Chapter Forty-One: Confronting the Rockets

After the interview ended, everyone went to Yao's Restaurant for a meal. As they parted ways, Yao Ming reminded him, “My teammates asked me to tell you, don’t trash talk them during tonight’s game, or they’ll beat you up.”

“Really?” He Xinghui’s face lit up with excitement.

Was it McGrady, or Rafer Alston? He was genuinely curious which of the Rockets had such guts.

He vaguely remembered that only those two had a history of fighting—most of the others were model citizens.

Yao Ming was at a loss, both amused and exasperated. It was the first time he’d seen someone get excited at the prospect of being beaten up, as if he couldn’t wait for it to happen.

“All right, forget I said anything,” Yao Ming conceded helplessly.

That evening, before the game began, the Rockets players brought up He Xinghui again in the locker room.

“Yao, did you warn your little friend?” Rafer Alston flexed his biceps, prompting laughter and heckling from the others.

“I think we should just ignore his trash talk. We can beat them with our strength,” Yao Ming replied, resigned. It was truly awkward being caught between his teammates and his fellow countryman.

“No, no, we’ve got to teach this rookie a lesson—let him know the rules of the NBA,” McGrady joined in.

“Don’t lose your temper—getting ejected isn’t worth it,” urged Yao Ming.

“I’ll keep it under control,” came the reply.

When the players took the court, He Xinghui received applause from some of the fans. Part of it came from the Chinese audience, the rest from his American supporters. Though his skills were not yet top-tier in the league, his distinct style had already won him fans even at away games—a remarkable achievement.

Usually, fans only supported their home team, unless a player's charisma was so great that it made them forget regional loyalties.

Such players were exceedingly rare, but now, He Xinghui had just barely crossed that threshold. If he maintained this momentum, perhaps one day he could be like Jordan, Kobe, or LeBron—welcomed as a hometown hero wherever he played.

The most excited fans for this Clippers vs. Rockets matchup weren’t the Clippers’ or Rockets’ supporters, but the fans in China. It happened to be a Saturday there; middle school students had the day off, and though high schoolers had extra classes, the rules were lax and empty seats were common. Many students gathered in small shops with TVs or at a classmate’s home, waiting for the game to start.

Meanwhile, Zhang Heli and Sun Zhengping were introducing the starting lineups.

“On the Clippers’ side, Maggette is out with an injury, so the lineup has changed a bit. Cassell starts at point guard, A-Xing remains at shooting guard, and filling in for Maggette is Quinton Ross, a defensive specialist. The power forward is Captain Brand, with Kaman at center. Looks like Coach Dunleavy wants Mobley to lead the second unit…”

Thanks to He Xinghui’s sudden rise, the Clippers’ starting lineup was now formidable, bolstered by an additional strong guard. Dunleavy was experimenting with new tactics, like letting Mobley come off the bench as the sixth man.

Sun Zhengping could only speculate about the Clippers’ intentions—commentary back then wasn’t as detailed as it would be in later years. It was a minor issue; he’d even once confused Evans for Ariza and called him Ariza the entire game. Understandable, really; with so many unfamiliar faces on the court, recognizing everyone was no easy feat. Commentators mostly relied on jersey numbers, and that mix-up happened because Ariza had been traded and Evans inherited his number.

“For the Rockets, the point guard is ‘Streetball King’ Rafer Alston. Shooting guard is McGrady?” Zhang Heli sounded slightly surprised, then continued, “He probably wants to test himself against A-Xing, since they’re the only two in league history who’ve pulled off a 13-point miracle in under 40 seconds.”

“At small forward, it’s Juwan Howard, power forward is Swift, and center, Big Yao. This lineup…” Zhang Heli analyzed its strengths and weaknesses.

“Coach Zhang, which team do you think will win?” Sun Zhengping asked.

“On paper, the Rockets clearly hold the advantage. Two All-Stars in the starting lineup, Juwan Howard with his huge contract, and even their bench boasts a former All-Star in Mutombo. If they can stay healthy this season, they should do very well,” Zhang Heli offered his view.

This was also the prevailing sentiment in the media. Before the season began, many had high hopes for the Rockets’ roster. Unfortunately, the team had been plagued by injuries, and tonight’s game was the closest they’d come to being at full strength. Even so, beneath the surface, many were still carrying hidden injuries.

On the court, the players gathered at center court for the tip-off.

At that moment, He Xinghui pretended to chat with Cassell. “The league’s three top shooting guards are amazing.”

“Of course—Kobe, Iverson, and Carter are all superstars.”

Standing nearby, McGrady glanced over, but no one could tell what he was thinking.

“Trash talk, trash talk,” Yao Ming silently reminded himself not to pay attention.

The referee tossed the ball into the air, and Yao Ming easily tipped it to his team. No one noticed that Brand was lurking on the Rockets’ side—an idea He Xinghui had suggested before the game. After all, Kaman had no hope of beating Yao on the jump, so why not station their best rebounder in enemy territory for a chance at an easy steal?

Sure enough, Brand, the Clippers’ rebounding ace, snatched the ball from amidst the Rockets players and immediately passed it to He Xinghui.

Standing at half court, He Xinghui didn’t hesitate—he took the shot.

“What the—”

“That’s not a good shot!”

“What’s A-Xing doing?”

In the very first second of the game, He Xinghui presented Chinese fans with a spectacular gift.

The swish of the net was as melodious as music.

That half-court shot was not a true measure of He Xinghui's skill; he’d used a trick-shot item, spending fifty rage points to give domestic fans a story to savor. Worth it.

After scoring, He Xinghui was calm, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Even more surprising, none of the Clippers celebrated either—just as He Xinghui had instructed before the game.

Jumping and shouting after a basket was beneath the dignity of a true master. Only greenhorns behaved in such a way; real experts should be as serene as an old monk sweeping the floor.