The Crossover (11 page)

 

to play? It's more than okay if you

need to go to the hospital with your fam—

Coach, my dad is going to be fine,

 

I say. Plus he wants me to play.

Son, you telling me you're okay?

Can a deaf person write

 

music? I ask Coach.

He raises his eyebrows,

shakes his head, and

 

tells me to go sit

on the bench. I excuse myself

to the locker room

 

to check my cell phone,

and there are texts

from Mom.

5:47

Dad's having complications.

But he's gonna

be fine and says

he loves you.

Good luck tonight. Dad's

 

5:47

gonna be fine. Jordan says

he still doesn't feel like

playing, but I made him

 

5:48

go to the game to show

support. Look for him and

don't get lazy on your

 

5:48

crossover.

My free throw flirts with the rim and

loops, twirls, for a million years,

 

then drops, and for once, we're up, 49–48,

five dancers on stage, leaping, jumping

 

so high, so fly,

eleven seconds from sky

 

A hard drive, a fast break, their best player

slices the thick air toward the goal.

 

His pull-up jumper

floats through the net,

 

then everything goes slow motion:

the ball, the player . . .

 

Coach calls time-out

with only five seconds to go.

 

I wish the ref could stop

the clock of my life.

 

Just one more game.

I think my father is dying,

 

and now I am out of bounds

when I see a familiar face

 

behind our bench. My brother,

Jordan Bell, head buried

 

in Sweet Tea, his eyes

welling with horror.

 

Before I know it, the whistle blows,

the ball in my hand,

 

the clock running down,

my tears running faster.

5
. . . A bolt of lightning on my kicks . . .

The court is   SIZZLING

My sweat is              DRIZZLING

Stop all that
quivering

Cuz tonight I'm
delivering

I'm driving down

the lane

SLIDING

 

4
. . . Dribbling to the middle, gliding like a black eagle.

The crowd is RUMBLING
RUSTLING

ROARING

Take it to the hoop.

TAKE      IT      TO      THE      HOOP

 

3
. . .
2
. . . Watch out, 'cuz I'm about to get D I R T Y

with it

about to pour FILTHY'S sauce all over you.

Ohhhhh, did you see McNASTY cross over you?

Now I'm taking you

Ankle BREAKING you

You're on your knees.

Screamin' PLEASE, BABY,
PLEASE

 

One
. . . It's a bird, It's a plane. No, it's up up

uppppppppppp.

My shot is F L O W I N G, Flying, fLuTtErInG

OHHHHHHHH, the chains are JINGALING

ringaling
and
SWINGALING

Swish.

Game/
over.

Professional basketball player

Charlie (Chuck) “Da Man” Bell

collapsed in a game

of one-on-one

with his son Josh.

After a complication,

Bell died at St. Luke's Hospital

from a massive heart attack.

 

According to reports,

Bell suffered

from hypertension

and had three fainting spells

in the four months

before his collapse.

Autopsy results found

Bell had a large,

extensively scarred heart.

Reports have surfaced

that Bell refused to see a doctor.

One of his former teammates

stated, “He wasn't a big fan of doctors

and hospitals, that's for sure.”

Earlier in his life,

Bell chose to end his promising basketball career

rather than have surgery on his knee.

 

Known for his dazzling crossover,

Chuck Bell was the captain

of the Italian team

that won back-to-back Euroleague championships

in the late nineties.

He is survived by his wife,

Dr. Crystal Stanley-Bell, and

his twin sons,

Joshua and Jordan, who

recently won their first

county championship.

Bell was thirty-nine.

There are no coaches

at funerals. No practice

to get ready. No warm-up.

There is no last-second shot, and

we all wear its cruel

midnight uniform, starless

and unfriendly.

 

I am unprepared

for death.

This is a game

I cannot play.

It has no rules,

no referees.

You cannot win.

 

I listen

to my father's teammates

tell funny stories

about love

and basketball.

I hear the choir's comfort songs.

They almost drown out Mom's sobs.

 

She will not look in the coffin.

That is not my husband,
she says.

Dad is gone,

like the end of a good song.

What remains is bone

and muscle and cold skin.

I grab Mom's right hand.

JB grabs her left.

The preacher says,

A great father, son, and

husband has crossed

over. Amen.

Outside, a long charcoal limo

pulls up to the curb

to take us

back.

 

If only.

[
STAHR-LES
]
adjective

 

With no stars.

 

As in:
If me and JB

try out for JV

next year,

the Reggie Lewis Junior High School Wildcats

will be
starless.

 

As in: Last night

I felt like I was fading away

as I watched the
starless

Portland Trailblazers

get stomped by Dad's favorite team,

the Lakers.

 

As in: My father

was the light

of my world,

and now that he's gone,

each night

is
starless.

A loss is inevitable,

like snow in winter.

True champions

learn

to dance

through

the storm.

neighbors, Dad's teammates,

and family members

packed into our living room

that I have to go outside

just to breathe. The air

is filled with laughter,

John Coltrane,

Jay-Z, and the smell

of salmon, plus scents of

every pie and cake

imaginable.

 

Even Mom is smiling.

Josh, don't you hear the phone

ringing?
she says.

I don't—the sound of

“A Love Supreme”

and loud laughter

drowning it out.

Can you get it, please?
she asks me.

 

I answer it, a salmon sandwich

crammed in my mouth.

Hello, Bell residence, I mutter.

Hi, this is Alexis.

Oh . . . Hey.

I'm
sorry I couldn't be at the funeral.

This is Josh, not JB.

I know it's you, Filthy. JB is loud.

Your phone voice always sounds like

it's the break of dawn,

like you're just waking up,

she says playfully.

I laugh for the first time in days.

I just wanted to call and say how sorry

I am for your loss. If there is anything my dad or I can do,

please let us know.

Look, Alexis, I'm sorry about—

It's all good, Filthy. I gotta go, but

my sister has five tickets

to see Duke play North Carolina.

Me, her, JB, and my dad

are going.

You wanna—

ABSOLUTELY, I say, and THANKS,

right before Coach Hawkins

comes my way

with outstretched arms and

a bear-size hug, sending the phone

crashing to the floor.

 

On my way out the door,

to get some fresh air,

Mom gives me

a kiss and a piece of

sweet potato pie with

two scoops of vanilla soy

ice cream.

Where's your brother?
she asks.

 

I haven't seen JB

since the funeral, but

if I had to guess, I'd say

he's going to see Alexis.

Because, if I had a girlfriend, I'd be

off with her right about now.

But I don't,

so the next best thing

will have to do.

It only takes me

Four mouthfuls

to finish the dessert.

I have to jump to get the ball.

It is wedged between

rim and backboard,

evidence of JB trying

and failing

to dunk.

I tap it out

and dribble

to the free-throw line.

 

Dad once made

fifty free throws

IN A ROW.

The most I ever made

was nineteen.

I grip the ball,

plant my feet on the line,

and shoot the first one.

It goes in.

I look around

to see if anyone is watching.

Nope. Not anymore.

 

The next twelve shots are good.

I name them each a year

in my life.

A year with my father.

By twenty-seven, I am making them

with my eyes closed.

The orange orb has wings

like there's an angel

taking it to the hoop.

 

On the forty-ninth shot,

I am only slightly aware

that I am moments from fifty.

The only thing that really matters

is that out here

in the driveway

shooting free throws

I feel closer to Dad.

 

You feel better?
he asks.

 

Dad? I say.

I open my eyes,

and there is my brother.

I thought you were—

 

Yeah, I know,
he says.

 

I'm good. You? I ask.

He nods.

Good game last week,
he says.

That crossover

was wicked.

 

Did you see the trophy? I ask.

He nods again.

Still protecting his words

from me.

Did you talk to Dad before—

He told us to stay out of his closet.

Then he told me to give you this.

You earned it, Filthy,
he says,

sliding the ring on my finger.

My heart leaps

into my throat.

 

Dad's championship ring.

Between the bouncing

and sobbing, I whisper, Why?

 

I guess you Da Man now, Filthy,
JB says.

 

And for the first time in my life

I don't want to be.

 

I bet

the dishes

you miss number fifty,
he says,

walking away.

 

Where's he going?

 

Hey, I shout.

We Da Man.

And when he turns around

I toss him the ball.

 

He dribbles

back to the top of the key,

fixes his eyes

on the goal.

I watch

the ball

leave his hands

like a bird

up high,

skating

the sky,

 

crossing over

us.

K
WAME
A
LEXANDER
is an award-winning children's book author and poet. His Book-in-a-Day writing and publishing program for upper elementary, middle, and high school students has created more than 3000 student authors in sixty-five schools across the United States, and in Canada and the Caribbean. He lives with his family in Herndon, Virginia.