Chapter Forty-Two: Sophomores versus Seniors (Part Three)

The scoreboard stood on the sidelines, the referee with a whistle around his neck positioned at center court. Around the basketball court, a growing crowd of students had gathered—boys and girls alike, their numbers swelling with each passing minute.

For Liu Zihan, this felt like a stage set just for him. Years of “professional” basketball training since childhood, combined with his dazzling gear, left him utterly absorbed in self-admiration. He was already imagining the eruption of cheers and screams from the crowd the moment he scored. Jiu Wu would battle for rebounds beneath the basket; Wang Jinsong would set screens for him. As for Li Teng and Wang Xiang, since they were classmates, they could tag along and enjoy the limelight, even if their contribution amounted to little more than filling out the roster. With his leadership, the presence of Jiu Wu and Wang Jinsong alone was more than enough. How hard could winning be? After all, he was a professional!

But while the imagination is sweet, reality is often harsh.

The game began as soon as the jump ball ended. Liu Zihan received the ball from Jiu Wu with confidence, dribbling steadily as he advanced up the court. He seemed not to regard his upperclassman defender, “Watermelon,” as a threat at all. With his left hand dribbling and his right hand gesturing at teammates, he called out instructions for their movement and screens. To outsiders or basketball novices, it might seem impressive: Look, he can dribble with his left hand! He can command his teammates!

From the sidelines, Lin Nan watched Liu Zihan’s left-handed dribble—clearly not very skilled. Casting a glance at the upperclassman “Watermelon,” Lin Nan already knew what was about to happen.

As predicted, Watermelon’s patience wore thin. Initially, facing freshmen, he’d planned to go easy, play casually, and barely clinch a win to leave the younger students some dignity. But nothing irked him more than people like this—players who strutted around the court as if the world revolved around them, all show and little substance, thinking themselves invincible. And the worst part: the guy in front of him wasn’t even that good.

The next moment, as Liu Zihan lost himself in his swagger, Watermelon seized the perfect opportunity—a lightning-quick, precise steal. He slapped the ball away, darted past Liu Zihan, sprinted for the ball, and in a swift fast break, carried it to the basket and executed a textbook three-step layup off the glass. The score rose to 20:2.

Liu Zihan, meanwhile, stood frozen, as if none of this had anything to do with him. Two seconds ticked by before he turned to his teammates and said, “My bad, my bad. I underestimated them. Let’s reorganize and attack again.”

His teammates said nothing. After all, winning and losing is part of the game; you can’t blame or distrust a teammate for a single mistake.

To the uninitiated watching from the sidelines, the only takeaway from that play was that the senior student was impressive; Liu Zihan’s blunder didn’t register.

Only those who truly understood the game allowed themselves a smirk.

Because they had just conceded a basket, possession returned to the freshmen—meaning Liu Zihan once again had the ball. This time, he abandoned his bravado, dribbling with his right hand, shielding the ball with his left, focusing intently as he advanced. He knew his left hand was unpolished and understood the fundamentals of offense, but couldn’t resist showing off.

His defender now was another senior, not Watermelon. Near the opposing three-point line, Liu Zihan tested his man with a couple of feints and noticed that this upperclassman’s defense seemed weak, easily fooled by fakes. In truth, of the five seniors on the court, only Watermelon and Screw stood out; the other three were mere enthusiasts. They were testing the waters, deploying a simple zone defense to gauge the freshmen’s abilities.

A confident smile spread across Liu Zihan’s face. With a solid series of crossovers, he created ample space, seized the chance to drive, and launched into a classic three-step layup, soaring upward.

As Liu Zihan rose toward the hoop, already savoring the imagined swish as the ball dropped through the net, certain this would be his triumphant opening, Screw—stationed by the paint—caught sight of Liu’s self-assured demeanor. In an instant, Screw sprang from the floor.

These past two days, Screw had felt stung to the core by Lin Nan’s dominance on the court. Watermelon had just warned him about this cocky kid—was this how all the new students viewed their seniors now, as nobodies?

Screw’s leap matched Liu Zihan’s height, but with longer arms and greater reach, he swatted the ball hard out of bounds.

Cheers and gasps erupted from the sidelines.

In that moment, Screw felt a surge of satisfaction—after all, blocking a shot is always a thrill for any basketball player. He silently thanked Liu Zihan for giving him a chance to vent his frustrations.

Liu Zihan, on the other hand, was mortified. After years of playing, he knew all too well what it meant to be blocked: utter humiliation.

Yet some of the clueless spectators continued shouting encouragement, oblivious to the significance of consecutive mistakes. To them, one or two errors were nothing, as long as it didn’t become a pattern.

Hearing these cheers, Liu Zihan quickly dismissed his two blunders and launched another attack. But he still failed to grasp the root of his failures. He persisted in his solo offense, refusing to utilize Jiu Wu’s height or pass the ball, always driving alone until he was double- or triple-teamed, then making a hurried pass or forcing a shot—leading invariably to turnovers or airballs.

Lin Nan, watching anxiously from the side, could see it clearly: Liu Zihan was a selfish player with mediocre skills, while Jiu Wu and Wang Jinsong played decently. But the freshmen as a whole were a mess, lacking both effective offense and organized defense.

The score climbed to 20:12. At this rate, they would soon fall behind—and the first quarter wasn’t even over yet!

Lin Nan finally understood what the uncle had once told him during summer games at the sports plaza: “Remember, on the basketball court, besides technical skill, you must learn to command leadership and authority within your team.”

Back then, Lin Nan hadn’t grasped the meaning. He’d simply thought teammates should pass to whoever had the hot hand or the best technique. That’s how the uncles had played—feeding him the ball when he was on fire.

Only now did he realize that not everyone desires victory; some only care about themselves, not the team. Such people are a cancer to any squad.

Yet Lin Nan felt awkward about stopping the game and asking for a substitution when everyone was still new and unfamiliar. So he contented himself with warming up on the sidelines.

Finally, the first quarter ended with the score at 22:18, Liu Zihan having managed a lucky basket.

As soon as they came off the court, Wang Jinsong—without even pausing for water—pointed at Liu Zihan, Li Teng, and Wang Xiang. “You three are sitting out the second quarter. We’re subbing in others.”

Wang Jinsong was straightforward. He’d already seen that Li Teng and Wang Xiang had no basketball sense; they’d spent the entire first quarter running back and forth, wholly peripheral. Liu Zihan had some skill, but he was too self-centered and, more importantly, couldn’t score or lead the team to victory. Wang Jinsong simply couldn’t stand playing alongside such a player.

Given that they had only just met and were now teammates, Wang Jinsong didn’t say more.

Li Teng and Wang Xiang, eyeing Wang Jinsong’s muscular build, quietly acquiesced.

Liu Zihan started to protest, but thinking back on his lackluster performance, he fell silent, tacitly accepting the decision.

Right then, Lin Nan stepped forward. “Let me play point guard.”

Wang Jinsong glanced at him, catching the earnestness on Lin Nan’s face and the fierce desire to win in his eyes. He agreed on the spot, though he privately resolved: if this guy turns out to be another Liu Zihan, I’ll take over point guard duties myself.

The other two substitutes, Chen Shan and Zhao Qiang, both stood around 1.8 meters tall and looked like they could play.

The second quarter began.

The seniors also adjusted their lineup. Apart from Watermelon and Screw, the other three were now members of the school basketball team—just one short of their strongest formation.

As soon as he entered the court, Screw spotted a familiar figure: Lin Nan. He quickly alerted his teammates, knowing that anyone who trained so early and could dunk was bound to have skills.

Yet his teammates, glancing at the unremarkable Lin Nan—average height, average reach, average build—paid him little heed. After all, at this age, who isn’t brash and cocky, especially when facing someone younger?

Since the opening jump ball had gone to the freshmen, possession in the second and third quarters belonged to the seniors.

The new senior point guard, wearing number 3—the same number as Lin Nan’s idol and his personal favorite—had long been annoyed by Liu Zihan’s arrogance and incompetence. He’d planned to humiliate Liu Zihan with a series of moves this quarter, teaching him a lesson in humility.

To his surprise, Liu Zihan had been benched. In that case, the substitute Screw had warned him about would have to take the fall.

After receiving Watermelon’s inbound pass, number 3 quickly brought the ball past half court, noting that the freshmen were mirroring their zone defense. Jiu Wu manned the center, the other four spaced on the wings. With Jiu Wu’s height, anyone driving into the lane would have a hard time getting past his help defense.

Clearly, the freshmen had a new on-court strategist. Could it be the newcomer Screw had warned about?

Number 3 quickly pieced things together. If so, he’d test his luck by attacking from that side.

With that, he dribbled the ball toward Lin Nan’s defensive zone.