Chapter 53: Confronting Davis

China, CCTV.

“Hello, viewers. This is the Sports Channel of China Central Television. Up next, we will be broadcasting the NBA game between the Clippers and the Celtics…”

Sun Zhengping delivered the standard opening lines.

“Why watch the game? We want to see the TNT live studio.”

“Let’s watch the crossdressing Flying Pig first, then the game.”

“Hurry and show Barkley! Who watches the actual game anyway?”

Some basketball fans who followed NBA news were now shouting eagerly in front of their screens, as if their voices could reach Zhang Heli far away.

If this were a decade later, the screen would likely be flooded with live comments.

In 2006, China was just beginning to embrace the internet. Even a video of a line of sows falling into a ditch could spark immense interest, let alone a public figure dressed in women's clothing.

Before the likes of Sister Feng appeared, the art of “gaining attention by making a spectacle of oneself” was still a novelty in China.

Netizens had not yet been bombarded with all manner of bizarre news.

In this era, a crossdressing Barkley was more than enough to make students skip class just to sit in front of the TV.

As if reading the viewers’ minds, Zhang Heli and Sun Zhengping finally started talking about Barkley’s wager.

“Barkley is quite the character. He loves making bets. Last time he lost to Yao Ming, and now he’s lost to A-Xing,” Zhang Heli remarked, giving Barkley the persona of a gambling enthusiast.

“The American atmosphere is truly hard to describe. Soon, the broadcast will switch to the TNT studio, and we can witness American culture firsthand,” Sun Zhengping sighed.

Kissing a donkey’s backside, crossdressing live on air.

If it were him, he’d refuse to do such things at all costs, even if it meant giving up his job. He would never do something so disgusting.

Damn capitalism. People will do anything for money.

Then, the camera began to switch.

“Sit tight, hold on, an R-rated scene is coming up,” the fans joked with laughter.

TNT.

Barkley appeared, dressed in a custom-made pink dress.

Because of his physique, the dress ended up looking more like a wedding gown on him.

“Hahaha…” Smith pounded the table repeatedly. This was far more entertaining than watching Barkley kiss a donkey.

“Kenny, Kenny, you promised me you wouldn’t laugh. Please control your facial expression. You’re a professional broadcaster,” Barkley pleaded.

“Sorry, Charles, I’ve been trained to resist distractions. Normally, I never laugh—unless I just can’t help it,” Smith replied, grinning mischievously as he continued to snicker.

“Stop, stop, if you keep this up, I’m done,” Barkley protested, but his objections were ignored.

In front of their TVs, countless fans were already laughing uncontrollably.

“Oh my God, my eyes!”

“That’s blinding. Absolutely blinding.”

“Blinding? Why do I actually think he looks pretty good?”

Fans teased each other, and some even took out their cameras, trying to capture this rare moment.

Barkley in a dress was just a gimmick—the main event was still the game.

As Smith continued to poke fun at Barkley, the players on the court had already finished their introductions.

When He Xinghui stepped onto the court, he was again greeted by a wave of cheers from the fans.

A single lackluster performance wasn’t enough to test the patience of Xing’s fans.

The game began.

The Clippers’ starting lineup: Cassell, He Xinghui, McCarty, Brand, and Kaman.

Maggette remained sidelined with an injury. After the fringe player Quinton Ross’s poor showing last game, Dunleavy decided to give another fringe player a try.

Small forward was currently the Clippers’ weakest position; if Maggette was hurt, they had no one else to fill in.

The backcourt, on the other hand, was the Clippers’ strong suit. Cassell, He Xinghui, and Mobley all had the ability to start, and even their backup, Livingston, was solid.

Compared to the Clippers, the Celtics’ lineup looked underwhelming.

Point guard: Delonte West, an average player whose only specialty was courting the Queen Mother.

Shooting guard: Ricky Davis, whose stats looked decent but whose efficiency was abysmal—a classic stat-padder.

The only standout was small forward Paul Pierce.

This season, Paul Pierce was averaging 26.8 points, 6.7 rebounds, and 4.7 assists—a truly all-around performance.

Power forward: Al Jefferson, who would shine in the future but was still a rookie, easy to bully.

Blount, a center who barely averaged five rebounds per game.

The tip-off. Kaman outjumped the no-name, tipping the ball to He Xinghui. Immediately, Ricky Davis rushed up to pressure him, terrified that he’d open the game with another long bomb, like he did against the Rockets.

His defensive effort was commendable, but his actions foolish.

If He Xinghui could routinely shoot before crossing half court, there’d be no need to even play the game.

So, Davis’s hustle was pointless.

He Xinghui passed the ball to Cassell, making Davis’s sprint entirely unnecessary.

“Ricky, do you know something? I really admire you.”

Since he was here, he might as well trash talk.

“Really?” Davis’s eyes lit up, suddenly finding He Xinghui less annoying.

“Of course. There aren’t many players who can make the league change its rules just for them—just Chamberlain, O’Neal, and you.”

He Xinghui smiled.

Chamberlain and O’Neal forced rule changes because they were too dominant.

Davis, on the other hand, did it for shamelessness.

There were plenty of stat-padders in the league, but none like Davis, who would dribble to his own basket, shoot, and then grab his own rebound.

And he did it in front of countless spectators.

At these words, Davis immediately contributed a hundred points of rage to He Xinghui.

Clearly, this was a humiliating memory he’d rather forget.

“Trash talk doesn’t work on me,” Davis gritted out. He knew full well this was He Xinghui’s attempt to get under his skin.

After another possession, the two found themselves entangled once more.

“How is that trash talk? I really do admire your thick skin. Earning less than five million, and yet you have the number one draft pick assisting you.”

He Xinghui continued.

“You’re not LeBron—you have no right to mock me,” Davis snapped.

He’d done so many foolish things, he could hardly defend himself.

“My endorsement deal is two million more than LeBron’s. What about yours?” He Xinghui replied, chatting as if it were small talk, but each word was a calculated jab.

“Today, I’m going to destroy you and make Reebok regret their decision,” Davis declared, fired up—a scene he’d imagined before the game.

Oh, really?

He Xinghui smiled to himself.

He knew that just talking trash wouldn’t work for long, since Davis possessed a mysterious sense of self-confidence.

Only by humiliating Davis with his performance on the court could his trash talk have twice the effect.

To take Davis apart, which tool should he use?