Chapter Thirty-Four: Gary

"The first time I clashed with Gan was in October 1981, the second Monday, the 12th, at the Tiger Gymnasium. That game between the Water Clock team and the Tigers later became known as the Columbus Day Miracle. Fuck the miracle; the Water Clock team was already that good back then. I was in ninth grade, and many of my friends were at Fremont. I spent the entire first half heckling Gan because he had beaten my friend Herbert into such a pulp that his own mother wouldn't recognize him. By the second half, he probably couldn't take it anymore; he ran to the sideline and asked me my name. I told him, and he just looked at me and said, 'Fuck you, Gary!' I, of course, wasn't going to let him off the hook. I stood up and kept on trash-talking, and he went and dunked on Herbert again—sorry, Herbert—and then he ran over to the sideline and said, 'This is my welcome gift to you, we aren't done yet!' I remember that line to this day, and then it started: pew, pew, pew~"
———Excerpt 1 from the 2023 book *Trash Talk*, an interview with NBA legend Gary Payton.

Gan Guoyang had always been emotionally stable. Even a major event like time travel had left him calm quite quickly. However, in the noisy, chaotic environment of the Tiger Gymnasium, he, who had originally been focusing on the game, was finally annoyed by the continuous barrage of trash talk. That kid was truly a chatterbox; if he were a native of Tianjin, he would be perfectly suited to perform crosstalk—the kind of talent gifted by the heavens.

Of course, Gan Guoyang had no intention of getting tangled up in a war of words with this kid. Performance on the court was what mattered most. In the second half, he decided to increase his shot attempts to consolidate the team's lead.

Coach Orwell of the Tigers was pacing the sidelines, wearing a yellow plaid suit, a popular style in those days. Through the first half, Orwell had gained a preliminary understanding of the Water Clock team's offensive and defensive patterns. The Water Clock team was clearly much tougher than expected, especially their No. 11 center and No. 14 small forward—both were outstanding players. With these two as the core, the rest of the team focused on defense, spot-up shooting, and rebounding. It was a well-organized, disciplined, and methodical approach.

The pressure on Orwell's shoulders was immense. What was supposed to be a standard warm-up game had turned into a qualifying match, even a battle for the city. No one knew what would happen in the arena if Fremont lost. Orwell worried about losing his authority within the team; losing to a team of Chinese players would be a significant loss of face. At halftime, he reorganized his strategy: on defense, they needed to increase pressure on Franklin with more double-teams and physical contact. On offense, they needed to pass more and attack the interior, repeatedly pounding and wearing down No. 11 to eventually tear through the opponent's zone defense.

The battle of the zone defense was often a test of mentality. The defensive side had to weave a net, while the offensive side had to keep passing and shooting from distance. Whoever had more patience and could maintain their composure would gain the upper hand in this game of attack and defense. Currently, it seemed that the well-prepared Water Clock team was far more patient than the Tigers, who were clearly growing restless as they trailed.

Facing the zone, Henry Turner attempted a long-range shot after receiving the ball but missed. Gan Guoyang grabbed the defensive rebound, but the Water Clock team committed a turnover during the fast break when a pass intended for Franklin was intercepted. However, the Tigers' counterattack was even more reckless; the point guard's layup was disrupted by Gan Guoyang, and the ball was once again controlled by Gan.

The Tigers were tightening their defense on Franklin. Gan Guoyang escorted Chen Xing across half-court, then cut to the basket, boxed out Herbert, and called for the ball. From the sidelines, Gary shouted, "Stop him! Hit his ass, choke him, kick him, poke him, dump a bucket of shit on that Chinaman's head! Kill him, Herbert!"

But the yelling seemed to have the opposite effect. Gan Guoyang backed in, using simple strength and footwork to push past Herbert, and finished with a deft right-handed layup for two points. In this center-versus-center duel, the Tigers hadn't even considered double-teaming Gan Guoyang in the low post, believing Herbert should be able to handle him alone. But Herbert couldn't. He looked frustrated; his teammates weren't coming to help, and he didn't want to ask for it—he was too embarrassed.

Gan Guoyang didn't make things harder for Herbert. Instead, as he passed Gary, he called out, "Keep it up, you're almost making me cry—almost!" Gary cursed under his breath, but although he didn't stop talking, his momentum had clearly weakened. There was no helping it; no matter how sharp his tongue was on the sidelines, he couldn't actually play. He was in eighth grade this year and would be in high school next year. What he wanted most was to attend Fremont High and play with his friends. However, his father didn't want him to go to Fremont, thinking it was too dangerous and full of Black people—even though his own family was Black.

As Gan Guoyang scored repeatedly, the Water Clock team began to pull away. Orwell was shouting from the sidelines, demanding tighter defense on Gan Guoyang. But the Tigers' players were confused: at halftime, they were told to tighten up on Franklin, and now they had to tighten up on "Ah Gan." There were five of them on the other side and only five of them, too; if they double-teamed Franklin and then double-teamed Ah Gan, were they just going to leave everyone else wide open?

The Tigers' offense also ran into trouble. Their passing became hesitant, while the Water Clock team's zone defense grew more confident. Xu Xun even took the initiative to intercept a pass and launched a fast break! The Tigers chose to foul, grabbing Xu Xun from behind and sending him crashing to the floor. It was a flagrant foul that should have resulted in free throws and possession, but the referee only called a common foul. Bellman yelled at the referee, "That's a technical! That's a flagrant! That should be free throws, free throws!" The referee placated Bellman, saying, "I'm doing this for your sake, and for mine. Just calm down." Bellman realized they were on the opponent's home turf—a gym full of Black people, with hundreds more waiting outside and police cars patrolling the streets. He figured it made sense and decided to swallow it.

On the Water Clock's sideline inbound, Franklin was met with a brutal double-team and couldn't receive the ball. Gan Guoyang came out to receive it, handed it off to Chen Xing, and cut inside after setting a screen. Gan Guoyang drew the defense, and Chen Xing, afraid to dribble too much, calmly found Xu Xun, who had cut around. Xu Xun caught the ball at the 45-degree angle on the right side and launched it immediately!

The ball headed straight for the basket. Gan Guoyang knew it was a tough shot—the power was a bit much. He ran to the left, and sure enough, the ball hit the rim and bounced to the left side. Gan Guoyang jumped, caught the ball in mid-air, and banked it in for a putback! After the basket, Gan Guoyang didn't forget to greet little Gary, "Speak up, Gary! I'm lonely if I can't hear your whimpering! This one's for you, too!"

Little Gary’s face turned even uglier. He felt a lump forming in his chest, his throat tightening, and his eyes stinging with tears that were threatening to fall. On the streets of Oakland, everyone was constantly running their mouths because the environment dictated that if you didn't look tough, you'd get bullied. Trash talk was like a cat hissing or a dog barking; it was all about appearing to be a hard case so you wouldn't be bullied. Gary's father, Al, was a streetball master and a king of trash talk—the "Meanest Man in Oakland," as he had written on his custom license plate. Gary had inherited his father's traits, but after all, he was only 13, a sensitive boy with a fragile heart. The taste of being unable to fight back was truly awful. He thought that if he could just get on the court, even against a center, he wouldn't be afraid or upset—he would choose to fight.

Now, standing on the sidelines, he struggled to hold back his tears. He didn't dare turn around, nor did he dare wipe the corners of his eyes; if his friends saw, he would be mocked for a lifetime. He continued to yell at Gan Guoyang with a cracking voice. The Tigers finally scored, as Henry Turner caught the ball in the low post amid heavy coverage and hit a turnaround jumper.

In the ensuing possession, Gan Guoyang ran to the perimeter to receive the ball. Not far from Gary, he engaged in a three-pass sequence with his teammates, toying with Herbert. Then, from 23 feet away—the NBA three-point line was 23.5 feet—Gan Guoyang launched a long-range bomb. A beautiful form, a beautiful arc, the ball swished through the net, clean and crisp. The decibel level in the Tiger Gymnasium dropped by half in an instant.

After the basket, Gan Guoyang turned around and caught Gary’s eyes. The two stared at each other. Gan Guoyang looked at him, smiled, shrugged, and ran away without saying a word. Little Gary couldn't hold it back any longer, and two bean-sized tears rolled down and fell into his mouth.

They tasted salty.

"[...] I was fucking sprayed into tears by him, really, I never told anyone about this. He hit a 20-plus-foot long-range shot; there was no three-point line back then, you know, no one shot from that far. But he, a center, just shot it so naturally and smoothly. After it went in, he turned and looked at me, didn't say a thing. Every time he scored before, he yelled at me, but this time he really didn't say anything, just smiled and shrugged. But I felt like he had said everything. I was hugely insulted. I really couldn't help it; two tears fell. But I swear, just two. I stood on the sideline, not daring to turn around or wipe my eyes. I just crossed my arms and kept my eyes wide open, trying to let the tears dry. It was fucking embarrassing..."
———Excerpt 2 from the 2023 book *Trash Talk*, an interview with NBA legend Gary Payton.