The day after winning the Pete Newell Invitational, Texas Tech flew back to Lubbock.
There was still half a month before the Big 12 Conference Tournament began. They had a few tune-up games scheduled in the interim, but none carried much weight.
In fact, some players were beginning to realize that even winning the invitational championship hadn't amounted to much.
On the plane, Xu Ling's roommate, Roderick Craig, grumbled, "Why the hell did we sweat our guts out to win a fifty-thousand-dollar prize, only to end up with five hundred bucks each as a student stipend? How is that fair?"
The teammates around him chimed in, their faces plastered with indignation and confusion.
"Count your blessings, rookies!" Dora complained right along with them, but then threw a thick, muscular arm around Xu Ling's neck, grinning widely. "At least five hundred bucks is enough for us to tie one on at Twin Peaks! Eli, you're not even legal drinking age, right? Haha, don't worry, senior's treating you to juice!"
Choked by his grip, Xu Ling pried Dora's arm away with some effort. "Darryl, I suggest you save that money."
"Save it? Why?" Dora looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "Listen, Eli, when you reach my age—a senior!—you'll understand that the whole point of life is enjoying the moment! Practice, play the game, then grab a drink—that's college life! Just think of all those girls screaming for us!"
"Is that why you only pull down six rebounds a game when you're clearly capable of ten?" Xu Ling teased.
The grin froze instantly on Dora's face, contorting into an exaggerated grimace of agony. "Ouch! That hurt, bro! That stung worse than Coach Knight screaming in my ear!"
Yet he bounced right back into his happy-go-lucky mood, slapping Xu Ling hard on the back. "Though you've got a point. I really should save some cash—at least enough to buy a fresh pair of kicks, haha!"
Watching Dora's carefree grin, Xu Ling couldn't help but smile, too.
That was Darryl Dora. You could never stay truly mad at him, nor could you ever fire him up to give one hundred percent. He was like a sponge wrapped in raw talent, soaking up every ounce of pressure and casually wringing it out, forever enveloped in a blissful state of relaxation.
Meanwhile, the rest of the team continued venting over the prize money.
Because it wasn't a stipend at all. It was an outright handout.
Fifty thousand dollars was a life-changing windfall to college athletes pinching pennies for living expenses. It could cover tuition or ease the burden on their families; put to use anywhere, it would have thrilled them. Yet the vast majority of that money had vanished into thin air, swallowed by the cavernous, murky machinery of the NCAA.
The coaches and school administrators sat up in first class, bathing in the glory and acclaim of victory. They could brush things off with platitudes about "bringing honor to the university" or "pride over profit."
In reality, though, the contracts and paychecks in their hands were the only honors made of cold, hard cash.
They reaped massive fortunes off the sweat and toil of these young men—corporate sponsorships, television broadcast rights, ticket sales—and none of those figures had anything to do with the players. They were nothing more than the cheapest labor fueling the NCAA's sprawling commercial empire, scraping by on meager "stipends" while shoulder to shoulder bearing all the risk and strain of keeping the machine running.
Xu Ling wasn't privy to all the inner workings, but the facts were plain to see: fifty thousand dollars in prize money, divided into a five-hundred-dollar student stipend per player. What's more, the coaching staff made it unmistakably clear that this was dictated by NCAA regulations.
Under the rules, this was the absolute maximum the program could disburse. If the players genuinely wanted the prize money distributed based on their labor, they could have it—at the cost of forfeiting their college basketball careers on the spot, never to play for the team again.
Naturally, nobody was going to sacrifice their NCAA eligibility over a small sum like that.
Still, grumbling was inevitable.
After returning to Lubbock, Texas Tech welcomed back team captain Jarrius Jackson, whose grades were now in good standing, clearing him to return to the court.
For the Red Raiders, it was a much-needed shot in the arm.
"Where's our Michael Jordan?" Jackson asked, looking around for Xu Ling.
Roderick Craig replied, "Eli's running late today. He's doing an interview with the school paper."
"Must be nice being TTU's MJ," Jackson muttered, unable to conceal a trace of envy.
Basketball wasn't a powerhouse sport at TTU; or rather, basketball simply held its modest place in the pecking order.
Football was the true athletic pulse of TTU.
Every few years, Texas Tech sent players to the NFL, whereas the basketball program hadn't produced a legitimate NBA player in ages.
Unless they led the team to historic achievements, basketball players rarely drew the attention of the student newspaper.
Xu Ling had earned this spotlight not just by guiding the team to the Pete Newell Invitational title, but because the hype he had stirred during the tournament was continuing to ripple outward.
Since the mid-twentieth century, American media had tended to portray East Asians as the "model yet quiet" minority—rule-abiding, unobtrusive, reluctant to make waves, leaving onlookers unsure whether they were merely reserved or fundamentally timid. Bruce Lee had briefly shattered that stereotype, and his "be water" philosophy still echoed through history, but his life was cut short, leaving him unable to cement an enduring cultural legacy for Asians in the West.
Decades rolled by, and when Yao Ming entered the NBA bearing Wembanyama-level expectations, he proved exceptional, yet he never quite managed to rewrite the overarching narrative. His polished American humor and Eastern humility only served to coat the old stereotypes in a warmer, more agreeable patina. Then, just as Yao was approaching his athletic peak, another Chinese player boldly proclaimed he would become the modern-day Jordan—no buildup, no softening of the blow, dropping like a boulder into a calm lake.
Fans wondered: *Who the fuck is this guy?*
The media thought: *This kid's got some fucking nerve!*
And then, during the invitational that had just wrapped up, Xu Ling had proved he wasn't just talk—he had the game to back it up.
Fans were hungry to learn more about him but had no easy access, and the media's voracious appetite for traffic made it inevitable that they would ride the wave for all it was worth.
ESPN college basketball analyst Andy Katz jumped on the story immediately. Digging into Xu Ling's background, he was stunned to discover that this breakout star had actually played in the frontcourt before coming to the United States, yet possessed extraordinarily polished guard fundamentals.
In his feature on Xu Ling, Katz wrote: "We can say with near certainty that Eli will become Coach Knight's first NBA product out of TTU. If he continues to develop at this rate, his ceiling extends well beyond being just a first-round pick."
Draft insider Chad Ford, who had been the first to spot the buzz, refused to be outdone. In his signature Big Board ranking the top one hundred prospects, he placed Xu Ling at twenty-nine.
All of this turned Xu Ling into an overnight campus celebrity.
Professors grew far more lenient with him, classmates showered him with warmth, and female students in particular were more than eager to invite him over to their dorms to "fix" things.
Model student, ideal peer, and campus heartthrob—these unexpected perks did nothing to cloud Xu Ling's focus.
The moment he finished the school newspaper interview, he rushed straight back to Womble Gymnasium.
"Well, look who finally showed up—our superstar!" Knight barked the second Xu Ling walked through the doors. "I figured after winning MVP at the Pete Newell, you decided you were above our foolish practices!"
Xu Ling explained, "I just had to finish up with the school paper."
"You'd better hope that's all it was!" After their heart-to-heart the day before, Knight seemed to find Xu Ling even more grating. "Don't go thinking you're something special! Let me tell you, John Roberson has already committed to TTU! He's a better player than you! More responsible, and he'll do everything you can't! The kid is unbelievable!"
Xu Ling rolled his eyes. "Oh, really?"
Poor John Roberson had no idea that Knight had just laid a silent landmine in his path. The moment he set foot on campus, the veterans who had shared the floor with Xu Ling would mercilessly roast him: "John, you really do do everything Eli can't—you can't score, and you can't defend!"
Knight was infamous for tearing down players' pride and insulting their character to forge their mental toughness. In the past, he would seize on every mistake in practice to lay into them, though he had mellowed considerably since taking the job at TTU.
Xu Ling had rekindled Knight's urge to "be himself."
Yet to Knight's immense frustration, Xu Ling gave him nothing to work with.
No one inside Womble Gymnasium took practice more seriously than Xu Ling.
Whether it was conditioning drills or tactical walk-throughs, he executed every single rep with meticulous precision.
Something happened that day that captured his mindset perfectly. After team conditioning and tactical drills wrapped up and everyone else took a breather, Xu Ling dragged his fellow freshman Charlie Burgess into an extra marathon shooting session.
His reasoning was simple: physical and mental exhaustion was the truest test of muscle memory.
Burgess shot atrociously, while Xu Ling went 29-of-30 shooting at will from beyond the arc. And then, he decided to start the set completely over.
Because his goal was 30-of-30.
"Eli, you can shoot every single day. Missing one doesn't change anything," Burgess protested.
Xu Ling replied, "If I don't shoot it again, I'll be obsessing over that single miss. I need to drag my head out of that downward spiral."
Burgess stared at him, dumbfounded.
Xu Ling had spoken in English, but Burgess couldn't wrap his mind around the concept. He had no choice but to do as he was told.
Knight, who had arrived hoping to knock Xu Ling down a peg, fell completely silent after watching the workout.
Xu Ling was nothing like the kids he usually tested.
Hard as it was to believe, after months together, Knight had realized that Xu Ling possessed startling maturity. Why would a player this poised, disciplined, and ridiculously talented refuse to hone his craft in college like the legends before him?
Knight refused to confront the dark corner of his own heart.
It was his own selfishness.
He wanted one last chance, in the twilight of his career, to coach a player destined for greatness.
It was just another ordinary day for Texas Tech leading up to the Big 12 Tournament.
Over the next two weeks, aside from a few inconsequential exhibition games, what remained was the most grueling grind in college basketball—once the initial thrill and buzz faded, practice turned into sheer monotony. There were no high-stakes matchups to prepare for or get excited about, no roaring crowds to provide energy or support, just the endless repetition of practice—the same faces, the same coach, the same drills, the same teammates.
It was the same story across Lubbock. The winter chill swept in fast, ushering in days that were biting, dry, and windy. This wasn't an occasional breeze, but a piercing, relentless, suffocating gale that whipped through town carrying blinding dust. For the team, the weather and the monotony were only part of the hardship. Looming beside the harsh winter sun was an even darker shadow.
The shadow of last season.
Every time practice went poorly, the Red Raiders' head coach brought up the previous year.
"If you thought I was a miserable bastard last season, you haven't seen a damn thing yet," Knight raged the following day, his coaching fire inexplicably reignited. "You'd better think long and hard about that!"
Silence fell over the squad, with only the wind howling outside the gym walls.
Then Xu Ling's voice cut through the stillness, cool and even. "Oh."
He paused, as if the reason had only just dawned on him, and added, "That's because I wasn't here last year."
Several teammates snapped their heads down, desperately biting their lips to choke back the laughter about to burst out.
Knight's face flushed a deep, violent shade of crimson.
Chapter 11