Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Copyright
Warm-Up
Chapter
Josh Bell
How I Got My Nickname
At first
Filthy McNasty
Jordan Bell
On the way to the game
Five Reasons I Have Locks
Mom tells Dad
Conversation
Basketball Rule #1
First Quarter
JB and I
At the End of Warm-Ups, My Brother Tries to Dunk
The Sportscaster
Josh’s Play-by-Play
cross·o·ver
The Show
The Bet, Part One
Ode to My Hair
The Bet, Part Two
The game is tied
In the locker room
Cut
ca·lam·i·ty
Mom doesn’t like us eating out
Missing
The inside of Mom and Dad’s bedroom closet
pa·tel·la ten·di·ni·tis
Sundays After Church
Basketball Rule #2
Girls
While Vondie and JB
pul·chri·tu·di·nous
Practice
Walking Home
Man to Man
After dinner
After we win
Dad Takes Us to Krispy Kreme and Tells Us His Favorite Story (Again)
Basketball Rule #3
Josh’s Play-by-Play
The new girl
I Missed Three Free Throws Tonight
Basketball Rule #4
Having a mother
Mom shouts
hy·per·ten·sion
To fall asleep
Why We Only Ate Salad for Thanksgiving
How Do You Spell Trouble?
Bad News
Gym class
Second Quarter
Conversation
Conversation
Basketball Rule #5
Showoff
Out of Control
Mom calls me into the kitchen
35–18
Too Good
I’m on Free Throw Number Twenty-Seven
He probably
i·ron·ic
This Is Alexis—May I Please Speak to Jordan?
Phone Conversation (I Sub for JB)
JB and I
Boy walks into a room
At practice
Second-Person
Third Wheel
tip·ping point
The main reason I can’t sleep
Surprised
Conversation
Game Time: 6:00 p.m.
This is my second year
Basketball Rule #6
Josh’s Play-by-Play
Before
Third Quarter
After
Suspension
chur·lish
This week, I
Basketball Rule #7
The Nosebleed Section
Fast Break
Storm
The next morning
pro·fuse·ly
Article #1 in the Daily News (December 14)
Mostly everyone
Final Jeopardy
Dear Jordan
I don’t know
No Pizza and Fries
Even Vondie
Uh-oh
I run into Dad’s room
Behind Closed Doors
The girl who stole my brother
Things I Learn at Dinner
Dishes
Coach’s Talk Before the Game
Josh’s Play-by-Play
Text Messages from Mom, Part One
Tomorrow Is the Last Day of School Before Christmas Vacation
Coach comes over
es·tranged
School’s Out
The Phone Rings
Basketball Rule #8
When we get to the court
At Noon, in the Gym, with Dad
Fourth Quarter
The doctor pats Jordan and me on the back and says
my·o·car·di·al in·farc·tion
Okay, Dad
Mom, since you asked, I’ll tell you why I’m so angry
Text Messages from Vondie
On Christmas Eve
Santa Claus Stops By
Questions
Tanka for Language Arts Class
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to
Basketball Rule #9
As we’re about to leave for the final game
During warm-ups
Text Messages from Mom, Part Two
For Dad
The Last Shot
Overtime
Article #2 in the Daily News (January 14)
Where Do We Go from Here?
star·less
Basketball Rule #10
There are so many friends
Free Throws
About the Author
For Big Al and Barbara,
also known as Mom and Dad
Copyright © 2014 by Kwame Alexander
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
www.hmhco.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file.
ISBN 978-0-544-10771-7
eISBN 978-0-544-28959-8
v1.0314
Dribbling
At the top of the key, I’m
MOVING & GROOVING,
POPping and ROCKING—
Why you BUMPING?
Why you LOCKING?
Man, take this THUMPING.
Be careful though,
’cause now I’m CRUNKing
CrissCROSSING
FLOSSING
flipping
and my dipping will leave you
S
L
I
P
P
I
N
G on the floor, while I
SWOOP in
to the finish with a fierce finger roll . . .
Straight in the hole:
Swoooooooooooosh.
Josh Bell
is my name.
But Filthy McNasty is my claim to fame.
Folks call me that
’cause my game’s acclaimed,
so downright dirty, it’ll put you to shame.
My hair is long, my height’s tall.
See, I’m the next Kevin Durant,
LeBron, and Chris Paul.
Remember the greats,
my dad likes to gloat:
I balled with Magic and the Goat.
But tricks are for kids, I reply.
Don’t need your pets
my game’s so
fly.
Mom says,
Your dad’s old school,
like an ol’ Chevette.
You’re fresh and new,
like a red Corvette.
Your game so sweet, it’s a crêpes suzette.
Each time you play
it’s ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLL net.
If anyone else called me
fresh and sweet,
I’d burn mad as a flame.
But I know she’s only talking about my game.
See, when I play ball,
I’m on fire.
When I shoot,
I inspire.
The hoop’s for sale,
and I’m the buyer.
How I Got My Nickname
I’m not that big on jazz music, but Dad is.
One day we were listening to a
CD
of a musician named Horace Silver, and Dad says,
Josh, this cat is the real deal.
Listen to that piano, fast and free,
Just like you and JB on the court.
It’s okay, I guess, Dad.
Okay? DID YOU SAY OKAY?
Boy, you better recognize
greatness when you hear it.
If you shoot half as good as he jams—
Dad, no one says “hippest” anymore.
Well, they ought to, ’cause this cat
is so hip, when he sits down he’s still standing, he says.
Real funny, Dad.
You know what, Josh?
What, Dad?
I’m dedicating this next song to you.
What’s the next song?
Only the best song,
the funkiest song
on Silver’s Paris Blues album:
“FILTHY
McNASTY.”
At first
I didn’t like
the name
because so many kids
made fun of me
on the school bus,
at lunch, in the bathroom.
Even Mom had jokes.
It fits you perfectly, Josh, she said:
You never clean your closet, and
that bed of yours is always filled
with cookie crumbs and candy wrappers.
It’s just plain nasty, son.
But, as I got older
and started getting game,
the name took on a new meaning.
And even though I wasn’t into
all that jazz,
every time I’d score,
rebound,
or steal a ball,
Dad would jump up
smiling and screamin’,
That’s my boy out there.
Keep it funky, Filthy!
And that made me feel
real good
about my nickname.
Filthy McNasty
is a MYTHical MANchild
Of rather dubious distinction
Always AGITATING
COMBINATING
and ELEVATING his game
He dribbles
fakes
then takes
the ROCK to the
glass, fast, and on BLAST
But watch out when he shoots
or you’ll get SCHOOLed
FOOLed
UNCOOLed
’Cause when FILTHY gets hot
He has a SLAMMERIFIC SHOT
It’s
Dunkalicious CLASSY
Supersonic SASSY
and D
O
W
N right
in your face
mcNASTY
Jordan Bell
My twin brother is a baller.
The only thing he loves
more than basketball
is betting. If it’s ninety degrees
outside and the sky is cloudless,
he will bet you
that it’s going to rain.
It’s annoying
and sometimes
funny.
Jordan insists that everyone
call him JB. His favorite player is
Michael Jordan, but he
doesn’t want people to think
he’s sweating him.
Even though he is.
Evidence: He has one pair
of Air Jordan sneakers
for every month
of the year
including Air Jordan 1 Low
Barack Obama Limited Editions,
which he never wears.
Plus he has MJ sheets, pillowcases,
slippers, socks, underwear, notebooks,
pencils, cups, hats, wristbands,
and sunglasses.
With the fifty dollars he won from a bet
he and Dad made over whether
the Krispy Kreme Hot sign was on (it wasn’t)
he purchased
a Michael Jordan toothbrush
(“Only used once!”) on eBay.
He’s right, he’s not sweating him.
HE’S STALKING HIM.
On the way to the game
I’m banished to the back
seat with JB,
who only stops
playing with my locks
when I slap him
across his bald head
with my jockstrap.
Five Reasons I Have Locks
5. Some of my favorite rappers have them:
Lil Wayne, 2 Chainz, and Wale.
4. They make me feel
like a king.
3. No one else
on the team has them, and
2. it helps people know
that I am me and not JB.
But
mostly because
1. ever since I watched
the clip of Dad
posterizing
that seven-foot Croatian center
on ESPN’s Best Dunks Ever;
soaring through the air—his
long twisted hair like wings
carrying him
high above
the rim—I knew
one day
I’d need
my own wings
to fly.
Mom tells Dad
that he has to sit
in the top row
of the bleachers
during the game.
You’re too confrontational, she says.
Filthy, don’t forget to
follow through
on your jump shot,
Dad tells me.
JB tells Mom,
We’re almost in high school,
so no hugs before the game, please.
Dad says, You boys
ought to treasure your mother’s love.
My mom was like gold to me.
Yeah, but your mom
didn’t come to ALL
of your games, JB says.
And she wasn’t the assistant school principal either,
I add.
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 boo
k? 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.
Basketball Rule #1
In this game of life
your family is the court
and the ball is your heart.
No matter how good you are,
no matter how down you get,
always leave
your heart
on the court.
JB and I
are almost thirteen. Twins. Two basketball goals at
opposite ends of the court. Identical.
It’s easy to tell us apart though. I’m
an inch taller, with dreads to my neck. He gets