The Holy Child

On January 20, 2007, long queues snaked through the entrance tunnels of the United Spirit Arena. The clash between Texas Tech and the University of Texas was about to tip off here. On top of that, both rosters featured rising superstars whose fame had surged in recent weeks. Xu Ling and Kevin Durant—they were the hottest topics of conversation in the Big 12 Conference. Durant, naturally, went without saying. He was a generational talent. As Bill Simmons had put it: "His floor is multiple All-Star selections, and his ceiling is potentially becoming the greatest scorer the game has ever seen." If not for Shaquille O'Neal's lingering dominance still reverberating through the league, Durant's freshman campaign alone would have been more than enough to leapfrog Greg Oden for the No. 1 overall pick. Yet as things stood, the entire basketball world seemed to share an unspoken consensus. Scouts firmly believed the 2007 draft would mirror the legendary landscape of 1992—Oden and Durant were this era's Shaq and Alonzo Mourning. The giant who had never fully recovered his health on the collegiate stage, yet was hailed as the "Next-Gen Shaq," had virtually locked up the top spot in advance. That meant that no matter how dazzling a performance Durant put together, the highest position he could realistically vie for on draft night was the No. 2 pick. To Durant, however, none of the outside noise mattered. "The only thing I care about is basketball itself," Durant once said. "Nothing else matters." Comments like that inevitably rubbed Xu Ling the wrong way. He had fought tooth and nail, clawing his way from complete obscurity into potential lottery territory. What was more, as a transmigrator, he carried a deep-seated hater's perspective on Durant in his bones. He couldn't care less about labels like "the greatest isolation scorer of the new century." Sure, one could argue Durant had had his share of misfortune. Back when he still genuinely believed hard work and determination could conquer all, a certain elder statesman took his talents directly to Miami and crushed the championship dreams of Durant and his brothers in the Finals. To add insult to injury, once that elder won the ring, he transformed overnight from media villain into a revered sports hero. The collapse of his old beliefs and his descent into darkness seemed inevitable. As the consensus "second-best player" of his era, the path Durant chose was imitation. If that elder could team up with the league's third-best player and an All-Star power forward who had finished tenth in MVP voting, Durant could simply drop in on the seventy-three-win runner-up that had just knocked him out of the playoffs. Win a title, and wouldn't all the controversy vanish into thin air? Reality proved far harsher. Far from vanishing, the backlash clung to him like a shadow, making him a laughingstock wherever he went. Gradually, he lost control: firing back at internet trolls, throwing his teammates under the bus, and ultimately awakening the exact same trait as his "brother from another mother," Kyrie Irving—the franchise-wrecking gene. Everywhere he went, he tore down teams. No justification needed; he just dismantled them. Even Irving seemed to have turned over a new leaf in Dallas, yet Durant still refused to settle down. The moment things hit a snag, his first instinct wasn't to fix the problem, but rather, *I'm done, you guys figure it out yourselves.* One had to admit that although his grand redemption arc had crashed and burned, when it came to "running away" and "cherry-picking elite teammates," he had truly inherited that elder's mantle. In Xu Ling's eyes, Durant after leaving the Warriors was a snake through and through—his character, composure under pressure, and leadership were utterly pathetic. Yet in 2007, his public image was... how to put it? The Holy Child? Exactly. The Holy Child. The media claimed basketball was like oxygen to him. Though he grew up without a father, he never resented him the way many players from similar backgrounds did, instead idolizing his absentee dad like a superhero. He wore No. 35 to honor a beloved mentor who had passed away before his time. He was humble, courteous, and was spotted carrying his signature backpack everywhere he went—a bag containing only a basketball and a Bible. When Xu Ling stepped onto the court that evening, he immediately spotted a fresh-faced "young KD" sporting that trademark backpack. *Excuse me, buddy. You're not Kevin Durant—who the hell are you?* That was Xu Ling's first thought. "Not gonna go say hello?" Craig asked him. "Not interested," Xu Ling said flatly. "I just want to destroy him." Craig chuckled. "If you actually pull that off, your draft stock is gonna shoot to the moon!" He glanced around, lowering his voice. "Still, check out the crowd tonight. This isn't normal." In past games, most scouts kept a low profile, observing quietly from the shadows. But tonight, the scouting presence had scaled up dramatically. Several top executives from NBA front offices were in attendance in the flesh. Danny Ainge from the Celtics, Billy King from the Sixers, Jerry West from the Grizzlies... and Chris Mullin from the Golden State Warriors. On the right side of the stands, Mullin was beaming as he watched the two super freshmen warm up, already launching into one of his trademark—and completely unhinged—passionate declarations: "Kevin Durant! Man, that kid really reminds me of Larry Bird!" The assistant coach beside him nearly slammed his clipboard to the floor. *Bird? Boss, did you not sleep last night... or did you drink bootleg booze with your breakfast?* Mullin didn't notice anything amiss. He doubled down with even more enthusiasm: "And look at him! He's like a Black version of Larry Bird, with Kevin Garnett's athleticism thrown in!" *If Larry Bird heard that, he'd drive straight from Indiana just to beat the crap out of you.* Though he kept quiet, the assistant knew in his heart that Mullin was primarily here for Eli Xu. Based on the lottery projections, Golden State had a far better chance of landing Xu Ling than Durant. It all traced back to a recent trade. Since the Malice at the Palace two years ago, the Indiana Pacers team that had once ruled the Eastern Conference was essentially a shell of its former self. Reggie Miller had retired, Jermaine O'Neal was plagued by injuries, and surrounded by turmoil inside and out, the franchise found its decline irreversible. Rather than keeping up a doomed front, it made more sense to cut their losses and unload assets before they depreciated entirely. Sensing an opportunity, Mullin parted with a few "former lottery busts" to pry away Al Harrington and Stephen Jackson from the Pacers, cobbling together an improvised band of misfits. Deep down, he harbored a faint glimmer of hope: *What if throwing these guys together actually sparks some chemistry?* It was against this backdrop that Mullin turned his eyes toward Eli Xu. Not only was the kid physically gifted and capable of scoring, but more importantly, he didn't play like a rookie at all. He was composed, seasoned, and rarely turned the ball over. Mullin loved that kind of maturity beyond one's years. Mullin had assumed everyone in the building tonight—including himself—had shown up for Durant. Then he looked across the court and spotted Jerry West and Danny Ainge sitting ramrod straight in the stands. Mullin mused to himself: *They've gotta be here to see KD too, right?* *Probably... right?* Warmups wrapped up, and Coach Bob Knight summoned Xu Ling over. "Remember the game plan from last night?" "I remember." Of course Xu Ling remembered. To prepare for this showdown, Knight had spent two full hours on film study the night before, picking Durant's game apart. According to Knight's "sources," Durant was physically frail, never hit the weight room, and couldn't even put up a single rep on the standard bench press. Since he was an empty frame, they would punish his slender body with relentless physicality. "Good that you remember," Knight said gravely. "Your defense will be the deciding factor tonight." "Does that mean if we lose, I shoulder the full blame?" Xu Ling shot back. Was it really appropriate for this old man to pile on so much pressure right out of the gate? Knight looked him dead in the eye, his words cutting straight to the bone. "You can always choose not to take full responsibility. As long as you don't see yourself as a leader, no one can force you to carry it." With that, Knight merely eyed Xu Ling with a trace of defiance. The moment felt remarkably like the time Xu Ling had publicly goaded Knight into proclaiming himself the greatest coach in history. Faced with the old coach giving him a taste of his own medicine, Xu Ling cracked a smile and said nothing more. Moments later, the starting lineups took the court. Alongside Durant, Texas featured another future NBA face: their starting point guard, D. J. Augustin. Xu Ling was finally standing face-to-face with Kevin Durant in person. The feeling was completely different from his previous life, when he had gnashed his teeth in front of a computer screen typing out hateful comments like *Soft-ass Durant needs to get wrecked.* Xu Ling had anticipated that Durant might be friendly, but he hadn't expected this: "Hey, great to meet you," Durant said with disarming warmth. "TTU's Jordan! I've been hearing a lot about you!" Xu Ling's internal monologue screamed: *Wait, this isn't right! Give me back the Durant I know—the one who threw a tantrum at Draymond Green for not passing him the ball in the clutch, only to get silenced with 'We won before you got here!'* "Likewise," Xu Ling said with an outward smile, his mind racing with frantic commentary. The referee tossed the ball into the air. Xu Ling said a silent prayer: *Win the tip. Please win this one!* Perhaps hearing his prayer, Darryl Dora, whose jump-ball success rate was notoriously abysmal, miraculously won the opening tip. Xu Ling broke into a sprint up the floor. The Longhorns had clearly scouted their tendencies. The moment they lost the tip, they sprinted back in transition, leaving no opening for a fast break. Five-on-five in the half-court. Xu Ling flared out to the perimeter, caught the pass, and squared up. A wall of noise erupted across the arena. "Oh, man, Eli versus KD! We're getting it right away!" The fans roared in excitement. "Take him! Take him to the rack!" Chants like that placed invisible pressure on players, often baiting them into forced isolation even from unfavorable spots. Xu Ling held the ball and jabbed hard to the right. As prodigiously gifted as Durant was, he had only begun to unlock a fraction of his offensive potential; on the defensive end, he still had a long way to go. With just a single fake from Xu Ling, Durant exposed glaring vulnerabilities, yielding a massive step back. Xu Ling rose straight into a jump shot from where he stood. Decisive. Crisp. Flawless shooting form. What else? Look at that beautiful arc... *Swish!* Xu Ling's trash talk usually leaned toward reactive counterattacks, but today, he couldn't suppress the urge welling up inside him. "You put up all those points per game because you just don't play defense, don't you?" The jab slipped right out of Xu Ling's mouth, and Durant took the bait immediately. Maybe Durant was simply a born debater—one only needed to look at how he would spar with the entire internet on Twitter years later to know it. Durant froze, his face registering pure indignance. "Bullshit! I've never done that!" Xu Ling nodded, feigning sudden realization. "Oh. Guess that just means... you're flat-out terrible at defense." Durant couldn't fathom why this TTU Jordan he'd never met before had such a foul mouth. He resolved to answer back with his play. Xu Ling didn't retreat, however. He planted himself near midcourt like a predator stalking prey, calmly watching Durant advance step by step. The second Durant crossed half-court, Xu Ling clamped down like a shadow—intensity, sticky perimeter pressure, relentless hustle, giving him everything he had. And that was precisely the style of defense Durant hated facing most at this stage of his career. Within just a dozen seconds, under Xu Ling's suffocating on-ball pressure, Durant—still unaccustomed to such physical rhythm—committed his first turnover of the evening. Durant immediately committed a tactical foul on Xu Ling, drawing the referee's whistle. He raised his hand to acknowledge the foul, but his eyes locked straight onto Xu Ling. Every shred of pleasantry had vanished from his gaze, replaced by raw, unvarnished hostility.