The Crossover

When we get to the court

I challenge Dad

to a quick game

of one-on-one

before the tournament

so we can both warm up.

He laughs and says, Check,

then gives me the ball,

but it hits me in the chest

because I’m busy looking over

at the swings where Jordan and

Miss Sweet Tea are talking

and holding hands.

Pay attention, Filthy—I mean Josh.

I’m about to CLEAN you up, boy, Dad says.

I pump fake him then sugar shake him

for an easy two. I hear applause.

Kids are coming over to watch.

On the next play I switch it up

and launch a three from downtown.

It rolls round and round and IN.

The benches are filling up.

Even Jordan and Alexis are now watching.

Five-oh is the score,

third play of the game.

I try my crossover, but

Dad steals the ball

like a thief in the night,

camps out at the top for a minute.

What you doing, old man? I say.

Don’t worry ’bout me, son.

I’m contemplatin’,

preparing to shut down

all your playa hatin’, Dad says.

Son, I ever tell you

about this cat named

Willie I played with in Italy?

And before I can answer

he unleashes a

killer crossover,

leaving me wishing for a cushion.

The kids are off the benches.

On their feet hollerin’,

Ohhhhhhhhhh, Whoop Whoop!

Meet the Press, Josh Bell, Dad laughs,

on his way to the hoop.

But then—