Chapter Six: Peyton Yields

"Your mouth stinks like my fart. Forgot to tell you, I ate a lot of beans today," Hexinghui shot back, borrowing Payton's style. Back in 1997, Payton had once told Stockton, "You're as soft as my morning crap. Forgot to tell you, I had diarrhea this morning."

In their first exchange of trash talk, it was a tie. Those skilled in the art of trash talk are usually highly immune to it themselves. Neither Hexinghui nor Payton managed to get the upper hand.

Words aside, the game pressed on. The Clippers ran a play; Mobley passed the ball to Hexinghui, who immediately dribbled backward, while Mobley set a timely screen to block Payton, who tried to keep up.

Usually, players drive the ball toward the basket, but in this era, few, like Hexinghui, would choose to dribble out beyond the three-point line. Payton didn’t react in time, giving Mobley a chance to impede him. By the time Payton tried to recover, Hexinghui was already a step behind the arc, launching the shot.

Though a bit far, it was a completely uncontested look. Even without using James Posey's shooting card, Hexinghui had a 60% success rate in wide-open situations. With the aid of the prop, that rate jumped to about 80%.

The ball went in—three points secured.

"Today, the Glove’s got a hole in it!" Hexinghui roared in Payton’s face.

Gary Payton’s nickname, "The Glove," referred to his defense being as tight as a baseball glove gripping the ball. Payton was instantly infuriated. If Hexinghui had scored purely on his own, he might have accepted it, but this was a basket after a screen—what was there to brag about? Mobley deserved at least half the credit.

"You’re like a mouse that’s seen a cat—just running and hiding," Payton sneered.

"Oh, this Chinese kid really lives up to his reputation—a trash talker for sure. He just hit a three and went straight at Payton with it! My god, does he not know Payton is the king of trash talk? I think he’s in for it today," exclaimed commentator Brown.

The Heat went on offense; Payton called for the ball and posted up Hexinghui. Hexinghui defended aggressively, doing his best to hold his ground, but Payton still managed to muscle him aside for space.

Payton went for the jumper. In his prime, he’d have made this shot more than 90% of the time. Now, it was closer to 50%. Today, luck wasn’t on Payton’s side—the shot missed.

"See? That’s why your salary is only a million these days," Hexinghui quipped—another jab right at Payton’s heart. In his prime, after scoring on rookie point guards, Payton loved to say, "See, kid? That’s why I make ten million a year."

What goes around comes around. Now, in his twilight years, taking minimum contracts and chasing a ring, Payton was finally paying the price for his big mouth.

Payton gritted his teeth in anger. He realized this rookie’s trash talk was actually quite sharp. If they were teammates, he’d have to give him some props. But as opponents, all he could do was take the hits.

The Clippers attacked. This time, Payton focused all his energy on stopping Hexinghui from scoring. He understood the essence of trash talk: you have to back it up with facts, logic, and evidence. If you want to mock your opponent as a rookie, you have to dominate them first. If your rival drops twenty or thirty points on you and you still call them a scrub, you’ll just look like a clown.

If Jordan averaged zero points, then telling other rookies, "Welcome to the NBA, rookie," would be a joke—he’d be the real rookie. Only when you outplay your rival and then deliver that killer trash talk can you truly enrage and demoralize them.

So Payton defended aggressively. He had to stop Hexinghui to be able to mock him with authority.

Hexinghui couldn’t find an opening, and Mobley wouldn’t force a pass in this situation. Right now, Hexinghui’s offensive arsenal was extremely limited—just open catch-and-shoots. No drives, no post moves, no playmaking.

"Gary, don’t go all out on defense. You should play old-man basketball, extend your career, and wait for me to grow up and help you win a championship," Hexinghui taunted, tightly marked.

He was mocking Payton for ring-chasing—mocking his lack of a championship. That was Payton’s sorest spot. Worse yet, his attempts at ring-chasing had been fruitless: failing with the Lakers, now trying with the Heat. If he didn’t win the title this year, the frustration might kill him.

A hot-tempered man, insulted over such an embarrassing stain, might have already thrown a punch. But Payton didn’t.

"Rookie, the last one who shouted about winning a championship is now playing in the Harlem Globetrotters," Payton retorted, refusing to concede the trash talk battle.

Championships aren’t that easy to come by. Some people just don’t know their place.

The Heat went on offense.

"Even if I never win a championship, even if I average less than fifteen points a game, I’ll still be an All-Star starter. Do you know how many people live in my country?" Hexinghui stabbed again.

Between 2000 and 2002, Payton put up 24 points and 8 assists a game—superstar numbers—yet he only made the All-Star team as a reserve. His popularity never matched his talent, a source of lasting frustration. In this area, Hexinghui crushed him utterly.

Payton knew how staggering the number of Chinese fans was. Yao Ming could average 13 points and still edge out Shaquille O’Neal. That kind of advantage, Payton could only envy.

Payton felt a headache coming on. He realized he’d badly underestimated Hexinghui’s trash talk. It might not be fatal in quality, but the sheer quantity was overwhelming. Only two possessions in, and Hexinghui had already fired off five barbs. And while Payton could handle it, someone with a weaker psyche might already be contemplating hanging themselves from the rim for absolution.

"What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? Or are you so old you don’t even have the strength to talk anymore?" Hexinghui pressed on.

"......." Payton replied.

He called for the ball again, channeling his anger into strength, posted up Hexinghui, and scored two points.

"I’m so old I could be your grandpa, and I still scored on you," Payton shot back.

The Clippers attacked. Hexinghui, young and tireless, ran circles around Payton, nearly exhausting him. In the chaos, Hexinghui found himself open again, caught the pass, and drained another three.

"You scored, I scored too—so why has the lead gotten smaller again?" As soon as the shot fell, Hexinghui ran up to Payton, spread his hands wide, and put on a look of feigned helplessness.

Payton, panting and gritting his teeth, finally understood why Kobe had given Hexinghui an elbow. He felt like doing the same right now.

Today, Payton realized he was losing the trash talk duel—not for lack of wit, but because his game no longer backed it up. Without the performance, the words lost their sting.

"You’re good, kid. Keep carrying on the fine art of trash talk," Payton decided to give up the verbal battle and focus on the game. He genuinely admired Hexinghui—relieved, even—to see the tradition of trash talk carried forward by the next generation.