This Is Hell!

As a lawyer once said: "Being a surgeon has its pressures too, but in a different way. You never look across the operating table and see another surgeon trying to undo the stitches you just finished. But in the legal profession, your income comes precisely from being in opposition to others." And this was exactly the real reason why Rudy Gay—the man the Memphis Grizzlies had once deemed the cornerstone of the franchise, or rather, their "former cornerstone"—had been so restless ever since the draft ended. He had once been a top favorite to go No. 1 in the 2006 draft, possessing every perfect gift a small forward should have, hailed as "the next Tracy McGrady." And yet, his professional attitude, competitive spirit, and desire to push himself were frequently called into question by scouts. You have to understand, talent has never been scarce in the NBA; gifted players who let themselves rot are everywhere. Amid these doubts, Gay's draft stock kept sliding, until he was finally selected by the Houston Rockets at No. 8 in the first round, and was then quickly traded to the Grizzlies in exchange for Shane Battier. For him, this was actually a good thing. The Rockets didn't have the patience to wait for him to grow, but in Memphis, he could get the most abundant resources and opportunities. In his rookie season, Gay's performance was passable but far from stunning. Amid all the turmoil, the team still chose to install him as a starter, yet he had not learned how to truly lead a team. Even so, deep down he was very clear: the Grizzlies would ultimately be his team. Pau Gasol would leave sooner or later, and the team's future was bound to be handed to young players of unlimited potential—and looking across all of Memphis, if not him, who else could it be? Then the team hit the No. 3 pick and selected one of the most-watched super-freshmen of the past NCAA season, one of the celebrated Big Three. From that moment on, a deep anxiety seized Gay. He was anxious about his status, anxious about the uncertain future, and even more anxious that the privilege once belonging to him alone—the privilege of standing above everyone else—was about to be diluted by someone else. On the first day of training camp, Gay walked into the locker room and immediately spotted Kyle Lowry, his fellow rookie. He finally couldn't hold back and asked, "Kyle, why did you give your No. 1 jersey to that guy so easily?" Lowry looked up, a smooth, pragmatic smile on his face. "Rudy, it's just a number. To me, which number I wear doesn't matter; what matters is being able to contribute on the court. Besides... this is what Mr. Logo wants. He values Eli very highly. As players, sometimes doing a favor for someone else is doing a favor for your own future, right?" Wrong. To Gay, this was simply wrong. "Easy for you to say," Gay said angrily. "That guy hasn't contributed anything to the team yet, and he's already putting on airs? Why does everyone have to give up their number the moment he opens his mouth? Who does he think he is?" Lowry smiled bitterly to himself. To him this was a small matter, but in the eyes of someone like Gay, it was a big deal involving dignity and status. Then again, that made sense—they had always been men of different stations. Gay and Lowry were both members of the 2006 rookie class, but from the moment they entered the league, the worlds they inhabited were utterly different. Gay was the immensely gifted No. 8 pick; from the moment he was traded to Memphis, he was seen as the future face of the franchise, and the team was willing to pour in resources and wait for him to blossom. Lowry, on the other hand, had been taken in the tail end of the first round, and his NBA career had been a hard fight for survival from the very start. He knew well that in this league—especially for players taken with a low draft position—reading the situation, understanding the front office's intentions, and showing a cooperative attitude were far more important than clinging to a jersey number. Just as Gay was seething that Lowry had so readily given in to the demands of the team's prized No. 3 pick, the locker room door opened. The subject of their conversation strode in, followed closely by a burly man who looked like his attendant. "Morning," he greeted them first, then naturally extended his hand to Lowry. "Kyle Lowry, right? I'm Xu Ling. You can call me Eli." Lowry stood up almost immediately, shook his hand firmly, and put on a warm smile. "Welcome, Eli. Just call me Kyle." Then he turned to the other side and extended his hand as well. "I imagine everyone here knows the name Rudy Gay. Nice to meet you." Gay, on the other side, paused for half a second before reluctantly putting out his hand for a brief shake with Xu Ling, letting go the instant they touched. "Mm." The No. 3 pick seemed to pay no mind at all to Gay's coldness. He turned and asked the attendant beside him in a relaxed tone, "rok, which locker is mine?" "Ms. Grandall gave special instructions," the attendant called rok answered at once. "The No. 1 player, of course, uses the No. 1 locker." The words "No. 1 locker" made Lowry's expression flicker slightly, his smile turning a little complicated. rok looked around the locker room and quickly found the most conspicuous locker, the one with the most space. "Oh, sorry, Eli, I must be so slow." "Don't worry about it." Xu Ling smiled at his two teammates and said calmly, "Don't let his looks fool you—rok is actually very reliable when he gets things done." Lowry quickly smoothed out his expression, his smile growing warmer. "Of course. I can tell." Xu Ling efficiently put away his things and changed into his training gear, then nodded at the two of them. "See you later." With that, he left the locker room with rok. Once their footsteps had faded into the distance, Gay could finally hold back no longer and said indignantly, "Paul hasn't even been officially traded yet, and they're already in such a hurry to give his locker to someone else?!" Lowry was inwardly surprised as well. The No. 1 locker was not only the most spacious spot in the locker room, but it also belonged to Pau Gasol—the undisputed greatest player in the franchise's history to this day. Though this core center had submitted a trade request, he was, after all, still on the team. For the front office to hand over the locker so quickly, even coldly, was certainly professional, but it also seemed a little heartless. And yet, Gay's reaction made Lowry want to laugh, and he had to force it down. He knew perfectly well that Gay wasn't really standing up for Gasol out of indignation—he was simply angry that the person chosen to take over the No. 1 locker wasn't himself. Xu Ling and Roderick Craig walked out of the locker room one behind the other, their footsteps echoing through the empty corridor. "Hey, did you see the expression on 'that guy' just now?" Craig caught up in a few steps and fell in beside Xu Ling, undisguised mockery in his voice. He didn't even use a name, just stressed "that guy" in an exaggerated tone. "From the moment we walked in, he had that long face on, like someone owed him a few million. Tying his shoelaces so intently—I bet he wished he could strangle you with them." "rok," Xu Ling said half-jokingly, "show a little respect for my Scottie Pippen." "All right." Craig laughed. "But I'm worried he's starting to think he's Vince Carter." Xu Ling didn't respond further, only the corners of his mouth curving up slightly as he walked straight into the practice gym. He immediately began a systematic stretching warm-up, his movements smooth and focused. Over the past summer, apart from the commercial obligations he couldn't refuse, Xu Ling had devoted almost all his time to special training. He had spent long stretches in the gym and on the practice court, and according to his trainer, he had almost "rebuilt his entire muscular system." The claim was a slight exaggeration, but some of the changes were truly palpable. His straight-line acceleration was half a beat faster than before, his explosive first step sharper, and most notably, his core strength had improved across the board. It could be said that to meet the intensity of NBA-level physical play, he had made every possible preparation. While Xu Ling warmed up, his teammates gradually made their way onto the court. Some teammates came over on their own to greet Xu Ling—Mike Miller, Kyle Lowry, Eddie Jones, and Hakeem Warrick—all of them key rotation players for the Grizzlies last season, and truly core members of the team. More players, however, revealed indifference or even coldness. Rudy Gay seemed to live in a world where "Xu Ling didn't exist," walking straight past him without a word. Pau Gasol glared hard at Xu Ling, though what he truly loathed was the whole situation of this team. Juan Carlos Navarro, the "Spanish Bomb" who had only made it into the rotation through Gasol's backing, likewise chose sides without hesitation, showing the same aloofness. The new signing Darko Miličić adopted an air of complete detachment, not exchanging pleasantries with anyone—in his eyes, these new teammates were probably less interesting than the enthusiastic young ladies at that "Asian Paradise Lost" on Beale Street in Memphis. These people, together with Xu Ling, formed the framework of the Memphis Grizzlies' roster for the new season. Looking at the roster before him, the Grizzlies' new head coach, Marc Iavaroni, found it hard to feel optimistic. Over the past few years, as the lead assistant coach for the Phoenix Suns, he had made great contributions to a team that had averaged an impressive 48 wins for three straight seasons, and had thus been seen as a promising coaching rising star. But even a truly great coach needed a decent roster in hand to show what he could do. Yet the Grizzlies' roster was far from ideal, while the front office still hoped to replicate the Suns' gorgeous, fluid "Seven Seconds or Less" offensive system to make the team more entertaining. But the problem was: where was the Grizzlies' "Steve Nash"? The answer was that they had no Nash. They only had a Pau Gasol full of resentment toward the team and the city. The front office's biggest hope at the moment was to ship Gasol out as soon as possible and bring back a point guard who could serve as the playmaking core—otherwise, no matter how many tactical ideas Iavaroni had, they were destined to fall flat. Though worried about the prospects, Iavaroni ultimately accepted the olive branch the Grizzlies extended. The reason was simple: this was the only team willing to offer him a long-term head coach contract. Every other team's offer had come with a higher salary but was still an assistant coach contract, which held no appeal for him. So, Iavaroni chose the Grizzlies, this leaky old ship. Now he gathered the team, then stepped in front of them and said, "Guys, I'm sure you've heard more than enough clichés. But before I repeat any of that, I want to tell you a story—my story. When I was as young as you, I was fortunate enough to play for a special team: the 1983 76ers." "We had Moses Malone," Iavaroni said the name with immense respect. "He was the MVP, the most dominant giant in the league. He could have demanded that every possession run through his hands. And we had Julius Erving, 'Dr. J.' He was an icon, the god of Philadelphia; he could have flown forever beneath the spotlight, with everyone cheering for him." "But on that team, there was no 'I'—only 'we,'" Iavaroni said with emotion. "Moses was willing to battle inside and do all the dirty work, giving his all for every rebound and block. Julius put down part of the ball, using his leadership and defense to bind the whole team together. Cheeks, Toney, Bobby Jones... every one of us knew our role clearly and took pride in it. We trusted one another—not for stats, not for the next contract, but for the guy at the shoulder beside you, for a common goal: victory. Pure victory." "That's what I'm asking of you. Starting now, we're going to learn to trust one another. What we're going to build is a real team—tough, relentless, a team that gets under opponents' skin to the bone. Just like what I experienced back in Philadelphia. That's not just tactics; it's a philosophy, a culture of winning!" When Iavaroni finished, Mike Miller seized the moment and started cheering on his own, drawing in Kyle Lowry and Hakeem Warrick, and then the others followed with responses of their own. Whether or not they agreed, whether or not they had swallowed this bowl of inspirational chicken soup, most were willing to play along to save the new coach's face, since he had clearly worked so hard memorizing his speech. Iavaroni nodded in satisfaction, then announced that in order to help the newly added players and the veterans get to know each other, he wouldn't hold any tactical sessions today, but would instead set up a scrimmage between the new and old players. "Eli, here's your team's roster and numbers." Assistant coach Andy Greer handed Xu Ling a list. Before Xu Ling could even see the full roster, Rudy Gay's deliberately raised voice pierced across the court, laced with undisguised malice: "Hey, Mr. Sixty Million, take a good look at your new teammates—feeling a little disappointed? You need us to coordinate and send a couple of old-timers over to your side? Might as well balance out both teams' strength, so you don't lose too embarrassingly later and bruise that face of yours worth sixty million dollars." The scene fell silent. Gay's words not only openly trampled on the team culture Iavaroni had worked so hard to promote, but also forced Xu Ling into a dilemma: if he accepted the so-called "coordination," it would amount to admitting that his side's roster was weak, which might shake his teammates' confidence; if he refused, it would mean going into battle with a clearly inferior roster, with the scales of victory already tipped before the game even began. But a thought flashed through Xu Ling's mind: if Jimmy Butler had once led a bunch of "fringe players" to defeat a Timberwolves starting lineup led by Towns and Wiggins in a training scrimmage—then why couldn't he do the same? Since someone wasn't even willing to keep the most basic decency, there was no need to leave him any room either. "Worried we'll lose too embarrassingly?" Xu Ling sneered. "Rudy, it seems you've got one thing wrong. What the Grizzlies selected with the No. 3 pick isn't a player who needs a strong roster to shield him—it's a player who makes any roster strong." "So put away your pathetic little tricks, and stop worrying about my 'face.' Call over every old-timer at your side and bring out everything you've got!" The light that had just sparkled in Marc Iavaroni's eyes quickly dimmed. He had foreseen that the vision he was so carefully building in Memphis would one day shatter—he just hadn't expected it to come so soon, a mere five minutes after he had concluded his self-satisfied speech. He instinctively looked up toward the second floor. In the shadows outside the president's office, Jerry West was silently watching below. He had hoped to remain hidden in the dimness for a while longer, but now he had no choice but to face this suffocating reality. The two players he had personally selected, the Grizzlies' Jordan and Pippen in everyone's words, had, from the very first day they met, set off on a path toward a "go screw yourself" kind of relationship. This was just great. Could you find a harder opening than this? This really was basketball hell!