Chapter 77: The Youngest Man to Score 50 Points

TNT.

Barkley had just claimed that Xinghui He was running out of energy, when He unleashed a powerful move, splitting the defense as if he were cleaving a mountain in two.

The well-trained Smith broke into laughter again. “Charles, you call that being out of gas?”

“Oh, look! Two fans are fighting!” Barkley exclaimed.

“Charles, Charles, you can’t just change the subject—” Smith hadn’t finished when the broadcast director switched the camera. On screen, two fans were throwing punches at each other, forcing the game to a halt. Security quickly moved into the stands to regain control.

Thus, Barkley managed to dodge another bout of embarrassment.

In the end, both fans were escorted out and the game resumed.

“He and Kobe have gone absolutely berserk…”

“Charles, didn’t you just say our cousin was running out of steam?” Smith wouldn’t let him off the hook.

“…”

Barkley suddenly felt he didn’t want to commentate on He’s games anymore. This guy was just too unpredictable—impossible to forecast. Even with his thick skin, getting slapped in the face this often was getting awkward.

On the court, Kobe hit another mid-range jumper.

41 to 42. He was still down by one.

The Clippers took possession. Xinghui He dribbled, eyeing Kobe’s focused expression, and suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for him.

Because he knew, sooner or later, this man would be left in his wake; perhaps the next two championships would slip through his fingers, and his career achievements would fall far short of their original timeline.

Someone who worked this hard, yet could never claim the victory he wanted.

It had to be said: effort is merely a ticket to the show.

Their eyes met. Courtside photographers captured the moment—a photograph destined to become a classic, widely circulated in years to come.

In their gazes, one could see their burning desire for victory.

He feinted a drive, but instead stepped back to launch a three-pointer.

Kobe wasn’t fooled; he already knew driving wasn’t He’s strong suit.

But recognizing the move didn’t necessarily mean he could stop it.

Thanks to his supernatural talents, He sank the shot.

He ran to the sideline, shouting, “Who the hell is the true king of Los Angeles?”

He said it with perfect composure, not a trace of embarrassment.

Cheating is only cheating if you get caught—if no one notices, can it really be called cheating?

“Big Cousin! Big Cousin! MVP! MVP!” His fans howled in delight, especially loving He’s willingness to interact with them—their passion was easily ignited.

Amid the cheers, there were plenty of boos too.

Kobe’s fans went so far as to flip the bird and make all kinds of obscene gestures.

But He ignored it all.

In response, Kobe drove past He, stormed the rim, forced a foul on Kaman, and—luckily—watched the ball bounce into the net.

Kobe’s luck was with him tonight.

He swung his elbows in celebration, but compared to He’s antics, it seemed a bit subdued—a little lacking in swagger.

Kobe’s fans might have disapproved of He’s flamboyant interactions with his supporters, but secretly, they wished Kobe would do the same.

Unfortunately, Kobe wasn’t that kind of superstar.

He sank his free throw. Clippers’ possession.

The ball went right back to He. At this point, it seemed the Clippers had given up; they’d just let He go wild.

And that, honestly, was what the crowd wanted too.

He drove, but Odom, quick as lightning, stole the ball.

The pass went to Kobe, who charged down the court and delivered a dunk worthy of the contest itself.

He landed and tugged at his jersey in excitement, tearing it apart—the force he used was clear for all to see.

Once again, chants of “MVP!” thundered through the arena—this time, from Kobe’s fans.

Watching Kobe change shirts courtside, He muttered, “Those two points came courtesy of Odom—do they even count?”

At that, Kaman and the others discreetly edged away from He, worried someone might notice their association with him.

He always relied on his teammates the most, yet here he was mocking Kobe for doing the same.

Kaman and his teammates finally understood one thing: Shamelessness is invincibility.

With play resumed, He and Kobe continued their shootout, trading miss after miss, yet piling up the points.

They perfectly demonstrated that as long as you take enough shots, you don’t need to worry about your scoring total.

With another attempt, He hit the 50-point mark.

“Congratulations to our Big Cousin for becoming the youngest player ever to score 50 points! At just 19 years and 37 days old, he surpasses LeBron’s record of 20 years and 49 days—simply unimaginable. Charles, what were you doing at 19?” Smith grinned.

Barkley was at a loss for words. At 19, he was still muddling through college—and even then, he’d never scored 50.

“That kind of scoring doesn’t mean much. His teammates are just handing him every shot,” Barkley scoffed.

“Then why didn’t your teammates do the same for you when you played?” Smith shot back.

“…”

Barkley fell silent.

The game paused to honor He’s record-breaking feat. The jumbotron flashed the title: “Youngest 50-Point Scorer.”

His fans erupted in wild celebration, already regretting not having prepared “50-Point” banners in advance.

But who could blame them? Before the game, no one anticipated He would explode like this.

On the court, He stood next to Smush Parker and asked with a smile, “What were you doing at 19?”

Parker could only walk away in silence—some topics were best left unspoken.

The game continued.

The lead changed hands again and again; no one could put the other away in a single blow. Suspense hung over the entire match.

The chorus of boos and MVP chants never ceased, as the crowd’s emotions rode the wild swings of the contest.

With one minute left, it was impossible to find a seated fan—everyone was on their feet.

Even the front-row celebrities had risen, awaiting the final showdown.

With one minute remaining, the Lakers trailed the Clippers by one: 116 to 117.

Kobe had 59 points, He had 60—a one-point difference.

The Lakers had the ball. Everyone knew the shot would be Kobe’s; not even Phil Jackson with a machine gun could change his mind.

But the Clippers didn’t send a double-team. With the game turned into this kind of duel, the result had lost some of its importance.

To disrupt the battle between Kobe and He would be a crime against basketball—fans would curse them for a lifetime.

The other eight players on the floor looked like they’d rather be in the stands, fighting over a bag of chips, content to be spectators to history.

Kobe initiated the play, failing to get past his defender, so he posted up.

Spin, fadeaway, shot.

He had seen this coming, prepared for it, and leapt at just the right moment.

With his incredible wingspan, he actually got a hand on the ball—blocking Kobe’s shot.

Overcome with excitement, He raised his index finger, ready to do his best Dikembe Mutombo impression.

But as soon as the finger went up, he remembered he’d already been called for a technical.

One more and he’d be ejected.

Damn, what to do? Suggestions needed, urgently!