Kwame Alexander: The Crossover

We remember, Dad.

And then you told us Beethoven

was a famous musician who was deaf,

and how many times do we have to hear

the same—

And

Dad interrupts me:

Interrupt me again and I’ll start all over.

Like I was saying,

I handed both of you a ball.

Stood you between the foul line

and the rim. Told you to shoot.

You did. And it was musical. Like

the opening of Beethoven’s Fifth.

Da da da duhhhhhhhhhh. Da da da duuuuuuuuuuh.

Your shots whistled. Like a train

pulling into the station. I expected

you to make it. And you did.

The guy was in shock.

He looked at me

like

he’d missed

the train.

Basketball Rule #3

Never let anyone

lower your goals.

Others’ expectations

of you are determined

by their limitations

of life.

The sky is your limit, sons.

Always shoot

for the sun

and you will shine.

Josh’s Play-by-Play

The Red Rockets,

defending county champions,

are in the house tonight.

They brought their whole school.

This place is oozing crimson.

They’re beating us

twenty-nine to twenty-eight

with less than a minute to go.

I’m at the free-throw line.

All I have to do

is make both shots

to take the lead.

The first is up, UP, and—

CLANK!—it hits the rim.

The second looks . . . real . . . goo . . .

MISSED AGAIN!

But

Vondie grabs the rebound,

a fresh twenty-four on the shot clock.

Number thirty-three on the Rockets

strips the ball from Vondie.

This game is like Ping-Pong,

with all the back-and-forth.

He races downcourt

for an easy lay—

OHHHHHHH!

Houston, we have a problem!

I catch him

and slap

the ball on the glass.

Ever seen anything like this from a seventh-grader?

Didn’t think so!

Me and JB are stars in the making.

The Rockets full-court-press me.

But I get it across the line just in time.

Ten seconds left.

I pass the ball to JB.

They double-team him in a hurry—don’t want to give

him an easy three.

Five seconds left.

JB lobs the ball,

I rise like a Learjet—

seventh-graders aren’t supposed to dunk.

But guess what?

I snatch the ball out of the air and

SLAM!

YAM! IN YOUR MUG!

Who’s Da Man?

Let’s look at that again.

Oh, I forgot, this is junior high.

No instant replay until college.

Well, with game like this

that’s where me and JB

are headed.

The new girl

comes up to me

after the game,

her smile ocean wide

my mouth wide shut.

Nice dunk, she says.

Thanks.

Y’all coming to the gym

over the Thanksgiving break?

Probably!

Cool. By the way, why’d you cut your locks?

They were kind of cute.

Standing right behind me, Vondie giggles.

Kind of cute, he mocks.

Then JB walks up.

Hey, JB, great game.

I brought you some iced tea, she says.

Is it sweet? he asks.

And just like that

JB and the new girl

are sipping sweet tea

together.

I Missed Three Free Throws Tonight

Each night

after dinner

Dad makes us

shoot

free throws

until we make ten

in a row.

Tonight he says

I have to make

fifteen.

Basketball Rule #4

If you miss

enough of life’s

free throws

you will pay

in the end.

Having a mother

is good when she rescues you

from free-throw attempt number thirty-six,

your arms as heavy as sea anchors.

But it can be bad

when your mother

is a principal at your school.

Bad in so many ways.

It’s always education

this and education that.

After a double-overtime

basketball game I only want

three things: food, bath, sleep.

The last thing I want is EDUCATION!

But, each night,

Mom makes us read.

Don’t know how he does it, but

JB listens to his iPod

at the same time,

so he doesn’t hear me

when I ask him

is Miss Sweet Tea his girlfriend.

He claims he’s listening to French classical,

that it helps him concentrate.

Yeah, right! Sounds more like

Jay-Z and Kanye

in Paris.

Which is why when Mom and Dad start arguing,

he doesn’t hear them, either.

Mom shouts

Get a checkup. Hypertension is genetic.

I’m fine, stop high-posting me, baby, Dad whispers.

Don’t play me, Charles—this isn’t a basketball game.

I don’t need a doctor, I’m fine.

Your father didn’t “need” a doctor either.

He was alive when he went into the hospital.

So now you’re afraid of hospitals?

Nobody’s afraid. I’m fine. It’s not that serious.

Fainting is a joke, is it?

I saw you, baby, and I got a little excited. Come kiss me.

Don’t do that . . .

Baby, it’s nothing. I just got a little dizzy.

You love me?

Like summer loves short nights.

Get a checkup, then.

Only cure I need is you.

I’m serious about this, Chuck.

Only doctor I need is Dr. Crystal Bell. Now come here . . .

And then there is silence, so I put the pillow over my head

because when they stop talking,

I know what that means.

Uggghh!

hy·per·ten·sion

[HI-PER-TEN-SHUHN] noun

A disease

otherwise known as

high blood pressure.

As in: Mom doesn’t want Dad

eating salt, because too much of it

increases the volume

of blood,

which can cause hypertension.

As in: Hypertension

can affect all types of people,

but you have a higher risk

if someone in your family

has had the disease.

As in: I think

my grandfather

died of hypertension ?

To fall asleep

I count

and recount

the thirty-seven strands

of my past

in the box

beneath my bed.

Why We Only Ate Salad for Thanksgiving

Because every year

Grandma makes

a big delicious dinner

but this year

two days before

Thanksgiving

she fell off

her front stoop

on the way

to buy groceries

so Uncle Bob

my mom’s younger brother

(who smokes cigars

and thinks he’s a chef

because he watches

Food TV)

decided he would

prepare a feast

for the whole family

which consisted of

macaroni with no cheese

concrete-hard cornbread

and a greenish-looking ham

that prompted Mom

to ask if he had any eggs

to go along with it

which made grandma laugh so hard

she fell again, this time

right out of her wheelchair.

How Do You Spell Trouble?

During the vocabulary test

JB passes me a folded note

to give to

Miss Sweet Tea,

who sits at the desk

in front of me

and who looks

pretty tight

in her pink denim capris

and matching sneaks.

Someone cracks a window.

A cold breeze whistles.