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,
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