Xu Ling wasn't one to brag about how popular he was. It was just that Gay had come at him right out of the gate with that "Mr. Sixty Million" crack, which showed how much the thing ate at him.
Since it bothered him, Xu Ling might as well say a little more—it cost him nothing. Besides, Adidas, the brand he had signed with, and Nike were rivals to begin with, and Gay, a foot soldier under the Nike banner, was in such a hurry to stick up for his paymaster that he badly needed a thorough lesson.
Gay was furious.
Seven years, forty million?
Back when he'd entered the league as the next Tracy McGrady, Nike had only put up a five-year, six-million deal. So what gave? Just because Xu Ling was the No. 3 pick? Was he, the No. 8 pick, really that far behind?
What Gay never realized was that he and Xu Ling really were far apart. "The next Tracy McGrady" was only an expectation—just like Gojo Ren, Tano Yu, Kimura Aiko, and all those assembly-line products, hugely chested and faceless, who were also billed as the next Utsunomiya-style megastars but in the end were just ordinary stars with a bit of appeal and not much else.
The McGrady comparison was Gay's selling point, but he had to become his own distinct self. In the end, Rudy Gay could only become the version of Rudy Gay that he was capable of becoming.
Xu Ling, by contrast, had never been boxed in by his own player comparison.
At first the scouting report set his comparison as Ron Harper; soon after, he was being mentioned in the same breath as Ray Allen; and during March Madness, a phrase began quietly making the rounds—an "athleticism-boosted Reggie Miller." By the time the NBA draft arrived, every scout had arrived at one consensus: he was the most likely of his class to become "the next Kobe."
Precisely because his style shifted so much and his comparisons were so many, Xu Ling had sidestepped the shadow of being measured directly against any single legend.
When the rookie team came down the floor again, Gay tensed up from head to toe, certain Xu Ling would take him one-on-one off the dribble, dead set on wiping out the earlier humiliation on the defensive end. In truth, though he had put in a whole offseason of hard work, the defensive holes that had shown in his rookie season had not closed at all, and his supposed strengths had not improved a hair.
Xu Ling broke free of his man with a nimble backdoor cut, and Jackson's pass arrived on time. By then Gay had lost his position entirely, and Eddie Jones had to scramble over to switch. By any ordinary defensive logic, Gay should have rotated quickly to pick up the man Jones had been guarding, but he had eyes for Xu Ling alone and no concept of team defense whatsoever.
Xu Ling didn't hesitate, flicking out a pass that found the unguarded Casey Jacobsen.
Jacobsen didn't hesitate either, letting it fly with his arm held high in the follow-through and burying a three-pointer.
"Seriously," Xu Ling said with a smile as he ran past Gay, every word meant to sting, "can your defense get any more absurd? I'm actually getting curious where your floor is."
Xu Ling's repeated success against his defense had left Gay enraged and humiliated, and what poured oil on the fire was that Kyle Lowry seemed to have genuinely formed some kind of "alliance" with him: the moment he crossed into the frontcourt, he would stuff the ball to Gay without a second thought. Never mind that Pau Gasol in the frontcourt was already visibly displeased at running up and down for nothing, never mind that the other teammates were repeatedly open—Lowry looked past all of it.
More absurd still, Gay was clearly losing the battle, and yet Lowry kept stoking the flames from the side: "Rudy, keep going at him! You got this!"
After several exchanges with Gay, Xu Ling had gradually figured out his offensive patterns. He leaned on his jump shot far too much, and especially when he couldn't blow past someone in a single burst, he tended to rush the shot—no matter where he stood or what contortion he shot out of, it seemed the act of "getting the ball out of his hands" mattered more than "getting it in the basket."
"He's going right again!"
Xu Ling read it precisely once more, sealing off his spot in advance and pinning Gay well outside the three-point line.
Gay had to pull up short, gathering the ball awkwardly and rising into his shot.
"Rebound!" Xu Ling shouted toward the frontcourt while keeping his body locked tight on Gay.
Sure enough, a shot that reckless had no chance to fall, and Gay clanged another one in anger.
By then it wasn't just the players on the floor wearing awkward looks—the coaching staff on the sideline were frowning as well.
Head coach Marc Iavaroni had just come over from the Phoenix Suns, a team that worshipped fluid, fast-breaking offense, and he was long used to ball movement that flowed like water. This low-efficiency, monotonous one-man isolation act made his heart sink.
He couldn't help starting to doubt whether Rudy Gay's place on next season's team was really as dependable as originally assumed.
At the window of the team president's office on the second floor, Jerry West watched the court without a word. His assistant Laura Granckler didn't dare disturb him—on an ordinary day West was mild enough and easy to approach, but once a game began, the perfectionist inside him woke completely. A team turnover and he would curse out loud; players making the same mistake over and over and he would start thinking about trades. Such extreme emotion churned in his chest that after losses he often refused to see his family, afraid he would spill his anger onto the people he treasured most.
Right now West could not settle himself. To make Gay the centerpiece, he had not hesitated to ship out one of the players he admired most. And this one-sided duel seemed to be reminding him sharply: this decision might be an even bigger mistake than passing on Amar'e Stoudemire and taking Drew Gooden in 2002.
How could he keep his temper? How could he bear to keep watching?
Gasol finally decided he was done putting up with it.
Coming into the frontcourt, the Spaniard said coldly to Lowry, "If you keep feeding Rudy every damn time, get your ass to the bench right now!"
Gay had never expected that Gasol—a man with practically one foot already out the door—would be the first to stand up and openly say he'd had enough.
Naturally Lowry didn't dare go head-to-head with Gasol. Whatever Gasol's future held, as long as he was still on the Grizzlies for a single day, he remained the undisputed first man of this team.
The ball began flowing steadily into Gasol's hands.
Against Miličić, Gasol couldn't simply bulldoze his man with strength, but with his refined, all-around technique, dealing with a bust of a No. 2 pick who had long since lost himself in drink and women was effortless.
He scored easily on two straight possessions, showing the solid fundamentals of an All-Star big man.
On the third possession, Gasol caught it in the low post again. Just as he set up for a post-up, Xu Ling abruptly abandoned his own man and rushed into the paint to double-team!
Facing the sudden double, Gasol calmly swung the ball out to the now-unguarded Gay. It was a completely open look.
And yet Gay's shot bounced off the rim again.
"As expected!"
Gasol couldn't even be bothered with a word of encouragement, only a cold snort: "You see that? That's your future teammate!"
Xu Ling heard him but answered unhurriedly with a question of his own: "Isn't he your teammate too?"
Gasol acted as if he hadn't heard at all and simply went on: "No matter how well you play, how hard you work, even if you lead this team to fifty wins, if you can't win in the playoffs, you're the one to blame for all of it!"
"Enjoy this mess."
With that, Gasol signaled for a substitution and simply stopped playing.
Before anyone could react, the only All-Star in Grizzlies history had pulled off his practice jersey and walked to the sideline without a backward glance.
No one tried to talk him back. Not one person even attempted to open his mouth.
Xu Ling considered himself reasonably well informed about the NBA. He knew Lakers fans often jokingly called Gasol "Sister-in-Law," but that nickname was mostly teasing, and it couldn't capture the toughness and resolve in his bones at all.
With Gasol gone, the veterans' last real source of support went with him.
Xu Ling looked with a smile at Rudy Gay, still dazed. "Looks like a pretty tidy ending. At least I don't have to worry about Darko getting destroyed by Pau anymore, and you don't have to worry about anyone fighting you for the ball. Why not just hand you every possession from here on? Don't worry, I'll stay with you to the end."
Gay did have some real skill. Stung by Xu Ling's goad, he took the ball back the very next possession and went to work one-on-one again.
This time he still couldn't shake Xu Ling's defense completely, but under that tight pressure he forced up a fadeaway—the ball arced high and dropped through nothing but net.
It was the first shot he'd made out of his last four attempts.
The shot really was gorgeous, the difficulty sky-high—as for why it had to be that hard? Don't ask. What was his shooting percentage? Don't ask that either. Just hand the man an award for Best-Looking Pull-Up Jumper.
"Don't think stopping me a few times gives you the right to lecture me!" After the make, Gay seemed to have finally let the stale air out of his chest, and he fired back at once. "You just got lucky back there!"
Xu Ling didn't answer, only walked toward the frontcourt.
On the next possession he sealed his man on the low block and calmly called for the ball. The instant he caught it, he faked a turn toward the baseline, a convincing shoulder-and-head fake that lifted Gay clean off his feet. The moment Gay lost his footing, Xu Ling adjusted his steps and rose lightly, dropping it in with a textbook fadeaway jumper.
Looking at Gay's indignant face, Xu Ling was sure he would attack again.
It reminded him of what Yao Ming had said to him back when they beat the University of Florida to win the title.
You'll never find brotherhood this pure in the NBA again.
He had been completely right.
Americans love the NCAA more than the NBA for their own reasons, but every player who shines in the NCAA is headed for the NBA.
It was like stepping down from a utopia into the real world.
It would be a lie to say Xu Ling didn't miss his college days at all. But that longing was only a moment's daze; he had to come back to reality—one more man to beat, countless expectations to meet, one enormous mess to clean up.
Rudy Gay was never an outstanding creator with the ball in his hands. Given his skill set, he should have been far more dangerous as a secondary option cutting off the ball and shooting off the catch, but driven by his pride right now, he insisted on proving himself in one-on-one isolation. And Xu Ling was about to show him, by action, that the jumper he had just made was the real luck.
Gay's offense turned impatient and formless. He tried a crossover step to force his way past, but Xu Ling's precise anticipation and quick lateral slides kept walling off his path; he turned his back and tried to grind forward with strength, only to find Xu Ling's core far stronger than expected, and he couldn't move an inch; he even tried a string of dribble moves to confuse Xu Ling, but that slightly clunky handle left gaps everywhere under Xu Ling's focused defense.
At last, on a labored between-the-legs crossover, the stumbling dribble exposed a fatal opening. Xu Ling shot his hand out at once and poked the ball free with precision!
Slap!
The ball came loose from Gay's control.
Gay's eyes went wide in disbelief, and he could only watch as Xu Ling swooped in, took the ball like an arrow off the string, and went coast-to-coast. His form cut a blurring streak across the hardwood before he rose up and ended the whole possession with a thunderous power dunk!
Up in the second-floor stands, Jerry West slowly drew his gaze away.
He didn't want to watch anymore. Without Gasol's help, with no sense of when to advance and when to pull back and no variation in rhythm, his entire technical game crude and unpolished, Gay was no match for Xu Ling at all. This power struggle on the Grizzlies was about to end; the newcomer would establish his own standing, and some men whose standing was already established would soon see their futures turn hazy.
Gay's counterattack was once again driven into a dead corner by Xu Ling. His driving space had vanished completely, and even the angle for a desperate shot was sealed off. He had no choice but to shove the ball to Lowry beside him.
Lowry used an Eddie Jones screen to drive straight down the lane and scored on a layup.
But it didn't matter.
Because the outcome was already decided.
From the moment the opening whistle sounded, Xu Ling had completely dominated Gay. Looked at from any angle, he was the undisputed winner of this matchup. That reality had clearly scrambled Gay's rhythm; still unsettled, he looked up and saw Mr. Sixty Million already bringing the ball up from the backcourt.
Reaching the frontcourt, Xu Ling didn't pause for an instant. A quick change of direction flowed into a smooth crossover fake—the two motions linked without a hitch, lifting Gay's weight off his base in the blink of an eye.
The moment Gay was out of position, Xu Ling calmly stepped back.
That move had become nearly his signature, so much so that the first signature shoe Adidas designed for him, the "Terminator," took as its motif exactly that sharp, backward-curving arc of lightning.
Gay landed off balance and stumbled, then sat down hard on the floor. In that same instant Xu Ling had already risen, flicking his wrist and releasing.
Swish!
The ball dropped through nothing but net.
Xu Ling didn't even leave behind a line of trash talk. He simply turned indifferently and jogged back toward his own half.
The game wasn't over, but Gay's plan had failed completely. A man who had already played a full NBA season was no match for the No. 3 pick; Adidas's Mr. Sixty Million looked to be worth every cent. Some things were about to change. Pau Gasol thought this was nothing more than a rerun of his script, but many people present knew perfectly well that the Grizzlies would never again have Rudy Gay's script.
Chapter 60