The Crossover (10 page)

Stands still

Breath short

More sweat

Grabs chest

Eyes roll

Ball drops

Dad drops

I scream

“Help, please”

Sweet Tea

Dials cell

Jordan runs

Brings water

Splashes face

Dad nothing

Out cold

I remember

Gym class

Tilt pinch

Blow pump

Blow pump

Still nothing

Blow pump

Sirens blast

Pulse gone

Eyes shut.

Your dad should be fine. If you're lucky,

you boys will be fishing with him in no time.

 

We don't fish, I tell him.

Mom shoots me a mean look.

 

Mrs. Bell, the myocardial infarction has caused some

complications. Your husband's stable, but he is in a coma.

 

In between sobs, JB barely gets his question out:

Will my dad be home for Christmas?

 

He looks at us and says:
Try talking to him,

maybe he can hear you, which could help him come back.

 

Well, MAYBE we're not in a talking mood, I say.

Joshua Bell, be respectful!
Mom tells me.

 

I shouldn't even be here.

I should be putting on my uniform, stretching,

 

getting ready to play in the county semifinals.

But instead, I'm sitting in a smelly room

 

in St. Luke's Hospital,

listening to Mom sing “Kumbaya,”

 

watching Jordan hold Dad's hand,

wondering why I have

 

to push water uphill

with a rake

 

to talk to someone

who isn't even listening.

 

To miss the biggest game

of my life.

[
MY-OH-CAR-DEE-YUHL IN-FARK-SHUN
]
noun

 

Occurs when blood flow

to an area of the heart

is blocked

for a long enough time

that part of the heart muscle

is damaged

or dies.

 

As in: JB says that he hates

basketball because it was

the one thing that

Dad loved the most

besides us

and it was the one thing

that caused his

myocardial infarction.

 

As in:
The doctor sees me Googling

the symptoms—coughing, sweating,

vomiting, nosebleeds—and he says,

You know we can't be sure what causes

a
myocardial infarction. I say, What about

doughnuts and fried chicken and genetics?

The doctor looks at my mom,

then leaves.

 

As in: Dad's in a coma

because of a
myocardial infarction,

which is the same thing

my grandfather died of.

So what does that mean for me

and JB?

The doctor says

I should talk to you,

that maybe you can hear

and maybe you can't.

Mom and JB

have been talking

your ear off

all morning.

So, if you're listening,

I'd like to know,

when did you decide to jump

ship? I thought you were

Da Man.

And one more thing:

If we make it

to the finals,

I will not miss

the big game

for a small

maybe.

Because Dad tried to dunk.

Because I want to win a championship.

Because I can't win a championship if I'm sitting in this smelly hospital.

Because Dad told you he'd be here forever.

Because I thought forever was like Mars—far away.

Because it turns out forever is like the mall—right around the corner.

Because Jordan doesn't talk basketball anymore.

Because Jordan cut my hair and didn't care.

Because he's always drinking Sweet Tea.

Because sometimes I get thirsty.

Because I don't have anybody to talk to now.

Because I feel empty with no hair.

Because CPR DOESN'T WORK!

Because my crossover should be better.

Because if it was better, then Dad wouldn't have had the ball.

Because if Dad hadn't had the ball, then he wouldn't have tried to dunk.

Because if Dad hadn't tried to dunk, then we wouldn't be here.

Because I don't want to be
here.

Because the only thing that matters is
swish.

Because our backboard is splintered.

8:05

Filthy,
the game went

double overtime

before the last possession.

 

8:05

Coach called a time-out

and had us all do a special chant

on the sideline.

 

8:06

It was kinda creepy. The

other team was LOL.

I guess it worked, 'cause

 

8:06

we won, 40–39.

We dedicated the game ball

to your pop.

 

8:07

Is he better? You and JB

coming to practice?

Filthy, you there?

Dad finally wakes up. He

smiles at

 

Mom, high-fives Jordan,

then looks right at me

 

and says,

Filthy, I didn't jump ship.

We're celebrating

Christmas

in Dad's hospital room.

Flowers and gifts and cheer

surround him. Relatives from

five states. Aunts with collards and yams,

cousins with hoots and hollers,

and runny noses. Mom's singing,

Dad's playing spades with his brothers.

I know the nurses can't wait for visiting hours

to end. I can't either. Uncle Bob's turkey

tastes like cardboard

and his lemon pound cake looks like Jell-O, but

Hospital Santa has everyone singing and

all this joy is spoiling my mood. I can't

remember the last time I smiled. Happy is

a huge river right now and I've forgotten

how to swim. After two hours, Mom

tells everyone it's time for Dad to

get some rest. I hug fourteen people, which is

like drowning. When they leave, Dad

calls Jordan and me over to the bed.

 

Do y'all remember

when you were seven and JB

wanted to swing but all the swings were

filled, and Filthy pushed the little redhead

kid out of the swing so JB could take it?

Well, it wasn't the right behavior, but

the intention was righteous.

You were there for each other.

I want you both

to always be there

for each other.

 

Jordan starts crying.

Mom holds him,

and takes him outside

for a walk.

Me and Dad stare

at each other

for ten minutes

without saying a word.

I tell him,

I don't have anything to say.

 

Filthy, silence doesn't mean

we have run out of things to say,

only that we are trying

not to say them.

So, let's do this.

I'll ask you a question,

then you ask me a question,

and we'll just keep asking until

we can both get some answers.

Okay?

 

Sure, I say,

but you go first.

Have you been practicing your free throws?

Why didn't you go to the doctor when Mom asked you?

 

When is the game?

Why didn't you ever take us fishing?

 

Does your brother still have a girlfriend?

Are you going to die?

 

Do you really want to know?

Why couldn't I save you?

 

Don't you see that you did?

Do you remember I kept pumping and breathing?

 

Aren't I alive?

. . . ?

 

Did y'all arrest Uncle Bob's turkey? It was just criminal what he did to that bird, wasn't it?

You think this is funny?

 

How's your brother?

Is our family falling apart?

 

You still think I should write a book?

What does that have to do with anything?

 

What if I call it “Basketball Rules”?

Are you going to die?

 

Do you know I love you, son?

Don't you know the big game's tomorrow?

 

Is it true Mom is letting you play?

You think I shouldn't play?

 

What do you think, Filthy?

What about Jordan?

 

Does he want to play?

Don't you know he won't as long as you're in here?

 

Don't you know I know that?

So, why don't you come home?

 

Can't you see I can't?

Why not?

 

Don't you know it's complicated, Filthy?

Why can't you call me by my real name?

 

Josh, do you know what a heart attack is?

Don't you remember I was there?

 

Don't you see I need to be here so they can fix the damage that's been done to my heart?

Who's gonna fix the damage that's been done to mine?

This Christmas was not

Merry, and I have not found

joy in the new year

with Dad in the hospital

for nineteen days and counting.

When the game is on

the line,

don't fear.

Grab the ball.

Take it

to the hoop.

the phone rings.

Mom shrieks.

I think the worst.

I ask JB if he heard
that.

He's on his bunk

listening to his iPod.

Mom rushes past our room,

out of breath.

JB jumps down

from his bunk.

What's wrong, Mom? I ask.

 

She says:

Dad. Had. Another. Attack.

Now. Don't. Worry.

I'm. Going. Hospital.

See. You. Two. At. Game.

 

Vroooooommmmmmm.

Her car starts.

JB, what should we do? I ask.

 

He's no longer listening to music,

but his tears are loud enough

to dance to.

He laces his sneakers,

runs out of our room.

The garage door opens.

I hear FLOP FLOP FLOP

from the straws

on the spokes

of his bicycle wheels

as he follows Mom

to the hospital.

 

I hear the clock: TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.

I hear Dad:
You should play in the game, son.

A horn blows.

I hear SLAM SLAM SLAM

as I shut the door

of Vondie's dad's car.

I hear SCREECH SCREECH SCREECH

as we pull away

from the curb

on our way

to the county championship game.

I miss four lay-ups in

a row, and Coach Hawkins says,

Josh, you sure you're able