NBA's Monster Rookie

Chapter One: The Draft Night

June 26, 1996, Madison Square Garden, New York.

Arthur Thorne sat in the corner of the green room, the chair specially made for him still feeling a bit cramped. His knees were almost touching the table in front of him, and his hands, folded on his lap, were 28 centimeters long, making the water bottle handed to him by his agent look like a toy.

"Next pick, Philadelphia 76ers select"

When David Stern announced Allen Iverson's name on stage, the entire arena erupted. Arthur remained expressionless. He knew he wouldn't be the number one draft pick, not because he wasn't good enough, but because this league always feared the "unknown" first.

His agent, Jerry McGuire, sat next to him, his phone ringing non-stop since the start of the draft. His expression gradually shifted from anticipation to anxiety.

Twelfth in line. Sixteenth in line. Twentieth in line.

With each phone call, Jerry's face darkened. "They said your physical test data... is too unrealistic. The Detroit manager said that if the data were real, you should be playing video games, not the NBA."

Arthur didn't speak. He simply opened his right hand slightly, then slowly clenched it again. The strength of that hand was enough to crush an apple, but his control was so precise that he never even crushed a grape.

Twenty-seventh pick. Twenty-ninth pick.

Jerry's phone rang again. This time, he answered it and remained silent for a long time before turning to look at Arthur.

"Clippers. Thirty-second pick."

Arthur nodded and stood up. The moment he rose from his seat, those around him truly realized how imposing his 230-centimeter height seemed in the room, and how his 150-kilogram weight made the floor creak slightly. He walked toward the stage, his 250-centimeter wingspan causing his suit sleeves to almost cover half of his hands.

When David Stern called his name on stage, the audience's reaction was not cheers, but a complex murmur.

"The Los Angeles Clippers have selected... Arthur Thorne from Philadelphia."

The fact that a player who scored above the maximum in every item of the physical test was relegated to the second round is a story in itself. And the author of this story is now stepping onto the stage.

Arthur shook hands with Stern. Stern's hand disappeared completely into his palm.

"Congratulations, young man," Stern said.

"Thank you," Arthur said in a low, steady voice.

He held up his Clippers cap and nodded slightly to the camera. Flashbulbs went off everywhere, but he didn't smile.

After the draft, a large number of reporters swarmed around him. Microphones were thrust in front of him like a forest.

"Arthur, what are your thoughts on being relegated to the second round?"

"I don't have any particular thoughts."

"Many people question whether your physical test data was fabricated. What is your response?"

Arthur looked down at the reporter who had asked the question. The gesture itself was like a mountain tilting.

"Data doesn't lie," he said. "It's people who lie."

The reporters exchanged glances, their pens moving rapidly across their notebooks.

"Where do you think you should rank?"

Arthur thought for a moment.

"First."

The following day, this answer made headlines in major sports media outlets. Some called him arrogant, some called him confident, but many more said that a monster is a monster after all and will eventually be taught a lesson by the league.

But among all these voices, there was one person who truly noticed Arthur.

After the draft night, Los Angeles Lakers general manager Jerry West sat in his office repeatedly watching Arthur's combine video. He watched for three whole hours before picking up the phone and calling Clippers general manager Elgin Baylor.

"Elgin, that kid you picked thirty-second... he's a monster," West said. "A real monster."

Baylor laughed on the other end of the phone. "Jerry, when did you become so interested in second-round picks?"

"I'm not interested," West said calmly. "I'm reminding you that you have the best player in this draft class. Don't mess it up."

After hanging up the phone, Baylor shook his head. He turned to look at the Los Angeles night view outside the window, Arthur's expressionless face appearing in his mind.

230 cm. 150 kg. 250 cm wingspan. 120 in total.

He had played basketball for twenty-two years and served as a general manager for ten years, and he had never seen such statistics. He had never even imagined such statistics.

And this young man, who was once called a "monster," is now a member of the Clippers.

Arthur returned home to Philadelphia at two in the morning. He didn't celebrate or have a party; he simply changed into his training clothes and went to the makeshift basketball court in his backyard.

He picked up a ball from the rack, his massive hands completely enveloping it. He dribbled once, twice, three steps, and then jumped at the free-throw line—his body fully extended in the air, his arms raised overhead, silently slamming the ball into the basket.

The basketball hoop wobbled.

He landed, picked up the ball, and retreated to the three-point line. He released the shot. Swish.

Take another step back. Make your move. Hollow.

He retreated all the way to the midcourt line before taking the shot. The ball arced through the net with a crisp sound.

Arthur stood still, watching the ball bounce on the ground until it gradually came to a stop.

He remembered three years ago. At fifteen, he walked into his high school gym for the first time. The coach looked at his height and said, "You'll be the next Shaq." He didn't respond; he just picked up the ball and made ten consecutive three-pointers.

The coach never mentioned O'Neal again.

He recalled what had happened six months ago. His college coach, holding his physical fitness test report, said, "This data can't be made public, or people will treat you like a monster." He replied, "I am a monster." The coach was silent for a long time, then said, "Then you'll become a monster that silences everyone."

Arthur picked up the ball and went back inside. He passed the television in the living room, where clips from the talent show were being replayed. He saw himself walking onto the stage; his 230-centimeter height made him stand out like a moving lighthouse in the crowd.

He turned off the TV.

In the darkness, he muttered a sentence to himself, his voice so soft it was as if he were talking to himself.

"Thirty-second pick in the second round. Very good."

He paused.

"They will remember this order. They will also remember what a real monster is."

Outside the window, the Philadelphia night sky was devoid of stars. But Arthur Thorne didn't need stars to guide him; his direction was always singular: the direction of the basketball hoop.

And in that direction, he never missed.