Rebound

by Kwame Alexander

  I dribble

  to the top of the key

  fix my eye

  on the goal,

  but just before the ball

  leaves my hands

  like a bird

  up high,

  Mom shouts,

  JOSH, YOU AND JB COME HERE!

  Graduation Gift

  Your game is gone. Hand it over.

  Nah, Mom messed me up when she yelled my name. It startled me.

  C’mon, bro, you’re slipping. A bet’s a bet.

  Boys, enough of that. I have something to show you.

  That wasn’t cool, Mom. I was so close.

  Filthy’s just mad ’cause he ain’t got no shot.

  Please use correct grammar. Doesn’t HAVE a shot.

  See, even Mom knows the deal. His shot used to be nasty, folks, but now it’s just stank!

  Okay, can we be serious for a second?

  What’s up, Mom?

  This is your graduation gift.

  I thought the money was our gift, I say.

  This is not a gift from me.

  Who’s it from? I ask.

  Your father.

  . . .

  She hands me

  an old thick

  padded and fading

  yellow package

  tied with a

  big red bow.

  My eyes begin

  to well (JB’s too)

  as we inspect it,

  afraid to open

  the memories.

  He tries to grab it

  from me.

  Yo, what’re you doing? Chill!

  Josh, it’s for both of you, Mom says.

  See! JB says, still trying to grab it.

  I thought you said Dad gave it to me, Mom.

  He gave it to both of you. Now stop acting like you ain’t got no sense.

  DON’T have ANY sense, JB says to Mom, mocking her, which makes all of us laugh wholeheartedly.

  Okay, I’m going back into the house. When you finish this nonsense, one of you needs to walk Frederick Douglass. He hasn’t been out all day, Mom says, kissing us both on the forehead and heading back inside.

  I open it

  and inside is

  a green spiral-bound

  notebook

  that reads:

  To: Charlie Bell

  From: CJ

  scribbled on the front.

  Oh, snap! Let me see, Filthy.

  Just hold on, I say, but he can’t.

  He snatches it.

  Almost rips it.

  And something falls out.

  A letter.

  Dear boys

  Your mother made me

  write this

  just in case, she said,

  which kinda freaked me out,

  so I said to her,

  Da Man is fine, babe.

  Won’t be no

  in case.

  When we got home

  from the hospital

  last night,

  she was crying,

  and I was holding her

  trying to watch the game,

  and she kept asking me

  if I was okay,

  and worrying

  and whatnot,

  so I just started writing

  and we started remembering

  and she stopped crying

  and we started laughing.

  So, yeah, if you’re reading this,

  then once again

  I guess she’s right.

  This is my notebook.

  It’s now your graduation present.

  (See, Filthy. I did write a book!)

  Do not

  let your mother

  call it a diary!

  This is my journal

  from the summer

  of 1988

  when I was twelve years old.

  When Now and Laters

  cost a nickel

  and The Fantastic Four,

  a buck.

  When I met

  Harriet Tubman

  and the Harlem Globetrotters.

  When I fell in love

  and didn’t even know it.

  It was the summer

  after the coldest winter ever,

  when a storm shattered

  my home

  into a million little pieces

  and everything that mattered

  became ice and ash.

  When me and my skate crew

  lost the big contest,

  I fouled up

  big-time—got caught

  stealing—and not even

  my mother

  could save me

  from almost getting

  kicked out

  of the game.

  When there was no sun

  no rainbow

  no hope

  and I got sent

  to my grandparents.

  It was the summer

  I ended up in jail

  and thought my life

  was over.

  When soaring above

  the sorrow and grief

  seemed impossible,

  and basketball gave me

  wings.

  It was the summer of 1988

  when my cousin Roxie

  and my grandparents

  taught me

  how to rebound,

  on and off

  the court.

  Later that summer

  we ended up going

  to Disney World

  and my mom

  let me taste beer

  and it was disgusting

  and I rode Space Mountain

  so much

  I literally found

  my way

  out of a black hole.

  I spent the next

  three summers

  with my grandparents,

  and I never lost

  to Roxie again

  and one summer

  we played

  on the same

  summer team,

  but the next

  they made her play

  on the girls’ team.

  After that, I saw her

  maybe once a year

  at the family reunion,

  but she ended up

  playing

  college ball, and

  she was pretty good

  (but not as good as Da Man).

  Skinny’s mom

  finally got their own place

  when he got

  to high school

  (his dad got better

  and moved back in too),

  but it was in

  the next town over,

  so we played

  on different teams

  (he was still a ball hog

  in high school, though).

  He’s a police officer

  now, which is CRAZY!

  I think you know

  his daughter April

  from Sunday school

  and the Rec.

  Granddaddy died

  the week after

  I graduated

  from college,

  and Grandma said

  her heart was too heavy

  with missing him,

  so she was leaving too,

  and she did

  the next day.

  They would have been

  so proud of you two.

  I’m so proud

  of my twins,

  lighting up

  the world.

  Shine on, Jordan.

  Shine on, Josh.

  Be a star.

  PS. CJ and I stopped walking Harriet before ninth grade started and it was like one day Old Lady Wilson was there and the next day her house was for sale and we never saw them again . . . CJ said they moved in with her son, which was probably the case, ’cause she knew everything . . . Still does . . . In fact, years later . . . after a few high school breakups . . . after college makeups . . . after we were married . . . and
living in Italy . . . she wakes me up at two o’clock one morning, craving IHOP, but since there are no IHOPs in Italy, I take her to this twenty-four-hour Italian diner called Homebaked and in between crushing a stack of pumpkin pancakes and a bowl of pickles, she says . . .

  Conversation with Your Mother

  Chuck, I think it’s boys.

  Huh?

  BOYS!

  What boys?

  Our boys! I think we’re having two boys, Chuck!

  OH, REALLY. How do you know?

  Because I remember doing this experiment—

  What’s worse than finding a worm in your apple?

  C’mon, Chuck, I’m being serious.

  What’s worse than finding a worm in your apple?

  What?

  Finding half a worm. C’mon, Crystal, you know that’s funny!

  I’m talking about our children and you’re telling jokes. My experiment and many studies have shown that when a male rat and a female rat—

  Can I finish my pancakes, please, before we start talking rats?

  I’m just saying, they’re going to be boys, they’re going to be beautiful, and I just hope and pray they get my brains.

  Woman, you’re crazy, I told her.

  And she was.

  Crazy in love, you see.

  And so was I.

  And. So. Was. I.

  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.

  Horace Silver is one of the hippest.

  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

  Buy the Book

  Visit www.hmhco.com or your favorite retailer to purchase the book in its entirety.

  Gameplay

  on the pitch, lightning faSt,

  dribble, fake, then make a dash

  player tries tO steal the ball

  lift and step and make him fall

  zip and zoom to find the spot

  defense readies for the shot

  Chip, then kick it in the air

  take off like a Belgian hare

  shoot it left, but watch it Curve

  all he can do is observe

  watch the ball bEnd in midflight

  play this game faR into night.

  Wake Up Call

  After playing FIFA

  online with Coby

  till one thirty a.m.

  last night,

  you wake

  this morning

  to the sound

  of Mom arguing

  on the phone

  with Dad.

  Questions

  Did you make up your bed?

  Yeah. Can you put bananas in my pancakes, please?

  Did you finish your homework?

  Yeah. Can we play a quick game of Ping-Pong, Mom?

  And what about the reading. I didn’t see you doing that yesterday.

  Mom, Dad’s not even here.

  Just because your father’s away doesn’t mean you can avoid your chores.

  I barely have time for my real chores.

  Perhaps you should spend less time playing Xbox at all hours of the night.

  Huh?

  Oh
, you think I didn’t know?

  I’m sick of reading his stupid words, Mom. I’m going to high school next year and I shouldn’t have to keep doing this.

  Why couldn’t your dad

  be a musician

  like Jimmy Leon’s dad

  or own an oil company

  like Coby’s?

  Better yet, why couldn’t

  he be a cool detective

  driving

  a sleek silver

  convertible sports car

  like Will Smith

  in Bad Boys?

  Instead, your dad’s

  a linguistics professor

  with chronic verbomania*

  as evidenced

  by the fact

  that he actually wrote

  a dictionary

  called Weird and Wonderful Words

  with,

  get this,

  footnotes.

  In the elementary school spelling bee

  when you intentionally

  misspelled heifer,

  he almost had a cow.

  You’re the only kid

  on your block

  at school

  in THE. ENTIRE. FREAKIN’. WORLD.

  who lives in a prison

  of words.

  He calls it the pursuit of excellence.

  You call it Shawshank.

  And even though your mother

  forbids you to say it,

  the truth is

  you

  HATE

  words.

  Buy the Book

  Visit www.hmhco.com or your favorite retailer to purchase the book in its entirety.

  MiddleGradeMania.com

  About the Author