While you and Coby
play blackjack,
you notice
The Twins
taunting some poor kid, jabbing
the air
with their red boxing gloves.
There’s a first time
for everything, you think,
and a black eye
or a bruised rib
can’t hurt any more
than appendicitis.
I’ll be right back, you tell Coby.
HEY, DEAN, you scream
He turns around.
Actually, everyone
at the party turns around.
I’m sick of your yobbery.
You want some of this?
Apparently he does, ’cause
he comes charging
at you
like a red bull.
As he nears, you start,
get this,
dodging and weaving and
singing
in your best Quattlebaum voice
One-two-three, two-two-three.
When he gets to you,
you slide swiftly
to the right,
like you’ve got the ball
at your feet,
leaving your leg out
just enough
to trip him
face-first
into the pool.
Oh, you’ve really done it now, Nick.
Geesh!
One Down, One to Go
Nick? What are you doing? Coby says.
I got this, you say.
Not sure if you really do, but
realizing there’s no turning back now.
Dean’s doggy paddle
(apparently he can’t swim)
sends everyone
into a fit of raucous laughter.
Everyone except his brother,
who is now walking
your way,
looking murderous.
He’s a few feet away
when you realize that
no dance move or soccer trick
is gonna stop his death blow.
You glance down at the table
that separates you
from his wrath.
There’s a book on it:
The Heroes of Olympus.
Ironic, you think.
(Fight the fear, Nick.)
(You got this, Nick.)
Don, wait a minute. Don’t you want
one more day with a chance? you ask,
quoting Michonne
from The Walking Dead, but
without the samurai sword.
He looks confused,
maybe even a little scared.
He kicks the table out of the way.
You want some of these paws? he says.
Do I want some straws? you mock.
You want my draws? What!?
Hey, DJ, you scream, wild and crazy-like,
DROP THAT BEAT!
And now Don looks really confused.
The crowd starts laughing, and
he throws a right punch
and you suddenly remember
how to block a punch
from tae kwon do.
It works and
you feel good,
and for once
you’re above water.
And that feels great
till a left
uppercut
pops up
outta nowhere
and your jaw feels
like it is in
your brain
and wait,
who shut off
All. The. Lights.
Ouch!
You don’t see stars, but, above,
you do see Charlene’s mother,
Coby, and your girlfriend’s smile.
Freedom
I thought you were dead.
Don’t worry about me, Coby. I know how to take a punch.
Yeah, right in the face. You went down like a mattress. And then you hit your head on the table.
That hurt.
It was still kinda cool, though, the way you took Dean down.
He okay?
Yeah, he started screaming that he was drowning, then Don got him out and they left.
Cool!
Maybe they’ll leave us alone now.
If they know what’s best for them, they will.
What? Ballet?
Hey, it worked, didn’t it?
I guess. Either that or Charlene’s mother threatening to call the police worked. Oh, they left your bike, too.
Really?
Yep.
Hey, did April give me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?
Nope, but Winnifred did.
WHAT?!
Just kidding.
She’s going to the formal dance with me.
No way.
Yep.
Cool.
You should ask Charlene, then we can double date.
Yeah, maybe! Let’s get outta here.
Let me say goodbye to April first. Come with me.
Seriously, dude.
Oh, I almost forgot. The Mac let me open his dragonfly box.
No freakin’ way!
Yep.
Oh, snap!
You’ll never believe what was inside . . .
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,
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
in your face
mcNASTY
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About the Author
KWAME ALEXANDER is a New York Times best-selling author and poet. He’s written many books for both adults and children, including his Newbery Award–winning novel The Crossover. His Book-in-a-Day writing and publishing program has created thousands of student authors all over the world. He lives with his family in Virginia.
Footnotes
* verbomania [vurb-oh-mey-nee-uh] noun: a crazed obsession for words. Every freakin’ day I have to read his “dictionary,” which has freakin’ FOOTNOTES. That’s absurd to me. Kinda like ordering a glass of chocolate milk, then asking for chocolate syrup on the side. Seriously, who does that? SMH!
[back]
* * *
* malapropism [mal-uh-prop-iz-uhm] noun: the amusing and ludicrous misuse of a word, especially by confusion with one of a similar sound. Here’s an example: my English teacher, Ms. Hardwick, is a wolf in cheap clothing.
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* * *
* pugilism [pyoo-juh-liz-uhm] noun: the art of fighting with your fists; boxing. Like the time they boxed each other and Don ruptured Dean’s eyeball, which is why he wears a patch.
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* * *
* futsal [foot-saul] noun: indoor soccer played with five players on each side. We have our last futsal tournament this week, then travel soccer club revs up.
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* * *
* cachinnate [kak-uh-nayt] verb: to laugh loudly. In Huck Finn, Mark Twain misused the words “orgies” for “obsequies” (which means “ceremonies”), and “jest” for “just” (which means, uh, “just”). Get it? Yeah, me either, but Hardwick apparently did, ’cause we can still hear her cachinnating, so I guess my job’s done. Nick Hall, SCORE!
[back]
* * *
* mewling [myool-eeng] verb: to cry weakly; whimper. I wasn’t.
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* * *
* ragabash [rag-a-bash] noun: worthless, rubbish. The book has a lot of bad grammar, and my dad says it got banned when he was in school because it was racist. So yeah, ragabash.
[back]
* * *
* codswallop [cod-swah-lup] noun: something utterly senseless; nonsense. I actually like this word, but not when he says it.
[back]
* * *
* logorrhea [log-uh-ree-uh] noun: an excessive use of words. If I had a million dollars, I’d invest all of my money to cure this disease.
[back]
* * *
* flummoxed [fluhm-uhkst] verb: to bewilder or confuse. Why is Hardwick smiling?
[back]
* * *
* onomatophobia [on-uh-maht-uh-foh-bee-uh] noun: fear of hearing a certain word. DEAD!!!!!
[back]
* * *
* farrow [fair-oh] noun: a litter of pigs. No way was I telling her that she’s a pig.
[back]
* * *
* sweven [sweh-vuhn] noun: a dream or vision in your sleep. This just may be the coolest-sounding (sweven) word you’ve ever (sweven) read.
[back]
* * *
* nutmeg [nuht-meg] noun: a soccer trick in which the ball is dribbled between the defender’s legs. Imagine a ball of sun sneaking through the clouds. Lionel Messi is so good he could probably nutmeg a mermaid. Now that’s hot.
[back]
* * *
* rapprochement [rap-rohsh-mahn] noun: a reestablishment of harmonious relations. Are they getting back together?
[back]
* * *
* stupefy [stoo-puh-fiy] verb: to stun or overwhelm with amazement. I sure hope this isn’t a sweven.
[back]
* * *
* twain [twayn] adjective: two. This dance was supposed to be a two-step, not a freakin’ flash mob.
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* * *
* callipygous [kal-uh-pij-ee-gus] adjective: having a beautiful backside. A nice rumpelstiltskin. LOL!
[back]
* * *
* incompossible [in-kuhm-pos-uh-buhl] adjective: incapable of coexisting, of being together. It’s official: eighth grade SUCKS!
[back]
* * *
* hellkite [hel-kiyt] noun: an extremely cruel person. Coby says they posted a pic of my bike and a bunch of other stuff they took from kids.
[back]
* * *
* gadfly [gad-fly] noun: an annoying person. In the dictionary, there’s a pic of Winnifred next to this word.
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* * *
* wordbound [wurd-bound] adjective: unable to find expression in words. Kinda ironic, right?
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* * *
* yobbery [yob-uh-ree] noun: hooliganism. He’s still weird, but my dad’s got a little swag.
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* * *
* zazzy [zaz-ee] adjective: stylish or flashy.
[back]
* * *
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