Spelling practice

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.

Remember the greats, my dad likes to gloat: I balled with Magic and the Goat.

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 crepe suzette.

See, when I play ball, I’m on fire. When I shoot, I inspire.

Filthy McNasty is a MYTHical MANchild Of rather dubious distinction

On the way to the game I’m banished to the back seat with JB, who only stops playing with my locks when I slap him across his bald head with my jockstrap.

I want to go to Duke, he flaunts Carolina Blue.

JB’s the second most phenomenal baller on our team.

I snicker but it’s not funny to him, especially when I take off from center court, my hair like wings, each lock lifting me higher and HIGHER like a 747 ZOOM ZOOM!

Coach calls us in, does his Phil Jackson impersonation.

Love ignites the spirit, brings teams together, he says.

JB likes to taunt and trash talk during games like Dad used to do when he played.

When I walk onto the court I prefer silence so I can Watch React Surprise.

If my hair were a tree I’d climb it. I’d kneel down beneath and enshrine it. I’d treat it like gold and then mine it.

Even though I used to be one of those nerdy sixth-graders, even though I love my hair the way Dad loves Krispy Kreme, even though I don’t want us to lose the game, odds are this is one of JB’s legendary bets I’ll win

In the locker room after the game, JB cackles like a crow.

He opens the scissors, grabs my hair to slash a strand. I don’t hear my golden lock hit the floor, but I do hear the sound of calamity when Vondie hollers, OH, SNAP!

As in: The HUGE bald patch on the side of my head is a dreadful calamity.

He brings back three packages of duck sauce and a cup of wonton soup and hands them all to me. Dad pauses, and Mom looks at JB. That was random, she says.

I am not a mathematician— a + b seldom equals c.

Let’s do this, he says. I resist, ready to take the purple hat box and jet, but I guess the mystery is just too much.

The hip-hop soundtrack blasts. The bass booms. The crowd looms.

There’s music and mocking, teasing nonstop, but when the play begins all the talk ceases.

Having great physical beauty and appeal.

Coach reads to us from The Art of War: A winning strategy is not about planning, he says. It’s about quick responses to changing conditions.

Dad takes us to the Rec to practice shooting free throws with one hand while he stands two feet in front of us, waving frantically in our faces.

I challenge them: It won’t be so funny when we shut you amateurs down, will it?

Others’ expectations of you are determined by their limitations of life.

In this moment I forget about the test and the note until JB hits me in the head with his No. 2. Somewhere between camaraderie and imbecile I tap her beige bare shoulder with the note.

Since I can’t seem to make a decent man out of you perhaps the Air Force or Marines can.

He’s standing in front of the class, a dummy laid out on the floor, plastic, faceless, torso cut in half.

As in: Isn’t it ironic that showoff JB, with all his swagger, is too shy to talk to Miss Sweet Tea, so he gives me the phone?

Was that your brother? Yep, that was Josh. I’m JB. I know who you are, silly—I called you. Uh, right. You have any siblings, Alexis?

Didn’t your dad play in the NBA? No, he played in Italy. But still, he made a lot of money, right? It’s not like we’re opulent.

I have a reputation to uphold.

So, what's the verdict, Jordan?

Only today I wait at our table in the back for twenty-five minutes, texting Vondie (home sick), eating a fruit cup (alone), before I see JB strut into the cafeteria with Miss Sweet Tea holding his precious hand.

But instead of drills and sprints, we sit on our butts, make weird sounds — Ohmmmmmmmm Ohmmmmmmmm and meditate.

The main reason I can't sleep is not because of the game tomorrow tonight, is not because the stubble on my head feels like bugs are break dancing on it, is not even because I’m worried about Dad.

At 5:48 the cop smiles after verifying Dad’s identity on Google, and says, You “Da Man”!