Chapter Forty-Eight: Barkley in Women's Attire

The Lakers' starting lineup: point guard Smush Parker, shooting guard Kobe, small forward Odom, power forward Cook, center Mihm. The Heat's starting five: point guard Jason Williams, shooting guard Wade, small forward Posey, power forward Haslem, center O'Neal, with Payton coming off the bench.

On paper, the Lakers' starters weren't inferior to the Heat's.

However, the Heat's bench depth far surpassed that of the Lakers—Payton, Antoine Walker, and Mourning had all enjoyed their days of glory.

"Barkley, I heard you like donkey butts—sorry, I mean you like betting. So, how about we make a wager before the game starts?" He Xinghui suggested.

When did I ever say I liked donkey butts? Barkley fumed inwardly, but then a sly grin spread across his face. "OK, let's bet on which team wins tonight. I pick the Heat."

The Heat were clearly the stronger team. Barkley wanted to win this one, and ideally, have He Xinghui kiss a donkey’s behind too—then he wouldn’t be alone.

What a crafty flying pig, He Xinghui thought to himself. He remembered this game well—not only that the Heat had won, but also that Kobe had scored either 36 or 37 points.

He wasn’t about to agree to a bet he was sure to lose.

So he said, "Guessing the winner is too boring. Why don't we wager on Kobe's point total? Whoever's guess is closest wins. The loser has to wear a dress and livestream a game. What do you say?"

"Holy—now that's a bet I like," Smith guffawed. Whether it was He Xinghui or Barkley in a dress, he was all for it—this was the joy of being a spectator.

"Don’t be too happy, Kenny. You’re in, too," He Xinghui said.

"No, no, no," Smith protested. This wasn’t a grown-up game he wanted any part of.

"Well, Charles, don't tell me you're scared," He Xinghui egged him on.

"Shit, I'm in! The great Barkley fears nothing. And Kenny, you’re not getting out of this—you’re in, too," Barkley relented, unable to resist the provocation, and dragged Smith along. With three people, the odds of losing dropped to 33%.

"I guess Kobe scores 36," He Xinghui picked a number.

"You’re doomed, no way the Heat let him get that much. I say 28," Barkley laughed.

Kobe's scoring explosions wouldn’t begin until January of 2006; right now, he was averaging under 30 points per game. So Barkley figured 36 was way too high.

"I’ll take 32," Smith said smartly, picking a number right in the middle. This way, if Kobe scored less than 30, He Xinghui would lose; more than 34, Barkley would lose; between 30 and 34, Smith would win.

Barkley, gleeful at the prospect of He Xinghui losing, didn’t notice this nuance. He Xinghui did, but didn’t care—he just wanted Barkley to lose.

The thought of Barkley streaming a game in a dress—now that was something to look forward to...

Fans watching at home were doubled over with laughter. Whether it was Barkley or He Xinghui in a dress, it was bound to be entertaining.

Some impatient fans didn’t care about the game anymore; they just wanted it to end and see who would lose the bet.

A cross-dressing host—what could be better than the game itself?

"I'm rooting for Barkley—36 is way too high."

"No, Kobe can do it! Remember when he dropped 62 in three quarters?"

Debate broke out among the fans.

With all eyes on them, the Lakers-Heat game tipped off.

Right from the start, Kobe was on fire—two shots, two makes.

"Beautiful!"

"Shit!"

He Xinghui and Barkley spoke in unison.

He Xinghui needed Kobe to score big; Barkley needed him to keep it low. Each Kobe basket made one man happy and the other annoyed.

"Come on, even Charles could make that shot. Kobe, you bum!" When Kobe missed his third shot, He Xinghui taunted mercilessly.

Although Barkley was happy at first to see Kobe miss, hearing He Xinghui’s barb made him pause. Something felt off...

After a few moments, he realized—what do you mean, ‘even Charles could make it’? As if I’m washed up!

"Ref! Ref! How is that not a shooting foul?" When Kobe was fouled but didn’t get free throws, He Xinghui started making a scene.

He might have been talking nonsense, but fans at home were loving every minute. They’d seen enough straight-laced commentary to last a lifetime—every channel was the same, emotionless and dull. This, though, was fresh and fun.

"He, you can’t just call fouls for your own bet. That was a regular foul," Smith retorted.

"Alright, I got carried away," He Xinghui admitted.

He hadn’t finished speaking before Kobe drew a shooting foul.

"Shit, how is that a foul? That was normal contact!" Now it was Barkley’s turn to get worked up.

Smith just watched these two clowns, utterly speechless. This was supposed to be a live game broadcast—could they please act a little more professional?

"Make it, make it, make it..."

"No, no, no..."

Every time Kobe stepped to the line, He Xinghui and Barkley started chanting, sounding more like stock traders than commentators.

To make matters even more absurd, He Xinghui spontaneously broke into a rap:

He Xinghui: "Make it, make it, make it."

Barkley: "No, no, no!"

He Xinghui started dancing: "Ole ole ole, Barkley talks a lot of gas, when Kobe scores you get mad so fast..."

Barkley was out of his depth—he couldn’t improvise lyrics on the spot.

So he suddenly straightened up and said, "Stop, stop—we’re on live TV, not your concert. Can we be serious, please?"

Smith was already facepalming. With He Xinghui in the mix, the broadcast had taken on a life of its own.

This wasn’t commentary anymore—it was a talk show.

He wasn’t sure if this change was good or bad, but with no word from the producers, he had no choice but to go on.

"Pass the ball to Kobe, pass it to Kobe! Damn it, Parker is useless. The Lakers are behind—they need to let Kobe take over, draw the double team, then kick out to the open man..." He Xinghui, who’d been clowning around, suddenly launched into a legitimate tactical analysis, the sudden shift in tone shocking countless fans.

"No, they should let the role players find their rhythm. If Kobe shoots too much, the Lakers can’t win," Barkley disagreed.

"Please, Charles, don’t shout—Phil’s not going to hear your advice all the way from Miami," He Xinghui quipped.

"Screw you! Just now you were shouting even louder!" Barkley shot back.

"See? See? He’s getting worked up," He Xinghui said to Smith, putting on the air of a grown-up indulging a child.