one

with his son Josh.

After a complication,

Bell died at St. Luke’s Hospital

from a massive heart attack.

According to reports,

Bell suffered

from hypertension

and had three fainting spells

in the four months

before his collapse.

Autopsy results found

Bell had a large,

extensively scarred heart.

Reports have surfaced

that Bell refused to see a doctor.

One of his former teammates

stated, “He wasn’t a big fan of doctors

and hospitals, that’s for sure.”

Earlier in his life,

Bell chose to end his promising basketball career

rather than have surgery on his knee.

Known for his dazzling crossover,

Chuck Bell was the captain

of the Italian team

that won back-to-back Euroleague championships

in the late nineties.

He is survived by his wife,

Dr. Crystal Stanley-Bell, and

his twin sons,

Joshua and Jordan, who

recently won their first

county championship.

Bell was thirty-nine.

Where Do We Go from Here?

There are no coaches

at funerals. No practice

to get ready. No warm-up.

There is no last-second shot, and

we all wear its cruel

midnight uniform, starless

and unfriendly.

I am unprepared

for death.

This is a game

I cannot play.

It has no rules,

no referees.

You cannot win.

I listen

to my father’s teammates

tell funny stories

about love

and basketball.

I hear the choir’s comfort songs.

They almost drown out Mom’s sobs.

She will not look in the coffin.

That is not my husband, she says.

Dad is gone,

like the end of a good song.

What remains is bone

and muscle and cold skin.

I grab Mom’s right hand.

JB grabs her left.

The preacher says,

A great father, son, and

husband has crossed

over. Amen.

Outside, a long charcoal limo

pulls up to the curb

to take us

back.

If only.

star·less

[STAHR-LES] adjective

With no stars.

As in: If me and JB

try out for JV

next year,

the Reggie Lewis Junior High School Wildcats

will be starless.

As in: Last night

I felt like I was fading away

as I watched the starless

Portland Trailblazers

get stomped by Dad’s favorite team,

the Lakers.

As in: My father

was the light

of my world,

and now that he’s gone,

each night

is starless.

Basketball Rule #10

A loss is inevitable,

like snow in winter.

True champions

learn

to dance

through

the storm.

There are so many friends

neighbors, Dad’s teammates,

and family members

packed into our living room

that I have to go outside

just to breathe. The air

is filled with laughter,

John Coltrane,

Jay-Z, and the smell

of salmon, plus scents of

every pie and cake

imaginable.

Even Mom is smiling.

Josh, don’t you hear the phone

ringing? she says.

I don’t—the sound of

“A Love Supreme”

and loud laughter

drowning it out.

Can you get it, please? she asks me.

I answer it, a salmon sandwich

crammed in my mouth.

Hello, Bell residence, I mutter.

Hi, this is Alexis.

Oh . . . Hey.

I’m sorry I couldn’t be at the funeral.

This is Josh, not JB.

I know it’s you, Filthy. JB is loud.

Your phone voice always sounds like

it’s the break of dawn,

like you’re just waking up,

she says playfully.

I laugh for the first time in days.

I just wanted to call and say how sorry

I am for your loss. If there is anything my dad or I can do,

please let us know.

Look, Alexis, I’m sorry about—

It’s all good, Filthy. I gotta go, but

my sister has five tickets

to see Duke play North Carolina.

Me, her, JB, and my dad

are going.

You wanna—

ABSOLUTELY, I say, and THANKS,

right before Coach Hawkins

comes my way

with outstretched arms and

a bear-size hug, sending the phone

crashing to the floor.

On my way out the door,

to get some fresh air,

Mom gives me

a kiss and a piece of

sweet potato pie with

two scoops of vanilla soy

ice cream.

Where’s your brother? she asks.

I haven’t seen JB

since the funeral, but

if I had to guess, I’d say

he’s going to see Alexis.

Because, if I had a girlfriend, I’d be

off with her right about now.

But I don’t,

so the next best thing

will have to do.

Free Throws

It only takes me

Four mouthfuls

to finish the dessert.

I have to jump to get the ball.

It is wedged between

rim and backboard,

evidence of JB trying

and failing

to dunk.

I tap it out

and dribble

to the free-throw line.

Dad once made

fifty free throws

IN A ROW.

The most I ever made

was nineteen.

I grip the ball,

plant my feet on the line,

and shoot the first one.

It goes in.

I look around

to see if anyone is watching.

Nope. Not anymore.

The next twelve shots are good.

I name them each a year

in my life.

A year with my father.

By twenty-seven, I am making them

with my eyes closed.

The orange orb has wings

like there’s an angel

taking it to the hoop.

On the forty-ninth shot,

I am only slightly aware

that I am moments from fifty.

The only thing that really matters

is that out here

in the driveway

shooting free throws

I feel closer to Dad.

You feel better? he asks.

Dad? I say.

I open my eyes,

and there is my brother.

I thought you were—

Yeah, I know, he says.

I’m good. You? I ask.

He nods.

Good game last week, he says.

That crossover

was wicked.

Did you see the trophy? I ask.

He nods again.

Still protecting his words

from me.

Did you talk to Dad before—

He told us to stay out of his closet.

Then he told me to give you this.

You earned it, Filthy, he says,

sliding the ring on my finger.

My heart leaps

into my throat.

Dad’s championship ring.

Between the bouncing

and sobbing, I whisper, Why?

I guess you Da Man now, Filthy, JB says.

And for the first time in my life

I don’t want to be.

I bet

the dishes

you miss number fifty, he says,

walking away.

Where’s he going?

Hey, I shout.

We Da Man.

And when he turns around

I toss him the ball.

He dribbles

back to the top of the key,

fixes his eyes

on the goal.

I watch

the ball

leave his hands

like a bird

up high,

skating

the sky,

crossing over

us.

About the Author

KWAME ALEXANDER is an award-winning children’s book author and poet. His Book-in-a-Day writing and publishing program for upper elementary, middle, and high school students has created more than 3000 student authors in sixty-five schools across the United States, and in Canada and the Caribbean. He lives with his family in Herndon, Virginia.