Kwame Alexander: The Crossover

when Vondie

hollers,

OH, SNAP!

ca·lam·i·ty

[KUH-LAM-IH-TEE] noun

An unexpected,

undesirable event;

often physically injurious.

As in: If JB hadn’t been acting

so silly and

playing around,

he would have cut

one lock

instead of five

from my head

and avoided

this calamity.

As in: The HUGE bald patch

on the side

of my head

is a dreadful

calamity.

As in: After the game

Mom almost has a fit

When she sees my hair,

What a calamity, she says,

shaking her head

and telling Dad to take me

to the barber shop

on Saturday

to have the rest

cut off.

Mom doesn’t like us eating out

but once a month she lets

one of us choose a restaurant

and even though she won’t let him touch

half the things on the buffet,

it’s Dad’s turn

and he chooses Chinese.

I know what he really wants

is Pollard’s Chicken and BBQ,

but Mom has banned

us from that place.

In the Golden Dragon,

Mom is still frowning

at JB for messing up my hair.

But, Mom, it was an accident, he says.

Accident or not, you owe

your brother an apology, she tells him.

I’m sorry for cutting your filthy hair, Filthy, JB laughs.

Not so funny now, is it? I say, my knuckles

digging into his scalp

till Dad saves him from the noogie

with one of his lame jokes:

Why can’t you play sports in the jungle? he asks.

Mom repeats the question because

Dad won’t continue until someone does.

Because of the cheetahs, he snaps back,

so amused, he almost falls out of his chair,

which causes all of us to laugh, and

get past my hair issue

for now.

I fill my plate with egg rolls and dumplings.

JB asks Dad how we did.

Y’all did okay, Dad says, but, JB, why did you

let that kid post you up? And, Filthy,

what was up with that lazy crossover?

When I was playing, we never . . .

And while Dad is telling us another story

for the hundredth time, Mom removes the salt

from the table and JB goes to the buffet.

He brings back three packages

of duck sauce and a cup of wonton soup

and hands them all to me.

Dad pauses, and Mom looks at JB.

That was random, she says.

What, isn’t that what you wanted, Filthy? JB asks.

And even though I never opened my mouth,

I say, Thanks,

because

it is.

Missing

I am not

a mathematician—

a + b seldom

equals c.

Pluses and minuses,

we get along

but we are not close.

I am no Pythagoras.

And so each time

I count the locks

of hair

beneath my pillow

I end up with thirty-seven

plus one tear,

which never

adds up.

The inside of Mom and Dad’s bedroom closet

is off-limits,

so every time JB asks me

to go in there to look

through Dad’s stuff, I say no.

But today when I ask Mom

for a box to put my dreadlocks in,

she tells me to take

one of her Sunday hat boxes

from the top shelf

of her closet.

Next to her purple hat box is

Dad’s small silver safety box

with the key in the lock

and practically begging me

to open it,

so I do, when, unexpectedly:

What are you doing, Filthy?

Standing in the doorway

is JB with a look that says BUSTED!

Filthy, you still giving me the silent treatment?

. . .

I really am sorry about your hair, man.

I owe you, Filthy, so I’m gonna cut

the grass for the rest of the year and

pick up the leaves . . . and I’ll wash the cars

and I’ll even wash your hair.

Oh, you got jokes, huh? I say, then grab him

and give him another noogie.

So, what are you doing in here, Filthy?

Nothing, Mom said I could use her hat box.

That doesn’t look like a hat box, Filthy.

Let me see that, he says.

And just like that

we’re rummaging through

a box filled with newspaper clippings

about Chuck “Da Man” Bell

and torn ticket stubs

and old flyers

and . . .

WHOA! There it is, Filthy, JB says.

And even though we’ve seen Dad

wear it many times, actually holding

his glossy championship ring

in our hands

is more than magical.

Let’s try it on, I whisper.

But JB is a step ahead, already sliding

it on each of his fingers

until he finds one it fits.

What else is in there, JB? I ask,

hoping he will realize it’s my turn

to wear Dad’s championship ring.

There’s a bunch of articles about

Dad’s triple-doubles, three-point records,

and the time he made fifty free throws

in a row at the Olympic finals, he says,

finally handing me the ring,

and an Italian article

about Dad’s bellissimo crossover

and his million-dollar multiyear contract

with the European league.

We already know all this stuff, JB.

Anything new, or secret-type stuff? I ask.

And then JB pulls out a manila envelope.

I grab it, glance at the PRIVATE

stamped on the front.

In the moment

that I decide to put it back,

JB snatches it.

Let’s do this, he says.

I resist, ready to take

the purple hat box

and jet,

but I guess the mystery

is just too much.

We open it. There are two letters.

The first letter reads:

Chuck Bell, the Los Angeles Lakers would like to

invite you to our free-agent tryouts.

We open the other. It starts:

Your decision not to have surgery

means that realistically,

with patella tendonitis,

you may not be able to play

again.

pa·tel·la ten·di·ni·tis

[PUH-TEL-UH TEN-DUH-NAHY-TIS] noun

The condition

that arises when the muscle

that connects the kneecap

to the shin bone

becomes irritated

due to overuse,

especially from jumping activities.

As in: On the top shelf

of Mom and Dad’s closet

in a silver safety box

JB and I discovered

that my dad has jumper’s knee,

a.k.a. patella tendonitis.

As in: As a rookie,

my dad led his team

to the Euroleague championship,

but thanks to patella tendonitis,

he went from a superstar

with a million-dollar fadeaway jumper

to a star

whose career

had faded away.

As in: I wonder why my dad

never had surgery

on his patella tendonitis.

Sundays After Church

When the prayers end

and the doors open

the Bells hit center stage

and the curtain opens up on

the afternoon pick-up game

in the gym

at the county recreation center.

The cast is full of regulars

and rookies

with cartoon names like

FlapJack,

Scoobs,

and Cookie.

The hip-hop soundtrack blasts.

The bass booms.

The crowd looms.

There’s music and mocking,

teasing nonstop, but

when the play begins

all the talk ceases.

Dad shovel-passes the ball to me.