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.
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.”
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.
The Crossover Page 3
