Chapter Fifty-Five Thriller

[The 1982 CIF California Championship Division 1 final was undervalued in the history of televised broadcasting; it was a night that witnessed a miracle of live television. It provided an exemplary blueprint for the NBA's future broadcasting strategies, as well as two iconic figures.]
————————Excerpt from The Ultimate Assist: The Relationship and Broadcast Strategies of the NBA and Television Networks, published in 2001 by John A. Fortunato.

During the fifteen-minute halftime interval, the control room at CBS headquarters in New York began beaming commercials to television sets: Burger King’s beef patties and Kellogg’s boxed corn flakes.

Neal Pilson, the newly appointed head of the sports division at CBS last November, asked in the control room, "It's halftime. Have the Nielsen ratings been transmitted yet?"

After a flurry of activity in the control room, a staff member walked over with a fax sheet and said, "The data just came through. The rating is roughly 4.3, which is not bad at all, pretty much on par with a regular-season NBA game."

Nielsen was the largest television ratings company in the United States. They utilized signal receivers and questionnaire surveys to compile ratings for various television networks, providing data-based evidence for the quality of television programs and advertising rate quotes.

At halftime, Nielsen transmitted the raw data collected by their signal receivers to the CBS Sports division. This data was unprocessed and imprecise, but it was what Pilson had requested; he could not wait for the precise figures to emerge.

Seeing this result, Pilson furrowed his brow. Broadcasting the CIF California Championship was one of the major decisions he made after taking office as the head of the sports division in November.

The development of the basketball market in the 1980s left much to be desired, and professional basketball had entered a trough. The ratings for the 1981 Finals were only 6.7, a quarter of the ratings for the 1979 NCAA final.

Taking advantage of this trough, Pilson had seized the league's vulnerability during the broadcasting contract negotiations with the NBA right after taking office, securing the broadcasting rights at an ultra-low price of 88 million dollars. It could be considered Pilson's triumphant opening masterpiece.

Yet once the contract was signed, Pilson naturally hoped the basketball market would rebound and that more people would be willing to watch basketball programs.

This CIF North-South final was an experiment by Pilson. A month later, on March 29, CBS would also broadcast the NCAA men's college basketball final—high school and college taking turns.

He hoped that youth sports events of this nature could attract young basketball fans, letting the market see games different from professional basketball and shaping a positive, uplifting image of the sport.

"A 4.3 rating can only be described as so-so. It's halftime now, but by the third and fourth quarters, more and more viewers will drift away, and the final result definitely won't be as good as 4.3."

Pilson was not overly disappointed with the 4.3 rating, nor was he entirely satisfied. He figured he had still overestimated the appeal of high school games.

Although this match had plenty of gimmicks—the battle between Northern and Southern California, plus a Chinese-American team and their Chinese-American star—the last Chinese person who could captivate Americans was Bruce Lee, and he had been dead for nearly ten years.

To be honest, Pilson had not watched any games played by that young man named Gan; he was simply too busy and had no time.

However, in places beyond the real-time monitoring of Pilson and Nielsen's data—in California and across other regions of the United States—things were happening.

In San Francisco, at Gan's Restaurant, in Chinatown Chinese eateries, in Korean restaurants, and in bars like The Beginning, crowds gathered in front of television sets to watch the game.

During the first quarter, everyone watched while drinking, eating, and chatting. But as the second quarter began, when Gan Guoqiang delivered that block, everything changed.

People grew focused, excited, and deeply engaged. By halftime, when Gan Guoqiang and Miller exchanged trash talk near midcourt, people could hardly wait for the third quarter.

The commercials grew protracted; some people decided to head home. Fifteen minutes was enough time to get home, turn on the television, and continue watching the rest of the game.

That night, at an underground music bar in Los Angeles, halfway through a performance, a musician suddenly brought out a television set and announced that today's show was over because they had to watch a game.

Boos erupted from the crowd, but the musician said, "This is what a dead friend of mine asked of me. If that guy made it to the finals, we had to watch it no matter what, either live at the venue or on broadcast."

Some people cursed and left, but the majority stayed to see what kind of game it was—turns out it was basketball, rigid, boring stuff, utterly uninteresting.

Yet by the end of the first half, there were even more people in the music bar than before. Everyone was absorbed in the game; the duel between number 11 and number 30 was thrilling.

At halftime, more people left, wanting to find somewhere else to finish watching the game—heading to shopping malls, churches, or anywhere that could pick up the CBS broadcast.

In New York, inside his office at the Olympia Centre, David Stern was reviewing and revising drafts of the collective bargaining agreement clause by clause. He could no longer remember how many revisions he had made.

Since the summer of last year, the NBA labor and management had fallen into a quagmire of negotiations. The owners wanted to slash expenses and establish a new revenue-sharing system, especially implementing a salary cap to control unrestrained salaries.

The players' side adamantly refused. As the league's executive vice president of business and legal affairs (a new position specially created for him by O'Brien in 1980, making him solely responsible for a portfolio including law, marketing, public relations, and television broadcasting), Stern engaged in a tit-for-tat duel with players' union president Larry Fleisher.

Fleisher had played a crucial role in the 1964 All-Star boycott, the 1970 Oscar Robertson antitrust suit, and the 1976 ABA-NBA merger. He was also a renowned agent in the league.

Stern, twelve years his junior, was the only person in the league capable of matching Fleisher in legal experience, physical stamina, and shrewdness.

A knock sounded on the office door. Without lifting his head, Stern simply said, "Come in."

"David, stop working for a moment. There's a game, let's watch it together."

It was the voice of Commissioner Larry O'Brien.

Stern hurriedly looked up and asked, "What game? Today is March 1st; there are no league games."

"The league isn't the entirety of basketball. Let's go, let's watch together. I watched the first half; it's very interesting. Call Granik and Batteman, tell them to turn on their TVs too. The more people watching, the better."

Stern hastily set aside his work and followed Larry O'Brien out of the office.

In even more corners across America, there were people listening to sports broadcasts in their cars, people leaving their radios on at home to listen to the game while reading the newspaper, and guests visiting others' homes who found themselves captivated by the televised match.

A portion of them hurried home to immediately turn on their television sets; another portion turned off their familiar radios and decided to switch on the TV to see what was happening; others chose to head home during halftime and turned on the television upon arrival...

In the 1980s, neighborly relationships were not yet as distant and indifferent as they would later become. In middle-class neighborhoods across California, New York, Massachusetts, and Texas, groups of young and adult men gathered to drink, chat about sports, and talk baseball, football, horse racing, and bull riding.

Then someone would chime in, "Hey, there's an interesting game on, let's watch it together. A friend of mine just called and said it's fascinating."

Or in Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama, within impoverished yet lively Black communities, elderly folks sat idly in their yards while children played outside.

As groups passed by, someone would remark, "CBS has a game on, everyone says it's good, go back in... Grandpa! Stop zoning out in the yard, go inside and turn on the TV cabinet!"

In that era devoid of the internet, where communication relied primarily on telephones and the release of all news suffered from latency, it was extremely rare for a program or a game to experience a sudden surge in ratings during the second half after starting quietly in the first.

All promotion was finalized before the match; those who cared would pay attention, and those who didn't would remain untouched by the news.

Unless someone was killed during the game, it was unlikely most people would turn on the television midway through to watch it.

Yet this CIF California final gained word-of-mouth acclaim thanks to a brilliant second quarter.

At the same time, as luck would have it, March 1st featured no other major sports competitions: all NBA teams were resting, the NCAA March Madness had not yet begun, and both the NFL and MLB were in their offseasons.

This solitary California high school basketball showdown suddenly became the focal point. Perhaps many people had no interest in the game, but they had all heard, to varying degrees, that Northern California seemed to have recently produced a Chinese basketball prodigy.

Driven by this curiosity, they decided to turn on the television to see what kind of game this actually was, and what kind of Chinese star he might be.

The television signal receivers placed by Nielsen in numerous households began picking up the CBS Sports channel signals, transmitting them continuously through signal towers back to the corporate headquarters.

The players on the court were unaware that the eyes watching them were multiplying; their eyes were fixed solely on their opponents and the championship trophy placed at the sidelines.

The sluggish pace at the start of the match vanished; the beginning of the second half brought bare-knuckle competition. The Waterclock team trusted the sole ace of their squad, continuously feeding the ball into Gan Guoqiang's hands.

Rivers Polytechnic High School had not reached the finals on luck alone; they possessed exceptionally formidable perimeter shooting capabilities. In high school basketball dominated by zone defenses, they were invincible.

The broadcasting tempo of the CBS commentators was more than twice as fast as the first half:

"Number 11, Sonny Gan, catches the ball, pivots, pump fake, drives inside, lays it up and scores!"

"Rivers with a fast break, Reggie Miller pulls up for a mid-range jumper! It's good, a hurried shot, but it goes in!"

"Waterclock wastes no time, they are playing at a high pace, Gan cuts down the middle to receive the pass, dunk! Woh! A one-handed slam!"

"Rivers Polytechnic hits a shot as well, good god, I couldn't even see who shot it, the camera didn't keep up."

"Sonny Gan is unstoppable, he breaks through a double-team, uses his strength to muscle his way into the paint, another dunk!"

"Gan blocks the opponent on defense, fast break, into the paint, Gan alley-oop, dunk! Waterclock's offense is playing like they're possessed! Will Rivers call a timeout?"

"No, Reggie Miller catches a long-range shot in the corner, and it drops! Roar-roar! My god! The offense from both sides cannot be stopped for a single second."

The two teams played what was likely the most breathtaking display of tit-for-tat offense in this year's CIF Championship during the third quarter.

Gan Guoqiang essentially shouldered all of Waterclock's scoring, while Miller always managed to hit shots at critical junctures.

Both players' shooting touch was at its absolute peak, and their verbal sparring never paused for a moment.

As the third quarter came to a close, the two of them "reluctantly" bid each other farewell near the sideline. Gan Guoqiang was no longer holding back and playing psychological games with measured restraint like before.

This fellow had also lost his temper, pouring everything he learned from Bellman's trash-talk training course straight onto Miller, and Miller accepted every word while sending a few back for good measure.

Bellman pulled Gan Guoqiang back to the bench and said, "Gan, you're playing great, but you need to keep a cool head and cut back on the profanity."

"That guy is a piece of crap, and if I don't win this game today, I'm going to hang you from the rafters of this gym, Bobby!"

"..."

The passionate duel between Gan Guoqiang and Miller ignited the emotions of both the fans at the venue and the audience in front of their televisions.

In America, nothing is more captivating than a heroic duel.

Throughout the entire 1970s, the NBA had tough competitors, but no heroes.

Larry Bird and Magic Johnson were astonishing; they created a ratings miracle in the 1979 NCAA final, reaching a staggering 24.1 that no one could hope to match.

Yet the actual flow of the game was quite disappointing: Larry Bird shot 7-for-21, scoring only 19 points, and lost the match without much suspense. The evenly matched contest people wanted to see never materialized, leaving only the image of Bird sitting on the bench with his head in his hands, weeping.

Meanwhile, this CIF North-South war reached a combat climax in the fourth quarter.

Waterclock had no one who could defend Miller, and Rivers Polytechnic was even less capable of stopping Gan Guoqiang.

The relatively lower overall skill level instead forged a chivalric duel between the two teenagers.

The entire fourth quarter was a carbon copy of the third; the two rested briefly on the bench before returning to the hardwood.

All eyes were locked onto them. Miller was slender, nimble, and precise, while Gan Guoqiang was a fierce yellow beast.

Gan Guoqiang had more dunks tonight than in all his previous games combined; Waterclock's players could all see that Gan Guoqiang desperately wanted to win.

The score oscillated back and forth from 41:43 at halftime, climbing all the way to 87:86.

Waterclock, which had kept the pressure on Rivers High throughout, hit a fatigue wall in the closing moments.

Forty-eight minutes across four quarters of play took a heavy toll on the players' stamina.

Lacking proper rest, nutrition, and warm-ups, all these factors impacted the players' condition.

Gritting their teeth to push through, Xu Xun suffered a calf cramp in the closing moments and had to be carried off the court.

As he was subbed off, his eyes welled with tears, and he tightly grasped Gan Guoqiang's arm without uttering a single word.

Gan Guoqiang understood Xu Xun's intent. He wiped away his sweat and stepped back onto the floor for a crucial possession for the team.

"Double-team him, double-team him!"

Miller shouted to his teammates; everyone knew Waterclock had only Gan Guoqiang left with any stamina.

Chen Xing nearly turned the ball over before Gan Guoqiang stepped out to receive it, barely managing to retain control.

Two defenders closed in for a double-team beyond the three-point line, backing Gan Guoqiang into a desperate corner.

"Sonny Gan is about to lose the ball... he maintains control, fights to pull it back, cuts down the middle with Rivers Polytechnic swarming all over him, and shoots directly off the three-point line..."

Time seemed to stand still.

"...It's good! Oh my god! It went in! He made the shot!"

The CBS television broadcast and many broadcasters courtside could not help but leap up and shout.

Gan Guoqiang had sunk an unbelievable long-range shot through a triple-team, just as he was nearly losing possession.

The score stood at 88:87; with only seconds remaining in the game, Waterclock had taken the lead!

The entire Los Angeles Great Western Forum erupted into a frenzy. The fans no longer cared whether it was Northern or Southern California; they only wanted to witness a duel of heroes.

Rivers High called a timeout, leaving themselves a sliver of an opportunity for a comeback, and the venue cameras naturally panned to Reggie Miller.

Miller had shot 13-for-19 on the night, racking up 30 points. His shooting accuracy was terrifying.

Could this younger brother of Cheryl Miller match his sister, capture the CIF championship, and keep the glory in Southern California?

The timeout concluded swiftly. Back at CBS headquarters, inside Neal Pilson's office, a staff member rushed in without knocking, shoving the door open as he shouted, "Mr. Pilson! The latest ratings data from Nielsen!"

"The latest ratings? Is the game over?"

"Not yet, it's down to the final moments, and the ratings have already reached..."

"How much?"

"Roughly estimated at 15.8, and that might even be low."

"What?"

Pilson could not believe his ears. With the game nearing its conclusion, the ratings had climbed to 15.8? They had tripled!

If he couldn't trust his ears, he had to trust his eyes. Pilson scrambled all the way to the control room, only to find virtually everyone crowded around, watching the match.

The final possession—Reggie Miller's last shot!

Miller shook his defender, received the pass on the right wing at a 45-degree angle, turned, and released a jumper just inside the three-point line!

"Miller's final shot! The ball... the ball is tipped by Gan! It's tipped by Gan! He touched it with his fingertips, Gan secures the ball! The game is over, the game is over!"

"The Northern Overseas Chinese Waterclock team from San Francisco has won this championship! A miracle, they've created a miracle! This is their very first year joining the CIF! A miracle!"

The television broadcaster's voice was hoarse; he had pushed his own limits.

Cheers echoed throughout the control room. It seemed everyone was rooting for Waterclock, rooting for this suddenly ascendant Chinese-American team.

Pilson stood rooted to the spot, emotions surging within him. A massive wave of elation filled his chest like a bullet striking his heart, sending tremors radiating from his core outward to his limbs, all the way to his fingertips, toes, and scalp.

His body began to tremble involuntarily.

Is this what it feels like to experience a miracle?

So wondrous, making one shiver all over.

[...In the Westlake Studio in Los Angeles, I was wholeheartedly devoted to the production of the new album Thriller. We worked with complete self-absorption, caring about almost nothing outside of music... The only exception was the night of March 1st. I was struggling with the melody of a song, feeling like I couldn't find the right vibe. The record company kept pushing, and I felt immense pressure. Frank DiLeo found me then, urging me to watch some television with him because there was a basketball game on. I refused; I didn't have much interest in basketball, but he insisted the game was fascinating and demanded we watch. It was the CIF final. I watched the second half and discovered Gan for the very first time. In the closing moments, Gan hit the game-winning shot, and I leaped off the sofa, dancing with excitement. But the game wasn't over; Reggie Miller had a chance to win it, catching the ball and firing away. Yet Gan sprinted from far away, coming from the side and tipping the ball out of midair. Then the ball landed in his hands, and he raised it high with one hand while the whole arena cheered—he looked like a basketball Statue of Liberty. At that moment, my entire body was trembling. I had found that feeling—that thrilling, mesmerizing feeling. I immediately rushed back to the recording studio and completed the recording of Thriller...]
————————Excerpt from Moon Walk, the biography of Michael Jackson published in 1988.

(Volume One "Go To Be There" concludes.)