in another game
this season,
I hear panting
coming from Mom
and Dad’s room,
but we don’t own
a dog.
I run into Dad’s room
to see what all the noise is
and find him kneeling
on the floor, rubbing a towel
in the rug. It reeks of vomit.
You threw up, Dad? I ask.
Must have been something I ate.
He sits up on the bed, holds
his chest like he’s pledging
allegiance. Only there’s no flag.
Y’all ready to eat? he mutters.
You okay, Dad? I ask.
He nods and shows me
a letter he’s reading.
Dad, was that you coughing?
I’ve got great news, Filthy.
What is it? I ask.
I got a coaching offer at a nearby
college starting next month.
A job? What about the house?
What about Mom? What about me
and JB? Who’s gonna shoot
free throws with us every night? I ask.
Filthy, you and JB are getting older,
more mature—you’ll manage, he says.
And, what’s with the switch? First
you want me to get a job, now
you don’t? What’s up, Filthy?
Dad, Mom thinks you should
take it easy, for your health, right?
I mean, didn’t you make a million dollars
playing basketball? You don’t
really need to work.
Filthy, what I need is to get back
on the court. That’s what your dad NEEDS!
I prefer to be called Josh, Dad.
Not Filthy.
Oh, really, Filthy? he laughs.
I’m serious, Dad—please don’t call me
that name anymore.
You gonna take the job, Dad?
Son, I miss “swish.”
I miss the smell of orange leather.
I miss eatin’ up cats
who think they can run with Da Man.
The court is my kitchen.
Son, I miss being the top chef.
So, yeah, I’m gonna take it . . .
if your mother lets me.
Well, I will talk to her about
this job thing, since it means
so much to you. But, you know
she’s really worried about you, Dad.
Filth—I mean Josh, okay, you talk
to her, he laughs.
And maybe, in return, Dad, you can talk
to her about letting me back on the team
for the playoffs.
I feel like
I’m letting my teammates down.
You let your family down too, Josh, he replies,
still holding his chest.
So what should I do, Dad? I ask.
Well, right now you should
go set the dinner table, Mom says,
standing at the door
watching Dad with eyes
full of panic.
Behind Closed Doors
We decided no more basketball, Chuck, Mom yells.
Baby, it’s not ball, it’s coaching, Dad tells her.
It’s still stress. You don’t need to be on the court.
The doctor said it’s fine, baby.
What doctor? When did you go to the doctor?
I go a couple times a week. Dr. WebMD.
Are you serious! This is not some joke, Charles.
. . .
Going online is not going to save your life.
Truth is, I’ve had enough of this talk about me being sick.
So have I. I’m scheduling an appointment for you.
Fine!
I shouldn’t be so worried about your heart—it’s your head that’s crazy.
Crazy for you, lil’ mama.
Stop that. I said stop. It’s time for dinner, Chuck . . . oooh.
Who’s Da Man?
And then there is silence, so I go set the dinner table,
because when they stop talking,
I know what that means.
Uggghh!
The girl who stole my brother
is her new name.
She’s no longer sweet.
Bitter is her taste.
Even worse,
she asks for seconds
of vegetable lasagna,
which makes Mom smile
’cause JB and I can’t get with
this whole better-eating thing
and we never ask for seconds
until tonight, when JB,
still grinning and cheesing
for some invisible camera
that Miss Bitter (Sweet) Tea holds,
asks for more salad,
which makes Dad laugh
and prompts Mom
How did you two meet?
Surprisingly, JB is a motor mouth,
giving us all the details about
that first time in the cafeteria:
She came into the lunchroom.
It was her first day at our school,
and we just started talking about
all kinds of stuff, and she said she played
basketball at her last school, and then
Vondie was like, “JB, she’s hot,” and
I was like, “Yeah, she is kinda
pulchritudinous.”
And for the first time
in fifteen days, JB looks
at me for a split second,
and I almost see
the hint of a
smile.
Things I Learn at Dinner
She went to Nike Hoops Camp for Girls.
Her favorite player is Skylar Diggins.
She can name each of the 2010 NBA Champion Lakers.
Her dad went to college with Shaquille O’Neal.
She knows how to do a crossover.
Her AAU team won a championship.
She’s got game.
Her parents are divorced.
She’s going to visit her mom next week for Christmas break.
She lives with her dad.
She shoots hoop at the Rec to relax.
Her mom doesn’t want her playing basketball.
Her dad’s coming to our game tomorrow to see JB play.
She’s sorry I won’t be playing.
Her smile is as sweet as Mom’s carrot cake.
She smells like sugarplum.
She has a sister in college.
HER SISTER GOES TO DUKE.
Dishes
When the last plate is scrubbed,
the leftovers put up,
and the floor swept clean,
Mom comes into the kitchen.
When is Dad’s doctor appointment? I ask.
Josh, you know I don’t like
you eavesdropping.
I get it from you, Mom, I say.
And she laughs, ’cause she knows
I’m not saying nothing but the truth.
It’s next week.
School’s out next week.
Maybe I can go
with you
to the doctor?
Maybe, she says.
I put the broom down,
wrap my arms around her,
and tell her thank you.
For loving us, and Dad, and
letting us play basketball,
and being the best mother
in the world.
Keep this up, she says, and
you’ll be back on the court
in no time.
Does that mean
I can play in tomorrow’s
playoff game? I ask.
Don’t press your luck, son.
It’s going to take more than a hug.
Now help me dry these dishes.
Coach’s Talk Before the Ga
me
Tonight
I decide to sit
on the bench
with the team
during the game
instead of the bleachers
with Dad
and Mom, who’s sitting
next to him
just in case
he decides to
act churlish
again.
Coach says:
We’ve won
ten games
in a row.
The difference between
a winning streak
and a losing streak
is one game.
Now, Josh is not with us
again, so somebody’s
gonna have to step up
in the low post.
I sit back down
on the bench
and watch JB lead our Wildcats
to the court.
When the game finally starts,
I glance up at Dad and Mom,
but they’re not there.
When I look back
at the court,
JB is staring at me
like we’ve both just seen
another ghost.
Josh’s Play-by-Play
The team’s in trouble.
If they don’t find an answer soon
our championship dreams are over.
like kittens, not Wildcats.
With less than a minute to go
Vondie brings the ball up the court.
Will he go inside for a quick two
or get the ball to JB
for the three-ball?
He passes the ball to number twenty-nine
on the right wing
and tries to dribble out,
but the defense is suffocating.
They’re on him like
black on midnight.
He shoots it over to JB,
who looks up at the clock.
He’s gonna let it get as close
as possible.
They’ve gotta miss me right now.
Vondie comes over, sets a high pick.
JB’s open, he’s gonna take the three.
It’s up.
That’s a good-looking ball there.
But not good enough.
It clangs off the rim.
The buzzer
rings
and the Wildcats
lose
the first half.
Text Messages from Mom, Part One
7:04
Dad wasn’t feeling
well, so we went outside
for some air. Back soon.
7:17
I think we’re
heading home. At halftime,
let your brother know.
7:45
Home now. Dad wants
to know the score. How is Jordan
doing? You okay?
7:47
Y’all hang in there. The
second half will be better.
Hi to Alexis. Get
7:47
a ride with Coach
or Vondie. Yes, Dad’s okay.
I think. See you soon.
7:48
I shouldn’t have said
“I think.” He’s fine, just tired.
He says don’t come home
7:48
if you lose. LOL.
The Second Half
Vondie strips the ball
at center court,
shoots a short pass
to JB, who
skips
downtown
zips
around,
then double dips
it in the bowl.
SWOOSH
Man, that was cold.
We’re up by two.
These cats are BALLING.
JB is on fire,
taking the score
higher and higher,
and the team
and Coach
and Alexis
and me . . .
we’re his choir.
WILDCATS! WILDCATS!
My brother is
Superman tonight,
Sliding
and Gliding
into rare air,
lighting up the sky
and the scoreboard.
Saving the world
and our chance
at a championship.
Tomorrow Is the Last Day of School Before Christmas Vacation
Tonight, I’m studying.
Usually I help JB
prepare for his tests,
but since the incident
he’s been studying alone,
which has me a little scared
because tomorrow is also the big
vocabulary standards test.
(But don’t say that word
around Mom. She thinks
that “standards” are a lousy idea).
So, after the game
I go home and pull out
my study sheet with all
the words
we’ve been studying
and my clues
to remember them.
Like heirloom.
As in: Dad treats his championship ring
like some kind of family heirloom
that we can’t wear
until one of us becomes Da Man.
I put eight pages of words
on JB’s pillow
while he’s brushing
his teeth,
then turn off my light
and go to sleep.
When he climbs into bed,
I hear the sound of ruffling paper.
Then his night-light comes on
and I don’t hear anything else
except
Thanks.
Coach comes over
to my table
during lunch,
sits down
with a bag
from McDonald’s,
hands me a fry
and Vondie a fry,
bites into his
McRib sandwich,
and says:
Look, Josh,
you and your brother need
to squash this beef.
If my two stars
aren’t aligned,
there’s no way
the universe is kind to us.
Huh? Vondie says.
My brother and I
got into a bad fight
when we were in high school,
and we’ve been estranged
ever since.
You want that?
I shake my head.
Then fix it, Filthy.
Fix it fast.
We don’t need any distractions
on this journey.
And while you’re working
on that, give your mom
something special this holiday.
She says you’ve served
your sentence well
and that she’ll consider
letting you back
on the team
if we make it
to the championship game.
Merry Christmas, Josh.
es·tranged
[IH-STREYNJD] adjective
The interruption of a bond,
when one person becomes
a stranger
to someone
who was close:
a relative, friend,
or loved one.
As in: Alexis’s mom and dad
are estranged.
As in: When I threw the ball
at JB,
I think I was estranged
from myself,
if that’s possible.
As in: Even though JB and I
are estranged,
Dad’s making us play
together
in a three-on-three tournament
on the Rec playground
tomorrow.
School’s Out
Mom has to work late,
so Dad picks us up.
Even though JB’s
still not talking to me
Dad’s cracking jokes
and we’re both laughing
like it’s the good ol’ times.
What are we getting for Christmas, Dad? JB asks.
What we always get. Books, I reply,
and we both laugh
just like the good ol’ times.
Boys, your talent will help you win games, Dad says,
but your intelligence, that will help you win at life.
Who said that? I ask.
I said it, didn’t you hear me?
Michael Jordan said it, JB says,
still looking at Dad.
Look, boys, you’ve both done good
in school this year, and
your mom and I appreciate that.
So you choose a gift, and I’ll get it.
You mean no books? I ask. Yes!
Nope. You’re still getting the books, player.
Santa’s just letting you pick something extra.
At the stoplight,
JB and I look out
the window
at the exact moment
we pass by the mall
and I know exactly
what JB wants.
Dad, can we stop
at that sneaker store