Read the opening of The Crossover

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.