Chapter Fifty-Two: Battle Against the Celts

December 31st, the very last day of 2005.

On this day, the Clippers’ home game against the Celtics drew immense attention.

TNT would be broadcasting the game live, and Charles Barkley was set to appear in women’s attire during the broadcast.

An unexpected year-end surprise—quite a treat for the fans.

Of course, the game’s appeal didn’t rest solely on Barkley’s flamboyant performance.

The question of Xinghui He hitting the rookie wall was also brought up before the match.

A little-known basketball commentator named Barbos published a lengthy article, claiming that Xinghui He had already encountered the rookie wall and that his performance would soon nosedive.

Barbos declared that He’s earlier achievements were mere flashes in the pan, and that by the end of the season, his average points per game would dip below ten.

Such exaggerated and outrageous opinions instantly captured the attention of the fans.

Those who disliked Xinghui He readily agreed with Barbos, offering arguments from every conceivable angle.

Meanwhile, Xinghui’s supporters launched a barrage of criticism at Barbos, accusing him of sensationalism.

The heated debate between both sides only drove up interest in the game.

Whether Xinghui He had truly hit the rookie wall would ultimately be determined by his performance on the court.

Before the game, as he entered the arena, Xinghui He was ambushed by Lucy.

“Hey, Lucy. Hi, camera guy,” Xinghui He greeted, as Lucy and her dedicated cameraman suddenly appeared.

“Come on, I have a name, you know. And I’ve told you what it is,” the cameraman grumbled, clearly annoyed by the generic title. It made him feel like nothing more than a nameless extra.

“Shut up. No one cares what your name is—just do your job. I’m starting the interview,” Lucy retorted.

Her words nearly drove the cameraman to toss his equipment and quit on the spot—such an insult to his dignity.

Some things are better left unspoken; why stab at a man’s pride?

He merely sighed inwardly, lifted the camera, and—with a gloomy expression—prepared to film.

At that moment, Xinghui He’s phone rang.

Woo woo woo, five five five five…

[The prelude to “A Spray of Plum Blossoms.”]

The cameraman froze, lost in the moment.

For an instant, he seemed to see a vast green prairie, snowflakes drifting down, and a strange bliss welled up in his heart. It felt as if his soul had found its home, as if this background music was destined for him alone.

When Xinghui He finished his call, the cameraman couldn’t help but ask, “He, could you send me that ringtone? I love it—I want it to accompany me for the rest of my life.”

Um...

Xinghui He wanted to remind him that this BGM wasn’t something just anyone could handle.

Nevertheless, he decided to indulge this man whose name he still didn’t know.

The interview began.

“Xinghui, Barbos wrote in the paper that you’ve hit the rookie wall, and that you won’t even average double digits in scoring this season. What do you think?” Lucy asked.

“I think Barbos probably can’t afford his electricity bill. Anyone whose house has power and has actually watched the games wouldn’t say that,” Xinghui He replied.

Lucy broke into a smile. Interviewing Xinghui He was never dull—he always had something shocking or entertaining to say.

Most players, when confronted with outside criticism, would offer explanations or show disdain.

Only Xinghui He would openly mock his critics, showing no restraint at all.

It might seem a little silly, but it was genuine and down-to-earth—a palpable sense of reality.

Anyone insulted would probably want to curse; other players pretending to be magnanimous just seemed fake.

“I’ve heard the Pacers and Grizzlies are both trying to trade for you. Is that true?” Lucy continued.

Few people knew about this; she’d only heard through some inside connections.

She wanted to get confirmation—a scoop for the front page.

“It’s probably true. When you’re as outstanding as I am, which team wouldn’t want you? Which girl wouldn’t want you?” Xinghui He dodged the question.

Such shameless words made the cameraman want to smash his equipment over Xinghui He’s head.

“If it is true, would you be willing to go?” Lucy pressed.

“Whether I’m willing or not doesn’t really matter. Honestly, unless someone holds a gun to our owner’s head, he’s not going to trade me,” Xinghui He replied.

He dared to say this because Sterling had already assured him that more resources would be invested next year to build the team around him.

Unless the Cavaliers were offering LeBron, the Lakers offered Kobe, or the Suns offered Nash, there were few players in the league that Sterling would even consider.

After a few more questions, Xinghui He entered the arena.

Lucy lingered, replaying the interview in her mind, pondering how to craft her story.

The cameraman, after much inner struggle, finally mustered his courage. “Lucy, how about we grab a bite after work?” he asked.

“Huh? What did you say? I was thinking about Xinghui and didn’t catch that,” Lucy replied.

“I said… never mind,” the cameraman muttered, dejected.

“So timid. Forget it if you won’t say it. What do you think of my relationship with Xinghui? If I asked him out to dinner, would he accept?”

Lucy’s heart fluttered with uncertainty—she could only consult her colleague.

The cameraman was silent.

Woo woo woo...

[The BGM of “A Spray of Plum Blossoms” plays.]

In the Clippers’ locker room.

“It’s a shame we have to play and can’t watch the broadcast. What a pity,” Kaman sighed.

Players are people, too—they enjoy a bit of excitement.

“You should count yourself lucky. After seeing Barkley in women’s clothes, you’d need to see an eye doctor,” Xinghui He joked.

Laughter erupted all around.

In the visiting team’s locker room, Paul Pierce and his teammates were also chatting, but their focus was on the upcoming game.

“Ricky, that kid’s yours,” Pierce said, patting Ricky Davis on the shoulder.

“I’ll make sure he slams into that wall, hard,” Ricky Davis replied.

His confidence stemmed from Coach Rivers, who had just filled his head with a hearty dose of encouragement.

According to Rivers, Ricky Davis was the perfect counter to Xinghui He.

Xinghui He wasn’t strong, relied mainly on shooting, and lacked a driving game.

Ricky Davis, weighing in at eighty-eight kilos, only struggled with powerful, aggressive slashers.

But at two-point-oh-one meters tall, he could disrupt shooting guards’ shots quite effectively.

“Take him down,” the other players egged him on.

Though they hadn’t played the Clippers before, ever since Xinghui He landed a massive endorsement deal, the number of players who disliked him seemed to multiply overnight.

Those without the ability buried their resentment, while those with skill eagerly awaited their matchup with the Clippers, hoping to humiliate Xinghui He on the court.

Crushing a “hundred-million-dollar man”—now that was a story worth telling.