pertwk Chapter 137
Chapter 137
"Wang Zhizhi?" he said. "I've met him."
He's really tall, and his touch is amazing. Unlike traditional centers who just dominate under the basket, he can stretch the floor and shoot threes, and his footwork is agile too.
He straightened up, put his hands on his hips, and looked at the basketball hoop in the distance, as if he were recalling something.
"When I was still in the youth team, the Bayi team came to Beichuan for a warm-up match."
Wang Zhizhi was only seventeen or eighteen years old at the time. When he stood under the basket, you had to crane your neck to look up at his face. But he wasn't just tall—his skills were unmatched among his peers.
He gets the ball near the free-throw line, a quick spin move and he's past the defender; his release point is so high you can't even reach it.
Lin Feng imagined that scene.
With absolute control of the paint, combined with a soft touch and agile footwork, he is indeed a potential future NBA player.
"Uncle Zhou, do you think Wang Zhizhi can play in the NBA in the future?"
Zhou Jianguo remained silent for a few seconds.
"It's hard to say," he said. "Politics is complicated. But in terms of strength, it's definitely enough."
In the spring of 1996, few people took this statement seriously.
But Lin Feng knew that four years later, the Dallas Mavericks would select Wang Zhizhi in the second round, and he would become the first Chinese player in NBA history—that title of "Asia's First" would be forever etched in the annals of Chinese basketball history.
Lin Feng didn't say it aloud. He just kept those words in his heart.
One weekend in mid-May, Lin Feng went to the New World Computer Room.
The fat man brought back a statue of Guan Yu. It was made of bronze, about the size of a palm, and placed in the center of the counter. In front of it was a small incense burner with three sticks of incense sticks inserted, and the wisps of smoke made the air around the counter a bit pungent.
There was also a plate of apples on the side, bright red and polished.
Lin Feng smelled the sandalwood scent as soon as he entered the room.
"Hey boss, you've switched to worshipping Guan Yu?"
"I've been praying for days," the fat man said, peeking out from behind the counter, unpacking a new pack of floppy disks. The transparent plastic sheet rustled in his hand. "Your CodeLight is selling well. You sold over twenty last week, and fifteen or sixteen this week."
He took the notebook out of the drawer, opened it, and started tracing lines on it with his fingers. His fingers were short and thick, and there was a bit of black grease under his fingernails, probably from when he was repairing the machine.
"Look, sales are stable, around 60 or 70 copies a month. In another two months, breaking 100 won't be a problem."
Lin Feng took it and looked at it. The notebook contained daily sales figures, written clearly with each stroke, and tally marks were drawn after the numbers, as if it were counting votes.
"Boss," he said, handing the notebook back, "can you watch TV here? The NBA playoffs?"
The fat man paused for a moment, then laughed.
"Yes. There's a small TV in the back lounge." He pointed to a door behind the counter. "I watch the Bulls play the SuperSonics every day. You didn't see Jordan's fadeaway jumper—the defender's hand was practically slapping his face, and he still made it. His body was tilted in the air, and with a flick of his wrist, the ball swished through the net."
He gestured with both hands, his bulky body shifting back and forth behind the counter, demonstrating Jordan's fadeaway jump shot in exaggerated, almost comical, manner.
"Come watch it with me sometime. If your software sells well, I'll buy you a beer."
Lin Feng smiled, not taking it seriously.
But he remembered the invitation.
When Cheng Yuxin returned home in the evening, she wasn't in the living room. The kitchen was quiet—no cooking sounds, no humming of the range hood, and even the tap was off.