Chapter Ninety-Seven: The Remarkable Power of Trash Talk

Feigning temper? Don’t make me laugh.

He Xinghui’s mental age was already in his thirties. How could he possibly be sent into such a strong emotional swing by a single line from James Jones?

Everything he did was nothing more than baiting his opponent into taking the hook.

While Jones was still naively thinking he could pick up an easy advantage, He Xinghui suddenly burst forward and intercepted Nash’s pass.

“I—”

Before Jones could even finish cursing, He Xinghui was off and running with the ball.

Had he not improved his dribbling, he would never have been able to control the ball while sprinting at full speed.

But now, he just barely managed it.

The Suns, a team known for their fast breaks, somehow had no one getting back in time.

They were probably all stunned by He Xinghui’s shamelessness.

Weren’t we supposed to be leaving him unguarded?

And you still call yourself a superstar? Do you have any shame?

Jones chased after him for a few steps, but once he realized there was no hope, he gave up.

Just as everyone in the crowd thought they were about to see another spectacular dunk, He Xinghui finished with an utterly ordinary layup, stunning countless people.

What a joke. Even the cheapest dunk prop cost fifty rage points.

One dunk per game was enough. He Xinghui was not going to waste points recklessly.

As for the crowd’s confusion, that was easy enough to handle.

He Xinghui spread his hands and wore an expression so obnoxious it practically begged for a beating as he said, “If no one’s going to stop me, then I can’t even work up the desire to dunk.”

It was as irritating as it sounded.

For Jones, it was even worse. He thought He Xinghui was mocking him for being afraid of becoming a backdrop.

But the truth was that he had been fooled by He Xinghui’s shamelessness.

Unable to endure it any longer, Jones charged up and shoved He Xinghui hard.

Even if it cost him a suspension, he was going to fight He Xinghui and vent his anger.

But he was far too naive.

He Xinghui did not fight back at all. Instead, he fell with the momentum and slid nearly a couple of meters across the floor, as though he had been hit by a car.

Beep.

The referee’s whistle shrilled, and the official hurried over to Jones, keeping the Clippers’ players from coming into contact with him.

Flagrant foul, level one. The referee was decisive.

On the sideline, D’Antoni stared at the whole scene in utter disbelief, as though ten thousand horses were thundering through his mind.

He had just checked in and done nothing, yet they had already lost one turnover and earned a flagrant foul.

It was absurd beyond belief.

If there hadn’t been so many cameras broadcasting live, he really would have wanted to storm over, grab Jones by the ear, and shout at him for not listening to a single word he had said.

Before the game, he had repeated over and over: do not respond, do not respond, do not respond to He Xinghui’s trash talk.

And yet not one of them had taken it to heart.

Although D’Antoni was practically dying to slap Jones, he still defended him publicly and protested to the referee.

“You didn’t hear that guy yapping nonstop? He also—”

“He also what? Mike, the league doesn’t ban trash talk. It’s part of the game. If your players can’t stay focused, then they don’t deserve to be in this league.”

Dunleavy shot back.

At that, D’Antoni nearly exploded. What did he mean, my players can’t stay focused?

If He Xinghui weren’t yapping, would my guys have been distracted?

“You’re insulting the game. Basketball should not be played like this,” D’Antoni said angrily.

That was all he could really attack from a moral standpoint. After all, the league did not forbid trash talk.

...

Let’s rewind a bit.

TNT.

The instant He Xinghui gave up on defense, Barkley shouted in the broadcast booth, “Watch out, don’t fall for it. There’s no way this guy is that innocent!”

“Relax, Charles. Jones can’t even hear you,” Smith said.

Before he had even finished speaking, He Xinghui had already completed the steal.

“Shit, see? Didn’t I tell you? Damn it, this guy is definitely going to pull some flashy dunk again.”

No sooner had Barkley said it than He Xinghui finished with a simple layup.

The slap to the face came so fast Barkley never saw it coming.

Smith beside him was already laughing himself silly.

And at that moment, the sideline translator reported, “He said that since no one stopped him, he couldn’t get motivated to dunk.”

Shit, this guy was still showing off after all, just in a different form.

Barkley cursed inwardly, railing at He Xinghui for playing dirty and pulling a sneak attack.

He hadn’t even finished cursing when a confrontation broke out on the court, and Barkley’s eyes lit up.

If He Xinghui could get a beating, then he would have something to mock him with.

Thinking of that, Barkley even wanted to dance in the booth to celebrate.

Unfortunately, He Xinghui went down too quickly. Jones was left confused too, not even sure whether he should chase after him and throw a punch.

That brief delay was enough for the Clippers’ players and the refs to rush in.

He Xinghui escaped disaster, and Barkley was deeply disappointed.

“Maybe we really need to reconsider the role of trash talk. Look at this—He’s trash talk just disabled two Suns players. And honestly, we can’t blame Jones and Bell too much either. In that situation, if it were me, I’d probably lose my temper too.”

Smith offered his take.

“I think the league should ban trash talk. The game ought to be cleaner,” Barkley said.

“Go to hell, Charles. You just want to teach He a lesson. Don’t talk to me about ‘cleaner.’ When you were playing, I never heard you demanding a ban on trash talk or celebrations,” Smith shot back.

That hurt Barkley, because in truth, he did just want to see He Xinghui suffer a little.

Then he could have a chance to ridicule him.

In front of their televisions, some fans were also debating whether trash talk should be banned.

Aside from a few anti-He supporters, most of his fans and ordinary viewers did not want a ban.

The attempt to target He Xinghui was just too obvious, too excessive.

Another reason was that without trash talk, the game would lose some of its fun.

To many viewers, He Xinghui’s trash talk was genuinely entertaining.

On the court, the chaos had ended.

He Xinghui had finished his free throws, making one of two.

At the same time, the Clippers retained possession.

That sequence of events had given the Clippers a huge bargain.

Play resumed, and D’Antoni took Jones out, replacing him with Dion Thompson, a swingman and second-round pick from 2005.

He had no choice. He simply did not have anyone else available.

“Go on out there. He’s just a rookie from your draft class, and you were picked ahead of him,” D’Antoni said, patting Thompson on the shoulder in an attempt to encourage him.

But Thompson suspected the coach was trash talking him.

Otherwise, why bring up draft position? Why compare him to He Xinghui at all? Wasn’t that reopening a wound?

Could a man who averaged less than three points a game really be compared to someone on a ninety-five-million-dollar contract?

With nerves churning in his stomach, Dion Thompson stepped onto the court and came face to face with He Xinghui.

Then he saw He Xinghui smiling at him.

It was an utterly strange smile, neither mocking nor friendly, just eerie in a way that made one’s scalp crawl.

That alone would have been bad enough, but then he saw He Xinghui walking toward him.

“D-don’t come any closer,” Thompson screamed inwardly.