Kwame Alexander - The Crossover

I behind-the-back pass to JB,

who sinks a twenty-foot three.

See, this is how we act

Sundays after church.

Basketball Rule #2

(Random text from Dad)

Hustle dig

Grind push

Run fast

Change pivot

Chase pull

Aim shoot

Work smart

Live smarter

Play hard

Practice harder

Girls

I walk into the lunchroom with JB.

Heads turn.

I’m not bald like JB,

but my hair’s close enough

so that people sprinting past us

do double-takes.

Finally, after we sit at our table,

the questions come:

Why’d you cut your hair, Filthy?

How can we tell who’s who?

JB answers, I’m the cool one

who makes free throws,

and I holler,

I’M THE ONE WHO CAN DUNK.

We both get laughs.

Some girl who we’ve never seen before,

in tight jeans and pink Reeboks,

comes up to the table.

JB’s eyes are ocean wide,

his mouth swimming on the floor,

his clownish grin, embarrassing.

So when she says,

Is it true that twins

know what each other are thinking?

I tell her

you don’t have to be his twin

to know

what he’s thinking.

While Vondie and JB

debate whether the new girl

is a knockout or just beautiful,

a hottie or a cutie,

a lay-up or a dunk,

I finish my vocabulary homework­—

and my brother’s vocabulary homework,

which I don’t mind

since English is my favorite subject

and he did the dishes for me last week.

But it’s hard to concentrate

in the lunchroom

with the girls’ step team

practicing in one corner,

a rap group performing in the other,

and Vondie and JB

waxing poetic

about love and basketball.

So when they ask,

What do you think, Filthy?

I tell ’em,

She’s pulchritudinous.

pul·chri·tu·di·nous

[PALL-KRE-TOO-DEN-NUS] adjective

Having great physical

beauty and appeal.

As in: Every guy

in the lunchroom

is trying to flirt

with the new girl

because she’s so pulchritudinous.

As in: I’ve never had a girlfriend,

but if I did, you better believe

she’d be pulchritudinous.

As in: Wait a minute—

why is the pulchritudinous new girl

now talking

to my brother?

Practice

Coach reads to us from

The Art of War:

A winning strategy is

not about planning, he says.

It’s about quick responses

to changing conditions.

Then he has us do

footwork drills

followed by

forty wind sprints

from the baseline

to half court.

The winner doesn’t

have to practice today, Coach says,

and Vondie blasts off

like Apollo 17,

his long legs

giving him an edge,

but I’m the quickest guy

on the team,

so on the last lap

I run hard,

take the lead by a foot,

and even though I don’t plan it,

I let him win

and get ready to practice

harder.

Walking Home

Hey, JB, you think we can win

the county championship this year?

I don’t know, man.

Hey, JB, why do you think

Dad never had

knee surgery?

Man, I don’t know.

Hey, JB, why can’t Dad eat—

Look, Filthy, we’ll win

if you stop missing free throws.

Nobody likes doctors.

And Dad can’t eat foods with too much salt

because Mom told him he can’t.

Any more questions?

Yeah, one more.

You want to play

to twenty-one

when we get home?

Sure. You got ten dollars? he asks.

Man to Man

In the driveway, I’m

SHAKING AND BAKING.

You don’t want none of this, I say.

I’m about to TAKE IT TO THE HOLE.

Keep your eye on the ball.

I’d hate to see you

F

A

L

L

You shoulda gone with your GIRLFRIEND

to the mall.

Just play ball, JB shouts.

Okay, but WATCH OUT, my BROTHER,

TARHEEL LOVER.

I’m about to go UNDER

COVER.

Then bring it, he says.

And I do, all the way to the top.

So SMOOOOOOOOTH, I make him

drop.

So nasty, the floor should be mopped.

But before I can shoot,

Mom makes us stop:

Josh, come clean your room!

After dinner

Dad takes us

to the Rec

to practice

shooting free throws

with one hand

while he stands

two feet in front

of us,

waving frantically

in our faces.

It will teach you focus, he reminds us.

Three players

from the local college

recognize Dad

and ask him

for autographs

“for our parents.”

Dad chuckles

along with them.

JB ignores them.

I challenge them:

It won’t be so funny

when we shut

you amateurs down,

will it? I say.

OHHHH, this young boy got hops

like his ol’ man? the tallest one says.

Talk is cheap, Dad says. If y’all want to run,

let’s do this. First one to eleven.

The tall one asks Dad if he needs crutches,

then checks the ball to me,

and the game begins,

right after JB screams:

Loser pays twenty bucks!

After we win

I see the pink

Reeboks–wearing girl

shooting baskets

on the other court.

She plays ball, too?

JB walks over to her

and I can tell

he likes her

because when she goes in

for a lay-up,

he doesn’t slap

the ball silly

like he tries

to do with me.

He just stands there

looking silly,

smiling

on the other court

at the pink

Reeboks–wearing girl.

Dad Takes Us to Krispy Kreme and Tells Us His Favorite Story (Again)

Didn’t Mom say no more doughnuts? JB asks Dad.

What your mother doesn’t know

won’t hurt her, he answers, biting

into his third chocolate glazed cruller.

Good shooting today. We beat

those boys like they stole something, he adds.

Why didn’t we take their money, Dad? I ask.

They were kids, Filthy, just like y’all.

The look on their faces

after we beat them

eleven to nothing

was enough for me.

Remember

when you were two

and I taught you the game?

You had a bottle in one hand

and a ball in the other,

and your mom thought I was crazy.

I WAS crazy.

Crazy in love.

With my twin boys.

Once, when you were three,

I took you to the park

to shoot free throws.

The guy who worked there said,

“This basket is ten feet tall.

For older kids. Kids like yours

might as well shoot

at the sun.” And then he laughed.

And I asked him if a deaf person

could write music. And he said,

“Huh?” then

took out his wrench and told me,

“I’m gonna lower the goal for y’all.”

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