The Crossover (2 page)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

[
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.

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.

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.

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