The Crossover

Free Throws

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.