The Crossover

The inside of Mom and Dad’s bedroom closet

is off-limits,

so every time JB asks me

to go in there to look

through Dad’s stuff, I say no.

But today when I ask Mom

for a box to put my dreadlocks in,

she tells me to take

one of her Sunday hat boxes

from the top shelf

of her closet.

Next to her purple hat box is

Dad’s small silver safety box

with the key in the lock

and practically begging me

to open it,

so I do, when, unexpectedly:

What are you doing, Filthy?

Standing in the doorway

is JB with a look that says BUSTED!

Filthy, you still giving me the silent treatment?

. . .

I really am sorry about your hair, man.

I owe you, Filthy, so I’m gonna cut

the grass for the rest of the year and

pick up the leaves . . . and I’ll wash the cars

and I’ll even wash your hair.

Oh, you got jokes, huh? I say, then grab him

and give him another noogie.

So, what are you doing in here, Filthy?

Nothing, Mom said I could use her hat box.

That doesn’t look like a hat box, Filthy.

Let me see that, he says.

And just like that

we’re rummaging through

a box filled with newspaper clippings

about Chuck “Da Man” Bell

and torn ticket stubs

and old flyers

and . . .

WHOA! There it is, Filthy, JB says.

And even though we’ve seen Dad

wear it many times, actually holding

his glossy championship ring

in our hands

is more than magical.

Let’s try it on, I whisper.

But JB is a step ahead, already sliding

it on each of his fingers

until he finds one it fits.

What else is in there, JB? I ask,

hoping he will realize it’s my turn

to wear Dad’s championship ring.

There’s a bunch of articles about

Dad’s triple-doubles, three-point records,

and the time he made fifty free throws

in a row at the Olympic finals, he says,

finally handing me the ring,

and an Italian article

about Dad’s bellissimo crossover

and his million-dollar multiyear contract

with the European league.

We already know all this stuff, JB.

Anything new, or secret-type stuff? I ask.

And then JB pulls out a manila envelope.

I grab it, glance at the PRIVATE

stamped on the front.

In the moment

that I decide to put it back,

JB snatches it.

Let’s do this, he says.

I resist, ready to take

the purple hat box

and jet,

but I guess the mystery

is just too much.

We open it. There are two letters.

The first letter reads:

Chuck Bell, the Los Angeles Lakers would like to

invite you to our free-agent tryouts.

We open the other. It starts:

Your decision not to have surgery

means that realistically,

with patella tendonitis,

you may not be able to play

again.