Can a deaf person write
music? I ask Coach.
He raises his eyebrows,
shakes his head, and
tells me to go sit
on the bench. I excuse myself
to the locker room
to check my cell phone,
and there are texts
from Mom.
Text Messages from Mom, Part Two
5:47
Dad’s having complications.
But he’s gonna
be fine and says
he loves you.
Good luck tonight. Dad’s
5:47
gonna be fine. Jordan says
he still doesn’t feel like
playing, but I made him
5:48
go to the game to show
support. Look for him and
don’t get lazy on your
5:48
crossover.
For Dad
My free throw flirts with the rim and
loops, twirls, for a million years,
then drops, and for once, we’re up, 49–48,
five dancers on stage, leaping, jumping
so high, so fly,
eleven seconds from sky
A hard drive, a fast break, their best player
slices the thick air toward the goal.
His pull-up jumper
floats through the net,
then everything goes slow motion:
the ball, the player . . .
Coach calls time-out
with only five seconds to go.
I wish the ref could stop
the clock of my life.
Just one more game.
I think my father is dying,
and now I am out of bounds
when I see a familiar face
behind our bench. My brother,
Jordan Bell, head buried
in Sweet Tea, his eyes
welling with horror.
Before I know it, the whistle blows,
the ball in my hand,
the clock running down,
my tears running faster.
The Last Shot
5 . . . A bolt of lightning on my kicks . . .
The court is SIZZLING
My sweat is DRIZZLING
Stop all that quivering
Cuz tonight I’m delivering
I’m driving down
the lane
SLIDING
4 . . . Dribbling to the middle, gliding like a black eagle.
The crowd is RUMBLINGRUSTLING
ROARING
Take it to the hoop.
TAKE IT TO THE HOOP
3 . . . 2 . . . Watch out, ’cuz I’m about to get D I R T Y
with it
about to pour FILTHY’S sauce all over you.
Ohhhhh, did you see McNASTY cross over you?
Now I’m taking you
Ankle BREAKING you
You’re on your knees.
Screamin’ PLEASE, BABY, PLEASE
One . . . It’s a bird, It’s a plane. No, it’s up up
uppppppppppp.
My shot is F L O W I N G, Flying, fLuTtErInG
OHHHHHHHH, the chains are JINGALING
ringaling and SWINGALING
Swish.
Game/over.
Article #2 in the Daily News (January 14)
Professional basketball player
Charlie (Chuck) “Da Man” Bell
collapsed in a game
with his son Josh.
After a complication,
Bell died at St. Luke’s Hospital
from a massive heart attack.
According to reports,
Bell suffered
from hypertension
and had three fainting spells
in the four months
before his collapse.
Autopsy results found
Bell had a large,
extensively scarred heart.
Reports have surfaced
that Bell refused to see a doctor.
One of his former teammates
stated, “He wasn’t a big fan of doctors
and hospitals, that’s for sure.”
Earlier in his life,
Bell chose to end his promising basketball career
rather than have surgery on his knee.
Known for his dazzling crossover,
Chuck Bell was the captain
of the Italian team
that won back-to-back Euroleague championships
in the late nineties.
He is survived by his wife,
Dr. Crystal Stanley-Bell, and
his twin sons,
Joshua and Jordan, who
recently won their first
county championship.
Bell was thirty-nine.
Where Do We Go from Here?
There are no coaches
at funerals. No practice
to get ready. No warm-up.
There is no last-second shot, and
we all wear its cruel
midnight uniform, starless
and unfriendly.
I am unprepared
for death.
This is a game
I cannot play.
It has no rules,
no referees.
You cannot win.
I listen
to my father’s teammates
tell funny stories
about love
and basketball.
I hear the choir’s comfort songs.
They almost drown out Mom’s sobs.
She will not look in the coffin.
That is not my husband, she says.
Dad is gone,
like the end of a good song.
What remains is bone
and muscle and cold skin.
I grab Mom’s right hand.
JB grabs her left.
The preacher says,
A great father, son, and
husband has crossed
over. Amen.
Outside, a long charcoal limo
pulls up to the curb
to take us
back.
If only.
star·less
[STAHR-LES] adjective
With no stars.
As in: If me and JB
try out for JV
next year,
the Reggie Lewis Junior High School Wildcats
will be starless.
As in: Last night
I felt like I was fading away
as I watched the starless
Portland Trailblazers
get stomped by Dad’s favorite team,
the Lakers.
As in: My father
was the light
and now that he’s gone,
each night
is starless.
Basketball Rule #10
A loss is inevitable,
like snow in winter.
True champions
learn
to dance
through
the storm.
There are so many friends
neighbors, Dad’s teammates,
and family members
packed into our living room
that I have to go outside
just to breathe. The air
is filled with laughter,
John Coltrane,
Jay-Z, and the smell
of salmon, plus scents of
every pie and cake
imaginable.
Even Mom is smiling.
Josh, don’t you hear the phone
ringing? she says.
I don’t—the sound of
“A Love Supreme”
and loud laughter
drowning it out.
Can you get it, please? she asks me.
I answer it, a salmon sandwich
crammed
in my mouth.
Hello, Bell residence, I mutter.
Hi, this is Alexis.
Oh . . . Hey.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be at the funeral.
This is Josh, not JB.
I know it’s you, Filthy. JB is loud.
Your phone voice always sounds like
it’s the break of dawn,
like you’re just waking up,
she says playfully.
I laugh for the first time in days.
I just wanted to call and say how sorry
I am for your loss. If there is anything my dad or I can do,
please let us know.
Look, Alexis, I’m sorry about—
It’s all good, Filthy. I gotta go, but
my sister has five tickets
to see Duke play North Carolina.
Me, her, JB, and my dad
are going.
You wanna—
ABSOLUTELY, I say, and THANKS,
right before Coach Hawkins
comes my way
with outstretched arms and
a bear-size hug, sending the phone
crashing to the floor.
On my way out the door,
to get some fresh air,
Mom gives me
a kiss and a piece of
sweet potato pie with
two scoops of vanilla soy
ice cream.
Where’s your brother? she asks.
I haven’t seen JB
since the funeral, but
if I had to guess, I’d say
he’s going to see Alexis.
Because, if I had a girlfriend, I’d be
off with her right about now.
But I don’t,
so the next best thing
will have to do.
Free Throws
It only takes me
Four mouthfuls
to finish the dessert.
I have to jump to get the ball.
It is wedged between
rim and backboard,
evidence of JB trying
and failing
to dunk.
I tap it out
and dribble
to the free-throw line.
Dad once made
fifty free throws
IN A ROW.
The most I ever made
was nineteen.
I grip the ball,
plant my feet on the line,
and shoot the first one.
It goes in.
I look around
to see if anyone is watching.
Nope. Not anymore.
The next twelve shots are good.
I name them each a year
in my life.
A year with my father.
By twenty-seven, I am making them
with my eyes closed.
The orange orb has wings
like there’s an angel
taking it to the hoop.
On the forty-ninth shot,
I am only slightly aware
that I am moments from fifty.
The only thing that really matters
is that out here
in the driveway
shooting free throws
I feel closer to Dad.
You feel better? he asks.
Dad? I say.
I open my eyes,
and there is my brother.
I thought you were—
Yeah, I know, he says.
I’m good. You? I ask.
He nods.
Good game last week, he says.
That crossover
was wicked.
Did you see the trophy? I ask.
He nods again.
Still protecting his words
from me.
Did you talk to Dad before—
He told us to stay out of his closet.
Then he told me to give you this.
You earned it, Filthy, he says,
sliding the ring on my finger.
My heart leaps
into my throat.
Dad’s championship ring.
Between the bouncing
and sobbing, I whisper, Why?
I guess you Da Man now, Filthy, JB says.
And for the first time in my life
I don’t want to be.
I bet
the dishes
you miss number fifty, he says,
walking away.
Where’s he going?
Hey, I shout.
We Da Man.
And when he turns around
I toss him the ball.
He dribbles
back to the top of the key,
fixes his eyes
on the goal.
I watch
the ball
leave his hands
like a bird
up high,
skating
the sky,
crossing over
us.
About the Author
KWAME ALEXANDER is an award-winning children’s book author and poet. His Book-in-a-Day writing and publishing program for upper elementary, middle, and high school students has created more than 3000 student authors in sixty-five schools across the United States, and in Canada and the Caribbean. He lives with his family in Herndon, Virginia.