The Crossover

Conversation

Dad, do you miss playing basketball? I ask.

Like jazz misses Dizzy, he says.

Huh?

Like hip-hop misses Tupac, Filthy, he says.

Oh! But you’re still young,

you could probably still play, right?

My playing days are over, son.

My job now is to take care of this family.

Don’t you get bored sitting

around the house all day?

You could get a job or something.

Filthy, what’s all this talk about a job?

You don’t think your ol’ man knows

how to handle his business?

Boy, I saved my basketball money—

this family is fine. Yeah, I miss

basketball A LOT, and

I do have some feelers out there

about coaching. But honestly,

right now I’m fine coaching this house

and keeping up with you and your brother.

Now go get JB so we won’t be late

to the game and Coach benches you.

Why don’t you ever wear your championship ring?

Is this Jeopardy or something? What’s with the questions?

Yeah, I wear it, when I want to floss. Dad smiles.

Can I wear it to school once?

Can you bounce a ball on the roof, off a tree, in the hoop?

Uh . . . no.

Then, I guess you’re not Da Man. Only Da Man wears Da Ring.

Aw, come on, Dad.

Tell you what: You bring home the trophy this year, and we’ll see.

Thanks, Dad. You know, if you get bored

you could always write a book, like Vondie’s mom did.

She wrote one about spaceships.

A book? What would you have me write about?

Maybe a book of those rules

you give me and JB

before each of our games.

“I’m Da Man” by Chuck Bell, Dad laughs.

That’s lame, Dad, I say.

Who you calling lame? Dad says, headlocking me.

Dad, tell me again why they called you Da Man?

Filthy, back in the day, I was the boss, never lost,

I had the sickest double cross, and I kissed

so many pretty ladies, they called me Lip-Gloss.

Oh, really? Mom says, sneaking up on us

like she always seems to do.

Yeah, you Da Man, Dad, I laugh,

then throw my gym bag in the trunk.