Chapter 107: Between Victory And Respect
Xu Ling often wondered how much he had changed since entering the NBA.
Had he become too arrogant?
But looking back, he hadn’t changed; it was just that the environment had changed.
In the NCAA, they could indeed play pure basketball, where nothing mattered except winning or losing, but in the NBA, everything was an extension off the court.
Sports brands wanted to promote their endorsers, so they secretly denigrated their opponents’ endorsers, thus forming a public opinion war, and players had no choice but to get involved. Winning one more game meant more exposure, more attention, more income, and higher status; no one would back down.
But the problem was that some players tried to dictate the direction of the competition.
LeBron James thought he could control the situation, and that was why he failed, because he was facing someone who neither understood nor wanted to control the so-called situation.
Xu Ling thought it over and didn’t believe he had done anything wrong.
Just like the text message Bob Knight sent him after the incident: “That was the best shaking finger I’ve ever seen in my life!”
This made Xu Ling involuntarily nostalgic for his time at Texas Tech University.
Then, he walked into the team’s training hall.
The Grizzlies’ training hall was located at FedEx Forum, but the All-Star Weekend holiday had put this massive building into slumber. No dazzling lights of the home court, no noisy crowds, only staff coming and going.
When Xu Ling pushed open the door to the training hall, he didn’t see an empty court. Jerry West sat alone on a folding chair by the sidelines, his physique slightly leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped against his chin. He wasn’t wearing his usual crisp suit, just a simple polo shirt and slacks, looking more like a tired old coach than a strategizing team president.
On the floor in front of West was a basketball.
Xu Ling’s footsteps paused for a moment, then resumed as normal. He walked to the basket on the other side and began warming up and stretching silently, as if West were just an irrelevant fixture.
After about ten minutes, West finally moved. He didn’t look up, his voice low and slightly hoarse, but oddly lacking much anger.
“1969,” West began, as if speaking to the floor, “I won the only losing-side MVP in history, even though we lost the series. Until today, that’s still the only FMVP awarded to a loser.”
Xu Ling’s dribbling rhythm didn’t change, but he was listening.
“Many people say that was personal recognition of me, a commendation for getting up after failure time and again.” West slowly raised his head, his gaze unfocused, as if piercing through the mists of time back to the suffocating evil floor of Boston Garden. “But every time I see that trophy, I don’t think of recognition, but of failure. All those moments when we were just a little short of winning.”
West finally turned his gaze to Xu Ling, his expression extremely complex, with scrutiny, confusion, and a deep, almost unspeakable pain.
“What you did last night,” West’s voice was soft but crystal clear, “reminded me of Bill Russell.”
Oh? Did the Lord of the Rings also shake his finger at the Big Dipper?
Forgive Xu for his shallow knowledge; his only knowledge of these two was Chamberlain’s 100-point game, the heavenly 50 points per game in a season, and the even more heavenly 20,000-kill, and for Russell, the unbelievable eleven championships and the FMVP trophy named after him.
He knew these two were opponents, but he didn’t know that Russell had also shaken his finger at Chamberlain, or was it that the old man had shaken his finger at the Logo Man?
Xu Ling stopped his movements, hugged the basketball, and turned to face West. He didn’t speak, waiting for the old man’s next words.
“Not because he would do something like that—he never would. But because he made me understand that some things beyond victory are equally heavy.”
Xu Ling remained silent.
West continued: “On the night the Lakers retired my jersey, Russell came to the scene and hugged me. He said to me: ‘Jerry, I love you, I hope you’re always happy.'”
“At that moment, I was overwhelmed with emotions. That was recognition from the greatest opponent of my career, the ultimate respect. But you know what, Eli? In those words, I heard not just love and blessings, but a kind of complete calm and tolerance that only a victor can have. He won, so he could love his opponent. He earned the right to love me.”
“I won his respect, I won everyone’s sympathy and praise, but the thing I wanted most to win was always in his hands.” West’s gaze sharpened, staring straight at Xu Ling. “And you, Eli, everything you did last night is almost actively throwing away the kind of respect you might win in the future. You’re not just angering your opponent; you’re slamming the door on all potential future ‘respect.’ What kind of person do you want to be? A winner feared and hated by everyone? A winner who has nothing but victory?”
West didn’t lose control in a roar like when Xu Ling publicly broke with Gay; he didn’t even question. There was only a deep, almost pitying doubt on him. This was an old veteran who had experienced all glory and pain, puzzled by a talented young man choosing a completely different path.
Xu Ling listened quietly, his face showing no sign of offense.
He carefully digested West’s words,
He couldn’t quite understand what West was saying, or rather, his era didn’t allow him to understand such things; he could only view it in his own way. Just think, if Kobe were defeated by the same person time and again in the Finals, do you think that person would be allowed at his jersey retirement ceremony? And hear him say “I love you”? How many seconds do you think it would take for Kobe to elbow his neck?
But West represented a bygone era, when the NBA wasn’t commercialized, player salaries were meager, they had far fewer off-court distractions than now, and perhaps that environment fostered a pure competitive atmosphere between them.
But not now.
Xu Ling walked over and sat down on the floor next to West, the basketball placed beside him.
This action surprised West somewhat; he had anticipated a fierce rebuttal, not this calm posture that seemed ready for a heart-to-heart talk.
“Jerry,” Xu Ling’s voice was equally calm, “thank you for telling me this story.”
“But I think our understandings might be different.”
“You think he earned the right to love you. I think…” Xu Ling carefully chose his words, “…he was just fulfilling the victor’s obligation.”
“Obligation?” West frowned.
“The victor has the power to define everything, Jerry. He can define greatness, define legend, and also define respect and love.” Xu Ling’s gaze was clear and calm. “Russell said that to you because, at that moment, it was the most perfect ending fitting his ‘victor’ identity. It was the period he put on the story for himself, for you, for your long rivalry. A period full of ‘sportsmanship,’ one to be celebrated.”
“But that doesn’t change the core fact. He completely defeated you. That sentence was the icing on the cake, the most brilliant gem on the crown, but it was first built on winning.” Xu Ling’s tone held no offense, just stating a fact that seemed simplest to him. “If he were the loser, if you were the one with eleven trophies, Jerry, would you go hug him and say you love him? Maybe you would. But then, the one with that ‘right’ and ‘obligation’ would be you.”
West was stunned. He had never thought of Russell’s words from this angle. That sentence he had cherished his whole life as the highest honor became, in Xu Ling’s interpretation, a narrative tool of the victor?
“I’m not saying Russell’s affection was fake,” Xu Ling seemed to read his mind. “I believe he was sincere. But that sincerity could be expressed so perfectly and remembered by the world precisely because he won. As the ultimate winner, he had the qualification to generously display his friendship.”
Xu Ling picked up the ball from the floor and spun it gently with his fingers.
“I don’t want, on some future day, someone who defeats me to give me his ‘love,’ to put a period on my story. I don’t want to pin my value on my opponent’s friendship.”
Xu Ling looked up at West, his eyes holding no provocation.
“Respect isn’t begged for, Jerry, nor earned through grace. Respect is fought for. Russell respected you not because of your grace, but because you pushed him to the limit time and again, because he knew what it took to beat you. That respect existed in every matchup, every time you snatched victory from his hands. The final words were just confirmation.”
“What I’m doing now is the same.” Xu Ling continued, “I don’t need LeBron James to ‘love’ me someday in the future. I need him to know now that beating me comes at a cost, that he has to give everything, that even if he wins, he has to shed a layer of skin. I need him to think of Memphis, think of me, and feel it’s a war he must face with full vigilance, not a game he can win elegantly and then shake hands.”
“When he, when everyone, has to give 100% energy to deal with me,” Xu Ling said softly, “that’s true respect. As for whether they love me or forgive me… that doesn’t matter. That’s just an encore for victors to consider.”
West fell completely silent. He sat there, motionless, looking at the young man before him.
Xu Ling’s words were like a key, inserted into the long-sealed lock in his heart, turning gently to open an angle he had never glimpsed.
He had always thought Russell’s love transcended winning and losing. But now he suddenly wondered, if Russell had been the one losing time and again back then, would he still have hugged him like that? Maybe, but would it feel the same? Did that “love” truly include the composure and overlook that only a victor possesses?
He had spent his life pursuing victory, and also the recognition and respect after victory. He thought the two were parallel. But Xu Ling coldly pointed out: the latter is just a derivative of the former, a victor’s privilege. True respect lies in every confrontation that makes the opponent feel pain and difficulty, not in post-game hugs.
Xu Ling wasn’t rejecting respect; he was demanding it in a more extreme, more essential way—he would make himself his opponent’s nightmare, becoming the reason they must go all out.
This idea gave West a chill, but also an indescribable sense of being convinced. Because he couldn’t refute it. Deep down, he knew that he had “earned” Russell’s respect precisely because he never let the Celtics pass easily; he was the one stabbing daggers into the Celtics dynasty’s heart time and again in the 60s.
After a long while, West slowly stood up, without looking at Xu Ling again or saying anything more.
He walked toward the door, his steps seemingly less heavy than when he arrived.
Just as he was about to push the door open, the sound of a basketball hitting the floor came from behind.
“Bang!”
“Swish!”
The crisp swish of the net followed closely.
West didn’t turn back, but he knew that young man had returned to his world.
But where was his world?
That was another question.
