The Crossover by Kwame Alexander

Conversation
    Dad, do you miss playing basketball? I ask.
    Like jazz misses Dizzy,
he says.
    Â 
    Huh?
    Like hip-hop misses Tupac,
Filthy,
he says.
    Â 
    Oh! But you’re still young,
    you could probably still play, right?
    Â 
    My playing days are over, son.
    My job now is to take care of this family.
    Â 
    Don’t you get bored sitting
    around the house all day?
    Â 
    You could get a job or something.
    Filthy, what’s all this talk about a job?
    Â 
    You don’t think your ol’ man knows
    how to handle his business?
    Â 
    Boy, I saved my basketball money
—
    this family is fine. Yeah, I miss
    Â 
    basketball A LOT, and
    I do have some feelers out there
    Â 
    about coaching. But honestly,
    right now I’m fine coaching this house
    Â 
    and keeping up with you and your brother.
    Now
go get JB so we won’t be late
    Â 
    to the game and Coach benches you.
    Why don’t you ever wear your championship ring?
    Â 
    Is this
Jeopardy
or something? What’s with the questions?
    Yeah, I wear it, when I want to floss.
Dad smiles.
    Â 
    Can I wear it to school once?
    Can you bounce a ball on the roof, off a tree, in the hoop?
    Â 
    Uh . . . no.
    Then, I guess you’re not Da Man. Only Da Man wears Da Ring.
    Â 
    Aw, come on, Dad.
    Tell you what: You bring home the trophy this year, and we’ll see.
    Â 
    Thanks, Dad. You know, if you get bored
    you could always write a book, like Vondie’s mom did.
    Â 
    She wrote one about spaceships.
    A book? What would you have me write about?
    Â 
    Maybe a book of those rules
    you give me and JB
    Â 
    before each of our games.
    â€œI’m Da Man” by Chuck Bell,
Dad laughs.
    Â 
    That’s lame, Dad, I say.
    Who you calling lame?
Dad says, headlocking me.
    Â 
    Dad, tell me again why they called you Da Man?
    Filthy, back in the day, I was the boss, never lost,
    Â 
    I had the sickest double cross, and I kissed
    so many pretty ladies, they called me Lip-Gloss.
    Â 
    Oh, really?
Mom says, sneaking up on us
    like she always seems to do.
    Â 
    Yeah, you
Da Man,
Dad, I laugh,
    then throw my gym bag in the trunk.

Basketball Rule #1
    In this game of life
    your family is the court
    and the ball is your heart.
    No matter how good you are,
    no matter how down you get,
    always leave
    your heart
    on the court.



JB and I
    are almost thirteen. Twins. Two basketball goals at
    opposite ends of the court. Identical.
    It’s easy to tell us apart though. I’m
    Â 
    an inch taller, with dreads to my neck. He gets
    his head shaved once a month. I want to go to Duke,
    he flaunts Carolina Blue. If we didn’t love each other,
    Â 
    we’d HATE each other. He’s a shooting guard.
    I play forward. JB’s the second
    most phenomenal baller on our team.
    Â 
    He has the better jumper, but I’m the better
    slasher. And much faster. We both
    pass well. Especially to each other.
    Â 
    To get ready for the season, I went
    to three summer camps. JB only went to
    one. Said he didn’t want to miss Bible school.
    Â 
    What does he think, I’m stupid? Ever since
    Kim Bazemore kissed him in Sunday school,
    he’s been acting all religious,
    Â 
    thinking less and less about
    basketball, and more and more about
    GIRLS.

At the End of Warm-Ups, My Brother Tries to Dunk
    Not even close, JB.
    What’s the matter?
    The hoop too high for you? I snicker
    but it’s not funny to him,
    especially when I take off from center court,
    my hair like wings,
    each lock lifting me higher and HIGHER
    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.
    Â 
    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.
    Â 
    Our mom, a.k.a. Dr. Bell, a.k.a. The Assistant