Chapter Forty-Nine: I Will Kill You

At the end of the first quarter, Kobe had made 5 of 10 shots and 6 of 8 free throws, racking up 16 points. Barkley glanced at the stats and contributed a meme-worthy, utterly defeated expression for the fans watching at home.

“Sixteen in one quarter, sixty-four in four. What do you think, Kenny? My math isn’t too shabby, right?” He Xinghui couldn’t help but gloat.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Kobe’s stamina is dropping. There’s no way he can keep up this shooting volume and touch,” Barkley retorted stubbornly, though a flicker of worry passed through him. If Kobe scored just sixteen more, he’d lose the bet.

Fortunately, in the second quarter, Kobe’s shooting cooled off exactly as Barkley predicted.

“He missed that? Kupchak might as well trade him now,” He Xinghui quipped after Kobe bricked two jumpers in a row.

“Great job, Gary!” Barkley praised Payton’s defense, unable to hide his excitement. At this point, anyone who could stop Kobe from scoring instantly became his favorite player.

“Gary’s smart—he chose a team that can actually win a championship. Not like certain people who tried to hitch a ride on the wrong coattails,” He Xinghui jabbed, poking fun.

Back in the day, Barkley had left the Suns to chase a championship with the Rockets and Olajuwon, only to find the Dream’s best days were behind him.

“Keep talking like that and you’ll get decked, He,” Barkley warned, flexing his iron fist.

“Alright, let’s drop the coattail talk for today. Let’s discuss how to judge a player’s real value. Kenny’s career stats were modest, but he helped win two championships. Meanwhile, some players put up nice numbers but, after joining a contender, can’t even reach the Finals. Kenny, would you call that kind of player a cancer in the locker room?” He Xinghui asked Smith.

Smith had averaged 10 points a game between ’93 and ’95, helping the Rockets to two championships. Barkley joined the Rockets in ’96, fresh off averaging 23 points and 11 rebounds a game with the Suns. It was easy for casual fans to brand Barkley as an empty-stats player, or worse.

“Hahaha, I wouldn’t know. Better ask Charles about that one,” Smith laughed heartily.

“I’m going to kill you.” Barkley, live broadcast be damned, lunged and mock-choked He Xinghui, the scene turning downright farcical.

“Kenny, after tonight you should get life insurance and demand a raise. Working with someone who flies off the handle this easily is just too dangerous,” He Xinghui quipped after being released, still unrepentant.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Smith agreed, still laughing.

“Alright, I propose we stick to the game from here on out, nothing else. Deal?” Barkley had to draw a line.

“Fine, no more championship talk tonight,” He Xinghui relented.

Bang! Barkley slapped the table. “I, Charles Barkley, am officially putting out a bounty to the entire league: anyone who beats him up on the court gets a hundred grand from me.”

“What if I punch myself? If that counts, I could make you bankrupt,” He Xinghui grinned.

“Get lost,” Barkley shot back.

As the banter continued, the Lakers and Heat game moved into the second half. Kobe’s shooting woes persisted in the third quarter, but he kept firing, so his point total kept climbing. On his second trip to the line, he reached 31 points. One more made free throw would tie Barkley’s bet with He Xinghui; two makes, and Barkley would lose outright.

“Miss it, miss it, please miss…” Barkley prayed, nearly in tears.

“Charles, you’re tempting fate with Lakers fans. I can say what I want—I’m just here for one game. But you’re a professional commentator,” He Xinghui teased.

The remark nearly brought Barkley to tears; he’d gotten so swept up in the bet, he’d forgotten he wasn’t supposed to root too openly. Yet here he was, caught on live TV, praying for Kobe to miss a free throw. Some humorless fans might never forgive him.

On the court, Kobe hit the first. Then bricked the second. Barkley could finally breathe.

“Charles, you look way too relieved. Do you honestly think Kobe will go scoreless in the fourth? Or are you secretly hoping he gets hurt and can’t play?” He Xinghui prodded.

“Nonsense! Not me! Don’t put words in my mouth!” Barkley retorted, shaking his head in frantic denial.

In the fourth quarter, Kobe sank his third shot, bringing his total to 34 and sealing Barkley’s defeat. Barkley slumped over the desk, utterly crushed.

This was the second time he’d lost a bet to a Chinese man—first over the donkey incident, now over the cross-dressing wager.

His reputation, built over a lifetime, was now in tatters.

Smith was howling with laughter, while He Xinghui tried to console Barkley: “Don’t be down, Charles. I know a great women’s boutique—I’ll make sure they do you up right. You’ll be stunning on camera.”

The game ended with Miami edging out the Lakers 97 to 92, but the gameplay itself was an eyesore. The much-hyped Shaq-Kobe grudge match fell flat: one took 20 shots for 18 points, the other 39 shots for 37 points. The so-called stars put on a cringeworthy performance. Gary Payton, meanwhile, stole the show with 21 points on 9-of-11 shooting.

All in all, it was a flop for the league and a letdown for fans—except maybe those tuning in on TNT. They didn’t get a great game, but they got a great show. Throughout the broadcast, Barkley was mercilessly trolled by He Xinghui—entertainment gold.

What, after all, is more fun than watching someone else’s misfortune? The most popular videos are always those “fail compilations”—people just love that stuff.

And to top it off, Barkley would have to cross-dress on the next broadcast.

Once the show ended, everyone at TNT—everyone except Barkley—was beaming. Ratings had shattered records; there was much to celebrate.

“He, you’re a natural. You belong here in the booth,” GM Steve said, welcoming their MVP of the night.

“No thanks. I’m still chasing a championship. Only people without rings end up in commentary,” He Xinghui shot back.

Barkley responded with a playful wrestling move, pinning He Xinghui to the ground. He was careful, obviously joking—if he actually hurt He Xinghui, the Clippers’ management and fans would have his head.

Barkley shouted, “I’ll give you one more chance to rephrase that.”

“I’m doomed, I’m doomed! Mom, you don’t have to worry about my grades anymore!” He Xinghui cried out in mock terror.

Laughter erupted around the TNT set; some staff were clutching their stomachs, others seized the chance to record the scene on their phones and cameras.

These were, after all, precious outtakes—footage that would be worth a fortune if He Xinghui ever became a superstar.