The Crossover

I’m on Free Throw Number Twenty-Seven

We take turns,

switching every time we miss.

JB has hit forty-one,

the last twelve in a row.

Filthy, keep up, man, keep up, he says.

Dad laughs loud, and says,

Filthy, your brother is putting on

a free-throw clinic. You better—

And suddenly he bowls over,

a look of horror on his face,

and starts coughing

while clutching his chest,

only no sound comes. I freeze.

JB runs over to him.

Dad, you okay? he asks.

I still can’t move. There is a stream

of sweat on Dad’s face. Maybe

he’s overheating, I say.

His mouth is curled up

like a little tunnel. JB grabs

the water hose, turns the

faucet on full blast, and sprays

Dad. Some of it goes in Dad’s mouth.

Then I hear the sound

of coughing, and Dad is no longer leaning

against the car, now he’s moving

toward the hose, and laughing.

So is JB.

Then Dad grabs the hose

and sprays both of us.

Now I’m laughing too,

but only

on the outside.