The Crossover

The Nosebleed Section

Our seats are in the clouds,

and every time Dad thinks

the ref makes a bad call,

he rains.

All Mom does is pop up

like an umbrella,

then Dad sits

back down.

JB’s got nineteen points,

six rebounds,

and three assists.

He’s on fire,

blazing from

baseline to baseline.

Dad screams,

Somebody needs to call

the fire department,

’cause JB is burning up

this place.

The other team calls a time-out.

Dad, JB still won’t speak to me, I say.

Right now JB can’t

see you, son, Dad says.

You just have to let the smoke

clear, and then he’ll be okay.

For now, why don’t you

write him a letter?

Good idea, I think.

But what should I say? I ask him.

By then,

Dad is on his feet

with the rest of the gym

as JB steals the ball

and takes off

like a wildfire.