Chapter Eighteen: Guns N' Roses

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Gan Guoyang was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of stomping. He rubbed his eyes and checked the time—2 a.m. Upstairs, the stomping continued, accompanied faintly by the sounds of a guitar and drums.

“Shit! Is there a concert going on upstairs? Didn’t that Raymond guy say he was leaving?” Gan Guoyang turned over and covered his head with a pillow, but the noise persisted, making it impossible to sleep.

Reluctantly, he got up, went out through the back door of the restaurant, and headed upstairs. After pounding on the door for a while, Raymond slowly opened it. As soon as the door opened, Gan Guoyang heard loud music and stomping on the floor—it was definitely those guys.

“Whoa, honored guest, you’re joining us too, Gan?”

“Look at the time! You’re disturbing the neighbors! And didn’t you say you were leaving? Why are you still living here?”

“Left? I can always come back, right? Sorry, I forgot you young people need your early nights and early mornings. Friends, that’s it for today—wrap it up, wrap it up!”

The punk band inside obeyed Raymond’s call and put down their instruments. They seemed cooperative, perhaps intimidated by Gan Guoyang’s two-meter height.

“We’ve got a basketball game tomorrow at the Ellis Street Community Center. Want to come watch?” Gan Guoyang asked Raymond.

Raymond looked surprised. He hadn’t expected the invitation. His eyes darted around before he said, “Watch a game? Who are you playing? The Lakers?”

“Of course not. It’s a rematch against Cancer from the Roshanbo court. We need some spectators. You can bring your friends—you’re our regulars after all.”

“Whoa, thanks for considering us your customers. You run a great restaurant.”

“But it might be closing soon. My brother and I are trying to promote it with a basketball game. Hope you can come.”

Gan Guoyang used his limited contacts to boost the game’s publicity. Inviting Desmond would have been ideal, but they’d only known each other a little over a week—no such intimacy yet.

Raymond laughed. “Promoting a restaurant with a basketball game? You really expect those kids playing ball to come eat Chinese food? Or are you planning to deliver takeout to them?”

“Desperate times. We’ll hand out some coupons.”

“Alright, I’ll definitely come. I want to see you play too.”

As they spoke, a long-faced young man with spiky hair approached. “Why not have us perform in the restaurant? That’d be more effective than a basketball game. You can’t play basketball inside, but customers can enjoy live music.”

Raymond introduced him: “This is Jeffrey Isabel, a guitarist from Indiana.”

Isabel added, “In Los Angeles, Sacramento, and San Francisco, some Asian restaurants do this. Mrs. Huang’s and the VIP Garden—the Filipino owner loves this. It works well. I think it could work for you too.”

Gan Guoyang looked at these punk musicians, their air of rebellion clashing with the image of a Chinese restaurant. Still, Isabel wasn’t wrong. Amid economic downturns, restaurants experiment with new ideas to attract customers and boost sales.

With the middle class moving to suburbs, hippies and rebellious youth became the main customers. Getting them to sit quietly for a meal was a fantasy. But if a punk band got them in to party, they’d pay entrance and buy drinks.

Gan Guoyang thought it over and promised to discuss it with his family, reminding them to come watch the game tomorrow.

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On Saturday afternoon, the outdoor basketball court at Ellis Street Community Center in Tenderloin District saw Gan Guoyang and his two teammates take on Cancer in a rematch, drawing many street basketball players, neighbors, and children to watch.

This was a prime publicity opportunity for the Gan Family Restaurant. A remarkable Chinese basketball team was a captivating hook.

Team sports like basketball and soccer have deep community roots—they originate from and belong to the people.

In America, basketball courts and gyms are everywhere, in cities and rural areas alike. Streetball culture is older than the NBA itself.

On the court, social status fades. Whether corporate executive, construction worker, or a high school student and restaurant delivery boy like Gan Guoyang, only skill matters—can you make the shot, grab the rebound, or deliver a slick pass?

California is the West Coast’s basketball heartland, where streetball heroes are revered.

Northern California’s streetball style is tough, collective, and competitive, epitomized by Oakland.

Southern California boasts more raw talent, with cities like Los Angeles and San Diego producing genuine prodigies.

San Francisco’s streetball vibe is more mellow; Cancer’s team is considered hard-nosed but gentle compared to Oakland’s wild players.

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Faced with Gan Guoyang’s team’s challenge, Steve Lavin and his two teammates naturally accepted the rematch, especially since they had lost the previous game and needed to avenge it.

They even turned down a match invitation from an Oakland team.

Among the spectators were many homeless, hippies, and fringe groups. Gan Guoyang spotted Raymond and Isabel—they had indeed come.

“My God, are those the jerseys you’re wearing today?” Isabel asked.

“Yes, my brother designed them. He’s a damn genius.”

Gan Guohui had specially designed sportswear for the trio—tank tops bearing the Gan Family Restaurant’s sign.

The logo was on the chest, and their names embroidered on the back, stitched overnight by Gan Guohui’s mother, who ran a laundry business.

Gan Guoyang looked at Chen Xing’s jersey, which read “ROSE.” “Aren’t you called Tiny? Why Rose?”

Chen Xing replied, “Tiny’s my nickname; Rose is my English name... Fat Hui, can you not wear that next time? Having the restaurant’s logo on your chest is embarrassing.”

“I swear, if your dad hadn’t screwed us over, would I need this? Focus on your game. Even if we lose today, don’t lose badly!”

Gan Guohui was full of fighting spirit. He had trained hard all week, running daily to improve his stamina.

Cancer still fielded White, Pittman, and Lavin, with Cap Lavin watching from the sidelines.

Cap had low expectations, doubting much could change in a week.

The game began with a coin toss; Cancer had first possession.

Lavin passed to White, who faced Gan Guoyang one-on-one.

“I bet you’ll pivot left, right Eric? Come on, left pivot.”

Gan Guoyang shadowed White closely, trying to disrupt him verbally.

He knew White’s left-hand dribbling was weak.

Receiving the ball there, a left pivot was White’s usual move.

Caught out, White hesitated and was forced to pass out, leading Lavin to take a forced jump shot that missed.

Gan Guohui held position and grabbed the rebound. He passed out beyond the three-point line. Chen Xing received, faked, then drove in with the ball.

Lavin stuck close, warning, “Watch Gan!”

He knew the usual plays between Chen Xing and Gan Guoyang. White stayed glued to Gan Guoyang.

Chen Xing had no chance to pass to Gan Guoyang, so he dribbled around.

In 3v3, opportunities for teamwork are fleeting.

Miss one, and it’s down to individual skill.

White continued to shadow Gan Guoyang with a 3/4 front wrap, blocking him from receiving the ball.

At that moment, Gan Guoyang extended his left foot, blocking White’s path.

Then, he suddenly spun inward. White, caught off guard, couldn’t catch up. Chen Xing lobbed a pass inside.

Gan Guoyang caught it and easily layed it in for the first basket.

This was a trick Desmond had taught him to counter front wraps—using a foot block to stop the defender from recovering, leaving the paint wide open.

“Shit, you’re cheating.”

“Just a normal move, no foul.”

White felt uneasy—Gan Guoyang seemed to have changed.

Inside play is a contest of skill, strength, and mind games.

With his offense read and defense outwitted, White’s confidence was shaken.

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Cap Lavin frowned from the sidelines. “Just one week, and this guy already figured out inside moves? Unlikely.”

White shared Cap’s doubt. Last game, his fundamentals were poor; how was he suddenly using tricks?

Coincidence. It must be.

Cancer’s offense resumed with Lavin dribbling aggressively, trying to drive inside.

Chen Xing defended more fiercely than before.

The referee didn’t blow the whistle—streetball is less strict.

Besides, they were on home turf.

Lavin’s layup was contested by Gan Guoyang and missed.

Gan Guohui grabbed the rebound again, his stocky frame useful.

The ball went outside the three-point line. Gan Guoyang battled White in the same position as before.

White again used a 3/4 front wrap. Gan Guoyang extended his leg to block.

White anticipated the move and pressed closely as Gan Guoyang spun.

Unexpectedly, Gan Guoyang executed a reverse pivot—not cutting inside but turning to block White behind him.

This guy had a counter-move.

Chen Xing lobbed a pass; Gan Guoyang stepped in and pushed White back.

White lost balance and watched Gan Guoyang jump and slam the ball home single-handedly!

“Holy shit...”

Raymond and his friends gaped and screamed.

They knew Gan Guoyang was good, but not this good.

The dunk electrified the crowd, drawing even more spectators.

In Tenderloin, large gatherings usually meant free food or a punk concert.

This time, it was because a Chinese kid was playing basketball—unprecedented.

Cap stroked his chin, muttering, “This kid really improved. Or was he faking last time? Unbelievable.”

He pondered as White’s inside attack was again stifled by Gan Guoyang.

White was clearly rattled, reacting sluggishly.

After blocking a shot, Gan Guoyang ran to the perimeter, caught Gan Guohui’s pass, and sank a mid-range shot from a tight angle!

Three straight baskets, and Cancer called a timeout—this was turning disastrous.

During the break, Raymond and Isabel squeezed through the crowd. “Gan! Gan! What’s your team’s name? You’re amazing!”

Gan Guoyang replied, “We haven’t picked one yet. Still thinking.”

They had been unable to agree on a name that morning.

“You need something catchy. You’re Gan Family Restaurant, how about ‘Gun’?”

Gan Guoyang looked at Chen Xing’s “Rose” on his jersey and suddenly had an idea.

“‘Gun’ is too plain and rough. How about ‘Gun and Rose’? What do you think?”

“Guns N’ Roses?” Isabel scratched his head. “I think that’s a pretty good name.”