Chapter 22: No, I did not punch him; I slapped him.

At the Chicago office of Xinhua News Agency, Lin Xiaoyan had finished drafting a news report on Tang Bei and submitted it to her supervisor. It would only be sent back to the headquarters after the supervisor’s approval.

After reviewing the piece, the supervisor, Huang Yuhua, called her into his office. "Xiaoyan, if Tang Bei is successfully drafted, he would be the first domestic athlete to join the NBA, right?"

"Sir, I’ve checked. The first one selected was Song Tao from the national team; he was drafted in the third round in 1987, but he retired due to injury shortly after. He never signed a contract and never played in the NBA."

"I see. So, if Tang Bei is drafted and signs a contract, he would be the first athlete to truly join the NBA."

"Exactly. And Tang Bei is very talented; it is rumored he will be selected in the lottery. The lottery consists of the top thirteen picks in the first round."

"Very well, your report is approved."

"Thank you, sir."

"However, Xiaoyan, this is the work of sports reporters. We shouldn't step on their toes, so I will contact the headquarters, and they will make the necessary arrangements."

"I understand."

"Until the headquarters sends a dedicated reporter, you are responsible for covering Tang Bei."

"Understood."

***

The 13th, 8:40 AM.

New York, NBA Headquarters, the Commissioner’s office. David Stern was furrowing his brows as he scanned the newspapers, forgetting to drink his coffee, which had already gone cold.

He was quite pleased with Tang Bei’s appearance and welcomed the development. In 1989, he had visited CCTV to promote the NBA, signing a nearly free television broadcasting agreement. Now, CCTV had begun airing the NBA Finals and the All-Star Game, and perhaps in the future, they would broadcast the playoffs or even regular-season games.

If Tang were successfully drafted and entered the NBA as a high pick, Stern believed it would be a win-win, inevitably accelerating the promotion of the NBA in China.

But now, there was too much negative news regarding Tang, and the impact was detrimental. If Tang failed to be drafted because of this, it would be a massive loss for the league, surely hindering its expansion overseas, particularly in China.

There were two key figures involved: Jerry West and Christian Laettner. The former CBA player was not important. However, Stern currently lacked the time and energy to handle this himself; his focus was entirely on the national team. Through his efforts, NBA superstars had finally gained the opportunity to participate in the Olympics. He needed to ensure the success of this national team so that the NBA could leverage these Olympics to reach the entire world.

After a moment of thought, he pressed the intercom and said, "Adam, come in."

"Yes, Mr. Stern," a voice replied over the phone.

A few seconds later, a bald man in a suit and glasses pushed the door open and entered. "Mr. Stern, what are your instructions?"

***

David Stern scrutinized the man across his desk. This was Adam Silver, the special assistant he had hired just two days ago—a lawyer by trade, sharp and capable.

He pushed the newspapers across the desk. "Adam, handle this matter. Ensure the draft proceeds smoothly."

"Yes, Commissioner."

Adam Silver left, looking very pleased. Watching him go, David Stern viewed this as a test for Silver. If he handled it well, he could entrust him with more responsibilities.

Meanwhile, in Los Angeles, Zhang Heli, dressed in a suit and tie, was pounding the pavement with his briefcase in hand. He had spent four years at the University of Chicago, and having just divorced this year with no prospects in his career and a broken family, his condition was poor. Recently, thanks to a recommendation from his cousin, he had found a job at the Monarch company in Los Angeles, responsible for promoting Tsingtao Beer, and his situation had improved slightly.

Passing a newsstand, he stopped to buy a copy of the *Los Angeles Times* and flipped directly to the sports section. He was stunned when he saw the news about Tang Bei.

"This 'Tang Bei,' he must be Chinese, right? What a pity. If he were in Chicago, I could get in touch with him."

"Tang Bei... is the surname 'Bei'? No, it should be Tang. Tang Bei, Tang Bei, Tang Bei?"

His finances were tight, and he couldn't leave his new job to return to Chicago; it would be meaningless. But he was eager to figure out Tang Bei's origins because he believed the young man came from China. The reason was simple: Tang Bei had no English name, suggesting he had only recently arrived in America. Since he had come to the U.S., Zhang had adopted an English name for convenience; if Tang Bei were a Chinese-American, he certainly would have had one too.

***

9:00 AM. The bus arrived at the Chicago Stadium.

"Tang, do you have violent tendencies?"

"Tang, did you beat up Christian Laettner to secure a higher draft pick?"

"Tang, do you have a conflict with Mr. Jerry West?"

As Tang Bei stepped off the bus, he was swarmed by reporters firing questions at him. Eric Fleisher, waiting at the gate, was blocked by the press, sweating with anxiety. Lin Xiaoyan was also anxious, but there was nothing she could do; Xinhua News Agency had no broadcast platform in the U.S., and even if they did, she was just a junior reporter.

Through the translation of John Liu, Tang Bei replied, "That piece of trash from the Blue Devils team—he was the one who attacked me first, so I fought back. The head referee ejected him, and I wasn't called for a foul. That is the best proof."

"I did hit that scumbag Christian Laettner, but I didn't punch him; I slapped him in the face."

"Because that guy used a racial slur against me—'Chink'."

"If he does it again, I will slap him again. I mean what I say."

"As for Jerry West, he demanded that I be more humble toward him. Many people heard him say it at the time."

"But I'm sorry, I can't fulfill that request. That is the conflict between us."

When John Liu translated, he naturally omitted the insults like "piece of trash" or "scumbag," smoothing them over.

"Christian, Tang said he didn't punch you, but slapped you. Your face was indeed swollen that day, and it was still visible yesterday. Is that true?"

"F***!"

A reporter immediately ran to Laettner for an interview. Upon hearing the question, Laettner's face darkened instantly, and he let out a string of profanities.

"Hahaha..."

Seeing the exasperated Laettner, some of the other rookies and reporters couldn't help but laugh.

Entering the stadium, the head of the rookie camp, NBA Vice President Marty Blake, gave a few brief remarks before arranging the first scrimmage. With over seventy players, they had scheduled five games—two today, one in the morning and one in the afternoon, and three tomorrow.

The scrimmage was a chaotic affair, with everyone trying to show off their skills. Naturally, the high-profile rookies got more playing time, while the others were just there to make an appearance.

The two teams were the Red Team and the White Team. The staff began calling out the starting lineups:

"Red Team: Shaquille O'Neal, Christian Laettner, Walt Williams, Jim Jackson, Randy Woods."

"White Team: Alonzo Mourning, Tom Gugliotta, LaPhonso Ellis, Todd Day, Anthony Peeler."

General managers, scouts, and agents sat in the stands along the sidelines, while reporters and photographers occupied the media tables at the baselines.

The rookies didn't sit down; they moved around on the sidelines or in the player tunnels, ready to step in at any moment.

"Don't worry, your turn will come sooner or later. Just give it your all when you get out there," Eric Fleisher said nervously to Tang Bei, who was warming up on the sidelines.

After John Liu translated, Tang Bei nodded and said, "I hope I get to match up against that guy, Christian Laettner."