Kwame Alexander - The Crossover

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?