Kwame Alexander - The Crossover

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