Chapter Thirty-Two: Battle with Paul

The game began, with the Clippers starting Mobley, He Xinghui, Maggette, Brand, and Kaman. Cassell, who was certainly strong enough to start, once again found himself relegated to the bench, forced into the sixth man role. Cassell was helpless about this—after all, his position overlapped with He Xinghui’s. As a veteran, though, Cassell took it in stride and showed no sign of discontent.

The Hornets' starting lineup featured Chris Paul, Desmond Mason, Kirk Snyder, David West, and P.J. Brown. An interesting aspect of the Hornets' roster at this time was their abundance of future CBA imports: Snyder, along with reserves Brandon Bass and Jackson Vroman, would all go on to play in China's CBA.

Teammates of LeBron in the CBA? No, it was Paul who truly led a pack of future CBA players.

At the opening tip, the aging Brown miraculously beat Kaman for possession. Dedication and an unwillingness to lose—these were the hallmarks of P.J. Brown’s generation.

Paul brought the ball up, while Mason tangled with He Xinghui. Mason was desperate for an excuse to pick a fight with He Xinghui: to make a name for himself and to vent his frustrations. This, in fact, was why he drifted from team to team in the league—he just wasn’t very bright.

He Xinghui had a reputation for stirring things up too, but he always knew when to draw the line, scrupulously avoiding actual physical confrontations.

“You think a bum like you deserves ninety-five million?” Mason spat.

He Xinghui hadn’t even begun to talk trash, yet someone else beat him to it. He found it rather amusing, and responded lightly, “Of course a bum like me doesn’t deserve it, but Reebok insisted on giving it to me. What could I do? I couldn’t exactly turn it down.”

“But you, a slam dunk champion, and yet no company throws money at you? Those companies are just too blind.”

On the surface, He Xinghui was speaking up for Mason, but in truth, every word was a jab straight at Mason’s pride. Mason was jealous precisely because he felt He Xinghui didn’t deserve the contract. If it had been Jordan raking in so much, Mason would have accepted it without complaint. Now, He Xinghui frankly admitted he was cashing in by sheer luck, which only deepened Mason’s sense of the league’s unfairness.

Why? Why is it like this? This isn’t fair at all. Mason howled inwardly.

“At least you know your place—you know you’re a bum,” Mason shot back.

Alas, such weak trash talk had no effect on He Xinghui. Mocking a loser for being a loser only angers losers. Mocking a king in that way? A king will only look back at you with pity.

With the system protecting him, He Xinghui knew he was a king; so when Mason called him a bum, he only responded with the gentle condescension one reserves for the slow-witted.

“Yes, it’s really awkward to make so much money for nothing. It’s better to be like you, always admired for doing so much on such a modest salary.”

He Xinghui seemed to be complimenting Mason, but was really just reminding him that his earnings didn’t match his supposed talent. That only made Mason more frustrated. Worse still, Mason found himself unable to vent that frustration on He Xinghui, since, on the surface at least, He Xinghui had done nothing but praise him.

While Mason and He Xinghui exchanged polite barbs, Paul passed the ball to West, who drained a midrange jumper over Brand.

Both West and Brand stood at six-foot-nine, and Brand had the longer wingspan. On paper, Brand should have had the edge over West. But that only matters in the aggregate—if Brand and West played each other a hundred times, Brand might win sixty, but that doesn’t mean West would always lose on a given night. The court is full of variables, and tonight, Brand was in mediocre form.

The Clippers went on offense. Mobley passed to He Xinghui, whose shot was sent off target by Mason’s rough slap. Worse, the referee didn’t call a foul. In this era, such things were common; some players could finish a game with their arms red and swollen from hits, and never draw a whistle.

He Xinghui was angry, but he couldn’t vent his rage at Mason. Different people called for different strategies. Against a smart guy like Payton, you had to keep your trash talk sophisticated. With a dimmer type like Antoine Walker, you had to be cruder, or he wouldn’t get it. Against someone with a mild temper like Hamilton, you could go all out. But with a brawler like Mason, always looking for a fight, you had to be more indirect.

“Paul on your team is really out of line—a rookie refusing to pass to you!” He Xinghui said. On the surface, he was sticking up for Mason, but in reality, he was picking at an old wound.

Before the season, Mason had assumed Paul, as a rookie, would show respect to his veteran teammates by passing them the ball. But with the support of management and the coaches, Paul played his own way, and Mason, with his sub-forty percent shooting, became the odd man out. The sting of that rejection was a pain Mason tried hard to avoid thinking about, but He Xinghui had just brought it up.

Perhaps wanting to prove himself, Mason called for the ball. But this time, Paul saw an opening and, seeking the most efficient way to score, ignored Mason’s request and drove past Mobley for a midrange jumper—two points. In that moment, the darkness in Mason’s heart grew boundless. Now he wanted not just to fight He Xinghui, but Paul as well.

The Clippers attacked. Brand posted up, but his shot rimmed out. Back the other way, West scored again—6-0, Hornets, all momentum on their side.

The Clippers tried again. He Xinghui ran the play the coach had called, sticking to fundamentals since he had no props to rely on. He cut toward the elbow, Mason trailing, but Maggette’s screen freed him for just half a second. The ball arrived instantly. He Xinghui rose and drilled a three-pointer, breaking the drought.

He smiled, pleased with the shot—this was pure skill, proof that even without outside help, he could carve out a place in the league.

He Xinghui put the Clippers on the board, while Mason’s face turned grim. Though he couldn’t be held fully responsible for that basket, he knew the armchair fans who only looked at box scores wouldn’t see it that way. They would just compare the two players at the same position and conclude that he’d been torched by a rookie.

Determined not to let his stats look so bad, Mason called for the ball again. Paul saw the anger in his face, so this time he relented and passed it to Mason.

Mason used his strength to bump He Xinghui aside and blew past him, but only managed a couple of steps before meeting Kaman and Brand guarding the paint. Forced to pull up for a midrange jumper, he missed badly.

He couldn’t bulldoze his way to the rim like LeBron, nor could he shoot with the precision of Allan Houston. His role was as awkward as ever.