Chapter Sixty-Three: Let the Tirade Begin

On the Clippers' side, the starting lineup remained unchanged from the previous game. The Trail Blazers’ starting point guard was Steve Blake—a player lacking both strength and speed, relying on his height, three-point shooting, and court vision to scrape by. At shooting guard stood Juan Dixon, also 191 centimeters tall like Blake, but without a point guard’s skills, relegated to playing shooting guard—a classic “double deficiency” guard.

Small forward was Ruben Patterson at 196 centimeters, a swingman capable of playing both shooting guard and small forward. Power forward was Zach Randolph at 206 centimeters, and center Theo Ratliff at 208 centimeters. The most striking feature of this team was their serious lack of height; aside from point guard, all other positions suffered a disadvantage in stature.

Because of this, their performance was abysmal, ranking them among the league’s bottom dwellers. Beyond these starters, the Blazers also had a Korean player who drew He Xinghui’s attention: Ha Seung-jin. He certainly had the height at 221 centimeters, but unfortunately, he was all show and no substance, serving as a reliable guardian of the Blazers’ water cooler. Unless both Ratliff and Joel Przybilla had their legs broken, he’d have no chance to step on the court.

He Xinghui found it rather disappointing—he’d been hoping for a good on-court exchange with an Asian brother. The game began, and the man tasked with defending He Xinghui was Dixon. He Xinghui didn’t know much about this guy, but that wouldn’t stop him from running his mouth.

“Hey, with your height, why aren’t you playing point guard?” He Xinghui taunted.

Dixon rolled his eyes and stayed silent. Admitting his lack of ball-handling skills was out of the question.

Seeing that his trash talk wasn’t having much effect, He Xinghui decided to teach him a lesson through action. Taking advantage of his height and wingspan, he took a shot—only to miss. The mocking words he’d prepared were swallowed back down.

The Blazers attacked. He Xinghui switched with McCarty on defense, now guarding Patterson—a player with plenty of flaws to poke at. As a rookie with no standing, McCarty had no say in the matter, and anyway, he matched up well defensively against Dixon. Dixon lacked the ability to drive; he relied on his height for sudden jumpers. McCarty’s small forward size could put substantial pressure on him.

After the switch, He Xinghui appeared in front of Patterson and greeted him with a smile, “Kobe Stopper.”

That was the title Patterson had given himself, based on a game where he’d outperformed Kobe and held him to a low shooting percentage. But Kobe had plenty of games with poor shooting, and whether Patterson’s defense had any real effect was debatable. His self-proclaimed moniker became a running joke. Even more embarrassing, that game was the only time in his life he’d ever contained Kobe.

Every time after that, Kobe torched him, relegating him to a laughingstock. He Xinghui’s “Kobe Stopper” was pure mockery. Patterson shot him a glare and kept moving off the ball.

Not about to let him off the hook, He Xinghui followed and asked with feigned concern, “Not happy in Portland, are you? Heard Randolph beats you up all the time. Why not ask for a trade?”

“It’s not all the time,” Patterson retorted angrily. He’d only been beaten up by Randolph once, after which he’d kept his head down.

That explanation nearly made He Xinghui burst out laughing. For a man, is there really a difference between once and often? It’s humiliating either way. More humiliating still, after being beaten, Patterson had to swallow his pride and stay with the Blazers. As a fringe player, he wasn’t even qualified to request a trade—at best, he could hope to be waived.

Before He Xinghui could get in a third jab, the Blazers had finished their possession.

The Clippers advanced up the court at a leisurely pace. Once again, Dixon was in front of He Xinghui.

Offensively, Patterson had no choice; defensively, he wanted nothing to do with that annoying guy.

“Dixon, are you afraid of Chinese players?” He Xinghui continued.

“Why should I be afraid of Chinese players? Your country’s basketball is terrible,” Dixon shot back.

Before the game, Blazers coach Nate McMillan had warned everyone not to respond to a single word from He Xinghui. At the time, Dixon had agreed. But when he realized he could win a verbal exchange, he couldn’t help himself. After speaking, he even felt a sense of satisfaction. After all, getting in a shot against the league’s most notorious trash-talker was no small feat—maybe it would even make the news if he told a reporter after the game.

“Yeah, our country’s basketball is terrible. We lose every time we play the U.S.—except for that one time. And that one just happened to be when you were leading the team,” He Xinghui grinned.

This was a little-known tidbit He Xinghui had discovered when looking up Dixon’s history. In the 2001 World University Games, Dixon’s team lost to China by a single point.

Granted, the U.S. hadn’t sent their strongest squad. But a loss was a loss—any explanation sounded like an excuse.

Dixon wanted to slap himself. Why had he bothered to reply to He Xinghui? He’d lost plenty of games, but no one had ever mocked him—except for that loss to basketball-backwater China, which made him a laughingstock among his peers for a long time. Some even used it as evidence that he was a toxic, useless player.

“Today, you’re going to get torched by a Chinese player again. Feeling nervous?” He Xinghui kept chirping even after the Clippers had finished their possession.

Thoroughly provoked, Dixon’s anger meter shot up.

“Stay calm, stay calm. I have to follow the coach’s orders—ignore this guy, pretend he’s just talking nonsense,” Dixon recited silently to himself, unaware that this was already proof he’d been rattled.

Fortunately, it was the Blazers’ turn to attack, and He Xinghui was back in front of Patterson. Seeing this, Dixon felt a strange sense of relief. Not having to guard He Xinghui was a breath of fresh air. As far as Patterson was concerned, Dixon had no sympathy—the motto “Better you than me” was one he understood well.

Meanwhile, Patterson was deeply frustrated. He Xinghui was like a persistent fly, buzzing incessantly in his ear, driving him mad.

In truth, He Xinghui was holding back, steering clear of Patterson’s true sore spots. After all, the league had rules: trash talk couldn’t involve players’ families, racial slurs, and the like.

He Xinghui knew that Patterson’s father had been imprisoned while Patterson was young, and he’d been raised by his mother. When his mother died of heart disease, Patterson happened to be playing an away game and refused to return home. Such behavior was… well…

If he were allowed to bring that up, He Xinghui was sure three sentences would be enough to make Patterson take a swing at him—and not just a light one.

Still, one should always leave some room for mercy. He Xinghui decided not to mention those things.