The Crossover (7 page)

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.

A great team

has a good scorer

with a teammate

who's on point

and ready

to assist.

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
. . .

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 “F
I
L
T
H
Y,

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.

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.

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.

. . .

[
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?

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.

Rebounding

is the art

of anticipating,

of always being prepared

to grab it.

But you can't

drop the ball.

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.

He's a

Backcourt Baller

On the b r e a k,

a
RUNNING
GUNNING

SHOOTING
S
T
A
R

FLYING
F A S T.

JB's FIXING for the
GLASS—

B
O
U
N
CE
B
O
U
N
C
E             ball beside him

NOW he's GETTING

FLYER
and
FLYER,

CLIMB
ing                
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.

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,