in the mall?
Yeah, Dad, can we? JB echoes.
And the word we
never sounded
sweeter.
The Phone Rings
Mom’s decorating the tree,
Dad’s outside shooting free throws,
warming up for the tournament.
Hello, I answer.
Hi, Josh, she replies.
May I please speak
with Precious?
He’s, uh, busy right now,
I tell her.
Well, just tell him
I will see him at the Rec,
she says, and now
I understand
why JB’s
taking his second shower
this morning
when he barely takes ONE
most school mornings.
Basketball Rule #8
Sometimes
you have to
lean back
a little
and
fade away
to get
the best
shot.
When we get to the court
I challenge Dad
to a quick game
of one-on-one
before the tournament
so we can both warm up.
He laughs and says, Check,
then gives me the ball,
but it hits me in the chest
because I’m busy looking over
at the swings where Jordan and
Miss Sweet Tea are talking
and holding hands.
Pay attention, Filthy—I mean Josh.
I’m about to CLEAN you up, boy, Dad says.
I pump fake him then sugar shake him
for an easy two. I hear applause.
Kids are coming over to watch.
On the next play I switch it up
and launch a three from downtown.
It rolls round and round and IN.
The benches are filling up.
Even Jordan and Alexis are now watching.
Five-oh is the score,
third play of the game.
I try my crossover, but
Dad steals the ball
like a thief in the night,
camps out at the top for a minute.
What you doing, old man? I say.
Don’t worry ’bout me, son.
I’m contemplatin’,
preparing to shut down
all your playa hatin’, Dad says.
Son, I ever tell you
about this cat named
Willie I played with in Italy?
And before I can answer
he unleashes a
killer crossover,
leaving me wishing for a cushion.
The kids are off the benches.
On their feet hollerin’,
Ohhhhhhhhhh, Whoop Whoop!
Meet the Press, Josh Bell, Dad laughs,
on his way to the hoop.
But then—
At Noon, in the Gym, with Dad
People watching
Players boasting
Me scoring
Dad snoring
Crowd growing
We balling
Me pumping
Dad jumping
Me faking
Nasty shot
Nasty moves
Five–zero
My lead
Next play
Dribble bounce
Dribble steal
Dad laughs
Palms ball
You okay?
Dad winks
Watch this
He dips
Sweat drips
Left y’all
Right y’all
I fall
Crowd wild
Dad drives
Steps strides
Hoop bound
Stutter steps
Lets loose
Screams loud
Stands still
Breath short
More sweat
Grabs chest
Eyes roll
Ball drops
Dad drops
I scream
“Help, please”
Sweet Tea
Dials cell
Jordan runs
Brings water
Splashes face
Dad nothing
Out cold
I remember
Gym class
Tilt pinch
Blow pump
Blow pump
Still nothing
Blow pump
Sirens blast
Pulse gone
Eyes shut.
The doctor pats Jordan and me on the back and says
Your dad should be fine. If you’re lucky,
you boys will be fishing with him in no time.
We don’t fish, I tell him.
Mom shoots me a mean look.
Mrs. Bell, the myocardial infarction has caused some
complications. Your husband’s stable, but he is in a coma.
In between sobs, JB barely gets his question out:
Will my dad be home for Christmas?
He looks at us and says: Try talking to him,
maybe he can hear you, which could help him come back.
Well, MAYBE we’re not in a talking mood, I say.
Joshua Bell, be respectful! Mom tells me.
I shouldn’t even be here.
I should be putting on my uniform, stretching,
getting ready to play in the county semifinals.
But instead, I’m sitting in a smelly room
in St. Luke’s Hospital,
listening to Mom sing “Kumbaya,”
watching Jordan hold Dad’s hand,
wondering why I have
to push water uphill
with a rake
to talk to someone
who isn’t even listening.
To miss the biggest game
of my life.
my·o·car·di·al in·farc·tion
[MY-OH-CAR-DEE-YUHL IN-FARK-SHUN] noun
Occurs when blood flow
to an area of the heart
is blocked
for a long enough time
that part of the heart muscle
is damaged
or dies.
As in: JB says that he hates
basketball because it was
the one thing that
Dad loved the most
besides us
and it was the one thing
that caused his
myocardial infarction.
As in: The doctor sees me Googling
the symptoms—coughing, sweating,
vomiting, nosebleeds—and he says,
You know we can’t be sure what causes
a myocardial infarction. I say, What about
doughnuts and fried chicken and genetics?
The doctor looks at my mom,
then leaves.
As in: Dad’s in a coma
because of a myocardial infarction,
which is the same thing
my grandfather died of.
So what does that mean for me
and JB?
Okay, Dad
The doctor says
I should talk to you,
that maybe you can hear
and maybe you can’t.
Mom and JB
have been talking
your ear off
all morning.
So, if you’re listening,
I’d like to know,
when did you decide to jump
ship? I thought you were
Da Man.
And one more thing:
If we make it
to the finals,
I will not miss
the big game
for a small
maybe.
Mom, since you asked, I’ll tell you why I’m so angry
Because Dad tried to dunk.
Because I want to win a championship.
Because I can’t win a championship if I’m sitting in this smelly hospital.
Because Dad told you he’d be here forever.
Because I thought forever was like Mars—far away.
Because it turns out forever is like the mall—right around the corner.
Because Jordan doesn’t talk basketball anymore.
Because Jordan cut my hair and didn’t care.
Because he’s always drinking Sweet Tea.
Because sometimes I get thirsty.
Because I don’t have anybody to talk to now.
Because I feel empty with no hair.
Because CPR DOESN’T WORK!
Because my crossover should be better.
Because if it was better, then Dad wouldn’t have had the ball.
Because if Dad hadn’t had the ball, then he wouldn’t have tried to dunk.
Because if Dad hadn’t tried to dunk, then we wouldn’t be here.
Because I don’t want to be here.
Because the only thing that matters is swish.
Because our backboard is splintered.
Text Messages from Vondie
8:05
Filthy, the game went
double overtime
before the last possession.
8:05
Coach called a time-out
and had us all do a special chant
on the sideline.
8:06
It was kinda creepy. The
other team was LOL.
I guess it worked, ’cause
8:06
we won, 40–39.
We dedicated the game ball
to your pop.
8:07
Is he better? You and JB
coming to practice?
Filthy, you there?
On Christmas Eve
Dad finally wakes up. He
smiles at
Mom, high-fives Jordan,
then looks right at me
and says,
Filthy, I didn’t jump ship.
Santa Claus Stops By
We’re celebrating
Christmas
in Dad’s hospital room.
Flowers and gifts and cheer
surround him. Relatives from
five states. Aunts with collards and yams,
cousins with hoots and hollers,
and runny noses. Mom’s singing,
Dad’s playing spades with his brothers.
I know the nurses can’t wait for visiting hours
to end. I can’t either. Uncle Bob’s turkey
tastes like cardboard
and his lemon pound cake looks like Jell-O, but
Hospital Santa has everyone singing and
all this joy is spoiling my mood. I can’t
remember the last time I smiled. Happy is
a huge river right now and I’ve forgotten
how to swim. After two hours, Mom
tells everyone it’s time for Dad to
get some rest. I hug fourteen people, which is
like drowning. When they leave, Dad
calls Jordan and me over to the bed.
Do y’all remember
when you were seven and JB
wanted to swing but all the swings were
filled, and Filthy pushed the little redhead
kid out of the swing so JB could take it?
Well, it wasn’t the right behavior, but
the intention was righteous.
You were there for each other.
I want you both
to always be there
for each other.
Jordan starts crying.
Mom holds him,
and takes him outside
for a walk.
Me and Dad stare
at each other
for ten minutes
without saying a word.
I tell him,
I don’t have anything to say.
Filthy, silence doesn’t mean
we have run out of things to say,
only that we are trying
not to say them.
So, let’s do this.
I’ll ask you a question,
then you ask me a question,
and we’ll just keep asking until
we can both get some answers.
Okay?
Sure, I say,
but you go first.
Questions
Have you been practicing your free throws?
Why didn’t you go to the doctor when Mom asked you?
When is the game?
Why didn’t you ever take us fishing?
Does your brother still have a girlfriend?
Are you going to die?
Do you really want to know?
Why couldn’t I save you?
Don’t you see that you did?
Do you remember I kept pumping and breathing?
Aren’t I alive?
. . . ?
Did y’all arrest Uncle Bob’s turkey? It was just criminal what he did to that bird, wasn’t it?
You think this is funny?
How’s your brother?
Is our family falling apart?
You still think I should write a book?
What does that have to do with anything?
What if I call it “Basketball Rules”?
Are you going to die?
Do you know I love you, son?
Don’t you know the big game’s tomorrow?
Is it true Mom is letting you play?
You think I shouldn’t play?
What do you think, Filthy?
What about Jordan?
Does he want to play?
Don’t you know he won’t as long as you’re in here?
Don’t you know I know that?
So, why don’t you come home?
Can’t you see I can’t?
Why not?
Don’t you know it’s complicated, Filthy?
Why can’t you call me by my real name?
Josh, do you know what a heart attack is?
Don’t you remember I was there?
Don’t you see I need to be here so they can fix the damage that’s been done to my heart?
Who’s gonna fix the damage that’s been done to mine?
Tanka for Language Arts Class
This Christmas was not
Merry, and I have not found
joy in the new year
with Dad in the hospital
for nineteen days and counting.
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to
walking home from school alone
playing Madden alone
listening to Lil Wayne alone
going to the library alone
shooting free throws alone
watching ESPN alone
eating doughnuts alone
saying my prayers alone
Now that Jordan’s in love
and Dad’s living in a hospital
Basketball Rule #9
When the game is on
the line,
don’t fear.
Grab the ball.
Take it
to the hoop.
As we’re about to leave for the final game
the phone rings.
Mom shrieks.
I think the worst.
I ask JB if he heard that.
He’s on his bunk
listening to his iPod.
Mom rushes past our room,
out of breath.
JB jumps down
from his bunk.
What’s wrong, Mom? I ask.
She says:
Dad. Had. Another. Attack.
Now. Don’t. Worry.
I’m. Going. Hospital.
See. You. Two. At. Game.
Vroooooommmmmmm.
Her car starts.
JB, what should
we do? I ask.
He’s no longer listening to music,
but his tears are loud enough
to dance to.
He laces his sneakers,
runs out of our room.
The garage door opens.
I hear FLOP FLOP FLOP
from the straws
on the spokes
of his bicycle wheels
as he follows Mom
to the hospital.
I hear the clock: TICK TOCK TICK TOCK.
I hear Dad: You should play in the game, son.
A horn blows.
I hear SLAM SLAM SLAM
as I shut the door
of Vondie’s dad’s car.
I hear SCREECH SCREECH SCREECH
as we pull away
from the curb
on our way
to the county championship game.
During warm-ups
I miss four lay-ups in
a row, and Coach Hawkins says,
Josh, you sure you’re able
to play? It’s more than okay if you
need to go to the hospital with your fam—
Coach, my dad is going to be fine,
I say. Plus he wants me to play.
Son, you telling me you’re okay?