Chapter 44 Complete Nonsense

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“There have always been rumors in the media about what happened between Wilt and me at Sermond’s place on Christmas in 1981. I want to say, it’s all nonsense!”
—— Excerpt from Wilt Chamberlain’s 1992 autobiography, *A View from Above*, part 2.

After finishing his lemonade, Sermond came out from the kitchen carrying a large platter of fragrant roasted meats.

Upon learning that Chamberlain was joking with Gan Guoyang over lemonade, Sermond shook his head and said, “Wilt has always loved lemonade. Back in the locker room, he used to hydrate with a gallon of it. The guy really doesn’t like drinking alcohol.”

Chamberlain replied, “I’m a disciplined athlete. There’s no way I’d like something as dangerous as alcohol.”

“Try my secret barbecue recipe,” Sermond said. “It was passed down from my grandmother to my mother, and then to me—a tradition from Ohio.”

The platter was piled high with pork ribs, beef, and chicken, all emitting a strange, tantalizing aroma that made mouths water just by the scent.

Gan Guoyang was curious. The restaurant had clearly closed down, so why was Sermond still here barbecuing?

Sermond explained that while his The Beginning had indeed shut its doors, the new bar was run by his cousin Bob.

Since it was Christmas, he had invited family and neighbors to gather at the bar, to celebrate and test his culinary skills, seeing if the ancestral barbecue recipe was still a hit.

After unanimous praise, Sermond smiled and said, “Maybe I should open a barbecue joint. Seems like there’s no good barbecue around here, right?”

Everyone agreed, and Sermond kept the idea in mind, planning to make it a reality someday.

Chamberlain devoured at least half the platter by himself, utterly unconcerned about maintaining his legendary star image. He laughed heartily among friends and ordinary folks, cracking silly jokes and teasing Sermond about his shiny bald head.

Sermond wasn’t offended. Back when they were with the San Francisco Warriors, he had been Chamberlain’s junior, taken care of by him, and they formed a close friendship before their careers diverged.

One became dazzlingly famous; the other, humble and unassuming. One continued to wield influence in the world of fame and fortune after retirement; the other returned to the community, becoming a modestly affluent neighborhood elder.

Gan Guoyang quietly ate the barbecue, observing Chamberlain’s childlike demeanor—a basketball legend acting playful—while Sermond sat silently, like a protective older brother, patient and tolerant. In his heart, he understood that Chamberlain still carried the mindset of a chosen one fresh into the league, while Sermond had long weathered the trials of life, becoming a mature man.

If he recalled correctly, though Chamberlain had many admirers, he never married or had children; his almost alien-like genetics had not been passed down—whether he had any illegitimate children was unknown.

After the meal, the group sought entertainment. Some played cards, others darts, and some mixed drinks and toasted.

Suddenly, Chamberlain took off his jacket, revealing his muscular physique, and said to Gan, “Hey kid, Sermond told me you’re incredibly strong. Let’s have an arm wrestling match!”

Gan was taken aback. Chamberlain was nearly fifty—how could he challenge a high schooler to arm wrestling?

Looking at Chamberlain’s arms, almost as thick as Gan’s thighs, he realized the challenge was serious.

Sermond stepped in to mediate, “Wilt, you should act like an elder.”

But Chamberlain said, “I’ve had enough of being a star outside. Here, I just want to have fun. Honestly, there’s something about this kid that rubs me the wrong way.”

“Hey, you said you wanted to meet this new San Francisco Chinese star. You claimed you’d seen him in the papers at least three times. So why do you dislike him now? Is he stealing your spotlight?”

“No, it’s not that. The more I look at him, the more he reminds me of Bill. Really, his aura gives me a bit of PTSD. Come on, young man, I’m just playing—I won’t go full strength.”

The Bill he mentioned was, of course, Bill Russell. Gan’s calm, controlled demeanor and his height reminded Chamberlain of his nightmare rival in basketball.

Gan wasn’t intimidated. He took off his jacket, revealing a lean, strong body. He looked much slimmer than Chamberlain, seemingly at a disadvantage.

But arm wrestling requires not just strength but skill—the clever use of leverage and force.

Chamberlain was confident, unaware that Gan had honed his arm wrestling skills since childhood at the orphanage, intimidating many tough kids.

Now, with his extraordinary, almost bio-engineered physique, Gan sculpted his body daily after deciding to pursue basketball.

“Just playing, huh? You’re not going full strength?”

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“Of course, just playing. But remember, give it your all.”

Chamberlain was supremely confident in his strength. He could effortlessly lift an ordinary adult as easily as picking up a balloon.

Though 45 years old, with diminished endurance and explosiveness, his strength was at its peak.

They sat down, elbows on the table, hands clasped.

Everyone else playing cards, darts, or drinking stopped to watch the extraordinary arm wrestling duel.

Unfortunately, there were no smartphones or video cameras then, or someone surely would have recorded this priceless historic moment.

Chamberlain’s hands were wide and thick; his fingers not long but very robust—a testament to his power.

Gan’s hands were also large, with long fingers and solid palms. The moment their hands locked, the contest began.

“Big hands, kid, not bad. Put some power into it, or I’ll crush your bones.”

Chamberlain increased his force, but Gan remained expressionless, fully focused.

Sermond officiated. At his signal, Gan unleashed his full strength, twisting from his feet through his thighs, waist, back, and finally his arm like a lever.

The sudden surge was like a tiger pouncing down a mountain. Though prepared and exerting himself, Chamberlain had overestimated his strength, unprepared for the boy’s power.

Sermond had spoken truthfully—Chamberlain felt his arm weaken for the first time in his life, muscles contracting one way while his arm bent the other.

Gan nearly pinned Chamberlain’s arm to the table, the back of Chamberlain’s dark hand just a centimeter from the cloth.

But Chamberlain was Chamberlain. Despite the hyperextension, he used sheer muscle power to hold his ground.

His face contorted as if enduring extreme pain, teeth clenched and eyes shut tight, fighting to preserve that last centimeter of dignity.

“Shit, shit, shit!” he muttered, disbelieving he was about to lose.

Gan pressed his lips tightly, veins bulging on his forehead.

The initial explosion of strength had passed. Now it was a battle of endurance, willpower, and body weight.

The onlookers held their breath, expecting Chamberlain to easily defeat the youngster.

But Gan quickly forced Chamberlain into a dire position. Chamberlain’s arm was bent backward, with no chance of winning without professional arm wrestling technique.

Chamberlain gritted his teeth, hoping to wear down Gan’s stamina and snatch victory or at least a draw.

Both exerted tremendous effort, right hands straining while their left hands gripped the table leg hard.

The old patchwork wooden table couldn’t withstand the strain of two men over two meters tall.

With a loud crack, it split into several pieces.

At that moment, Gan twisted his wrist and pressed down with his body weight. Chamberlain’s hand touched the tablecloth.

But without support—the table legs had collapsed—the surface broke into three pieces, shattered.

“I win!” Gan shouted triumphantly.

“No! The table broke, that doesn’t count! I already let go then. You cheated—you started pushing first, I wasn’t ready.”

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Chamberlain waved his hands, refusing to admit defeat, demanding a rematch at a sturdier table.

Sermond declared the match invalid. “My cousin’s bar doesn’t have enough tables for you to break. It’s Christmas; shouldn’t we be peaceful?”

Gan didn’t mind, but Chamberlain was furious, insisting on a rematch.

He claimed he was ready this time and would defeat Gan in 0.1 seconds flat.

After Sermond’s repeated persuasion and Chamberlain lifting Gan to demonstrate his strength, the old boy finally calmed down.

Before leaving, Chamberlain warned Gan, “Kid, you didn’t really beat me today. If you go around bragging about beating me in arm wrestling, I’ll organize a nationwide live broadcast arm wrestling match to prove you’re lying to all America!”

Gan thought, if you lose again on national TV, won’t that be the proof?

Still, Gan knew he had taken advantage of Chamberlain’s carelessness by striking first.

Anyone who underestimated him would pay the price.

“Alright, I won’t say a word. But can I ask you a basketball question? How do you deal with those strong twin towers? Two big, tough guys surrounding you inside the paint—how do you handle that?”

The loss to Washington High still stung Gan deeply. He needed guidance.

Chamberlain, seeing Gan’s earnestness, generously shared his experience:

“Ah, you asked the right person. I’ve faced countless double-teams and tight defenses. If you’re trapped by two strong big men, here’s the best approach: focus on one and attack him relentlessly, both offensively and defensively.”

“Focus on one and attack him relentlessly?”

“Yes. Do you know Walter Bellamy?”

“No.”

“No wonder. You don’t even know Sermond. Young people these days... Bellamy was the 1961 top draft pick, who averaged 31 points as a rookie center—unstoppable. Back in my third year, his team first faced ours. He introduced himself to me saying, ‘I’m Walter Bellamy.’ I thought, ‘Where did this fool come from?’ I told him, ‘Hello, Walter, you won’t make a single shot in the first half.’ I blocked all nine of his attempts in the first half. After halftime, I said, ‘Okay, now you can shoot.’ He ended up with 14 points. From then on, he feared me. Now here’s the key. In 1965, Bellamy moved to the New York Knicks, who also had Willis Reed—a tough guy. The Knicks tried using twin towers against me. Both were talented, but I just focused on Bellamy. No matter how they double-teamed or Reed guarded me, I stuck to Bellamy, defended him, ignored the other. Guess what happened? Bellamy completely broke down, and Reed didn’t perform well. Later, the Knicks traded Bellamy, leaving Reed solo inside, bringing in Dave DeBusschere, and that’s when the Knicks got tough.”

Gan listened carefully, understanding Chamberlain’s point.

It’s a form of psychological warfare, like fighting a gang: no matter how many people attack you, pick off the leader relentlessly.

If you try to punch everyone, you might hurt no one, but if you focus on one, their entire morale can collapse.

Gan grasped this, though he hadn’t thought to apply it in games. Clearly, his skill in controlling opponents' psychology needed improvement.

“And that’s psychological. What about tactics?”

“Tactics? Follow your coach’s plan. If your coach doesn’t know how to handle twin towers inside, he should be fired. Remember, at a certain level, psychology and willpower decide everything.”

“Then why did you cheat?”

“I warn you! I didn’t cheat—I didn’t lose!”

Chamberlain spent a rather unpleasant Christmas in 1981 and never returned to San Francisco for the holiday again.

“Gan’s dominance over the twin towers owes much to my teaching.”

—— Excerpt from Wilt Chamberlain’s 1992 autobiography, *A View from Above*, part 3.