Kwame Alexander: The Crossover

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 if s.

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