Chapter 2 July

Fosse:

I am sorry we didn't get to meet in Los Angeles. My trip to UCLA was too rushed, leaving no chance to contact you.

Now that I am back in San Francisco, I keep thinking about the letter you wrote me on June 15, though for a while, I didn't quite know how to reply.

Recently, a few matters have finally settled, and since I happened to have some things on my mind I wanted to share, I am writing back to you now. I apologize for the long delay.

In the blink of an eye, it is already July. When I last received your letter, I was heading down to Los Angeles with my younger brother for my UCLA basketball team interview.

The person who greeted me was a tall guy named Mark Eaton. I am already considered tall and have crossed paths with people even taller than me.

Yet Mark Eaton truly deserves to be called a giant—a real giant. Standing in front of him, I felt small myself.

He is a very good person. The only reason he hosted me was because of a favor entrusted to him by Wilt Chamberlain. (I mentioned my encounter with Chamberlain in a previous letter; please make sure not to tell anyone else. He is stingy, and if he knew I let it slip, he would definitely be angry with me. He has been really good to me, though.)

Eaton told me that the reason he continues to play basketball to this day is largely due to Chamberlain's encouragement.

During a warm-up scrimmage once, Chamberlain told Eaton to stick to what he does best and focus on becoming a great interior defender.

Eaton graduated this year and was selected at the end of June, picked by the Utah Jazz. He called me that very day to share the news, and we have become good friends.

However, I told him over the phone that I might not end up attending UCLA to study and play. He seemed a bit surprised, but said he understood.

Writing this letter to you is partly to let you know about this decision. UCLA is a prestigious basketball powerhouse with a long-standing tradition and immense appeal, but I don't feel it is the right fit for me.

On the day of the interview, I waited for a very long time in the school gymnasium. I drove all the way there myself, a drive of over five hours, and by the time I arrived, I was already growing impatient.

The gym was empty, so Eaton and I played some ball for a bit. His build and strength are incredible; it is genuinely difficult to score over him using conventional moves. I suppose I am a bit short compared to him.

I asked him if he must get plenty of playing time at UCLA, but Eaton told me he barely gets any chances on the court at all.

He said that back in 1981, when Coach Larry Brown was in charge, he still averaged about eight minutes of playing time per game.

This year, the team brought in Coach Larry Farmer, and his playing time plummeted to just three minutes.

Three minutes is simply too short. It is like taking off your clothes and rolling around in a puddle—not enough time to take a proper bath, nor enough time to enjoy a swim, leaving you nothing more than soaked.

Eaton said Coach Farmer dislikes white players and harbors a clear bias toward Black players. He told me that skipping UCLA is the right choice, and added that Farmer certainly wouldn't like a Chinese player either.

I didn't pay too much attention to the skin color issue, though. The people I have met in California are not overly sensitive about race because there are simply too many different ethnicities here.

That was one of the primary reasons I prioritized UCLA among many schools. Actually, plenty of universities from the East and the South had sent me invitations, but those places were either too far away or had less-than-ideal racial environments.

I am not afraid of any racists, but I refuse to waste too much time bickering with fools when I want to pour my energy into basketball and life.

What truly disappointed me about UCLA was that Coach Farmer's basketball philosophy clashed with mine. Unlike my high school coach, he didn't give me the freedom to play to my strengths.

Right after the interview concluded, he laid down a mountain of rules for me, covering everything from how to tie my shoelaces to the exact length of my shorts, down to how many minutes I would play in each game during my freshman year.

I have heard the stories of John Wooden—he was a truly remarkable coach. But Mr. Wooden has already retired, and his methods do not necessarily apply to every single coach and player.

I am not a child. I do not need someone holding my hand to teach me how to play basketball or how to keep myself in check; I need room to grow further.

Therefore, I decided to turn down UCLA. Besides, they weren't all that invested in me in the first place.

I am sorry for rambling on so much about basketball, not to mention filling the letter with so many negative emotions and complaints. Once I started writing, I just couldn't seem to help myself.

I am always talking about myself. We should talk about you instead...

"Hey! Gump! What the hell are you doing? Writing a letter?"

Gu Guanyang, right in the midst of writing, was startled by the voice behind him. He turned around to see Bernard King walking into the gymnasium.

Today was July 4th, Independence Day in the United States. Guanyang had spent the past hour working on his game at the Chinatown YMCA training center.

During a break, remembering that he still hadn't replied to Wang Fuxi's letter, he had pulled out paper and pen, crouching on the bench by the sideline to write.

Only when Bernard King interrupted him did he remember that he had agreed to work out with King at the gym today—though this guy was late.

Guanyang hurriedly folded the letter paper, shoved it into his gym bag on the side, and said, "You're late, King. That's not a good habit."

With a wicked grin on his face, King said, "Oh lord, Gump, you aren't writing a letter to a girl, are you? Is this the 1940s or 50s? Do people still build relationships through letters? Make a phone call, hop into your Ford, drive to her house to pick her up, go for a cruise, grab a big dinner, and catch a movie. I'm telling you, that solves everything. You're the California state champion, man. Have some confidence."

Guanyang couldn't be bothered to explain everything to King, so he said, "Let's start training. You said it yourself: every off-season, you need to add a new offensive trick to your arsenal."

King shook his head. "Such a romantic ignoramus. You might as well sleep with a basketball in your arms at night."

Bernard King went to the locker room to change his clothes. The two of them had booked the entire court for the afternoon session.

Ever since kicking his drinking problem, King had held himself to a higher standard, determined to add new offensive nuances every single off-season to sharpen his scoring firepower.

This year, the Golden State Warriors had fallen just short of the playoff berth once again, losing out to the Phoenix Suns in the final seeding battles and missing the postseason by a narrow margin for the second consecutive year.

For a Warriors squad with a talented roster, strong internal chemistry, and aspirations of becoming a powerhouse in the league, this was a heavy blow.

Bernard King's contract was set to expire this summer, and so far, there had been no news of the Warriors offering him a new deal.

This left Bernard King somewhat unsettled, especially given how brilliantly he had performed throughout the season, averaging 23.2 points, 5.9 rebounds, and 3.6 assists per game, alongside earning his first career All-Star selection.

Lately, he had been spending all his time training and playing with Guanyang, which helped steady his mind.

Bernard King had been continuously amazed by Guanyang's extraordinary learning capacity; the kid had already picked up his signature quick-turnaround jumper to a remarkably high degree.

Heeled pivot, blazing speed, tight turning radius, and clean, fluid execution—most big men simply couldn't reach that level of mastery.

Most of them moved sluggishly, requiring a wide turning clearance, and the moment they faced a double-team, they would lose their shooting pocket entirely.

Even though he played the center position, Guanyang was learning and studying offensive techniques fit for an elite small forward.

Upon learning that Guanyang was going to pass on UCLA, Bernard King remarked that UCLA's decline was entirely deserved, calling them absolute fools for failing to treat Guanyang with the respect and priority he warranted.

King even asked Guanyang if he had any interest in the University of Tennessee, but Guanyang just smiled and shook his head; he had no desire to head to the South.

"We've been practicing the turnaround jumper for days now. Let's do something new today. What is it?" Guanyang was far more enthusiastic about basketball techniques.

"You really are a gym rat... Today, I'm going to teach you the left-handed layup."

"What? A left-handed layup? Come on, big bro, anyone can do that."

"I know, but not just any ordinary left-handed layup. It's when you jump off your left foot, preparing to finish with your right hand, but because of sudden defensive pressure, you are forced to switch to your left hand mid-air—and you can still execute the transition with absolute fluidity. Or, when a defender anticipates your layup method based on your footwork, you do the exact opposite, making it impossible for them to contest or block you."

Generally speaking, when players drive for a layup, they take off on their left foot to shoot with the right hand, or take off on the right foot to shoot with the left hand.

That is how the body maintains balance and coordination; using the same-side foot and hand feels extremely awkward.

Some NBA players solved this by taking off on two feet, allowing them to use either the left or the right hand.

However, there were also players with top-tier coordination and skill who ignored foot-hand pairings completely, adapting on the fly and finishing however they pleased.

This presented immense difficulties and challenges for any defender.

That immediately piqued Guanyang's interest. He knew Bernard King must have specialized training methods since the guy worked with dedicated private trainers.

Siphoning training regimens from NBA players was truly a fantastic way to elevate one's own game.