NBA's Monster Rookie

Chapter Two: Training Camp

October 1, 1996, Los Angeles Clippers training facility.

When Arthur Thorne first walked into the arena, all the players who were warming up stopped.

It's not out of respect, but out of instinct. Just like when encountering a predator much larger than yourself in the wild, the body reacts before the brain, stopping its movements to assess the threat.

Lorenzen Wright was shooting a three-pointer, but the ball stopped in mid-air before it even left his hand. Walter Williams stood up from the bench, his mouth slightly agape. Rodney Rogers was tying his shoelaces, his fingers forming a tight knot.

Clippers head coach Bill Fitch walked out of his office and frowned upon seeing the scene. He had coached in the NBA for over a decade, working with Larry Bird and Moses Malone, but he had never seen a physique like this.

"Don't just stand there." Fitch clapped his hands. "Keep warming up. Thorne, come over here for the physical test."

Arthur put down his bag and walked towards the training field. His steps were light, but each step made a dull thud on the floor; his 150 kilograms weight was no joke.

The physical fitness test coach handed him a form. "First, we'll test your standing vertical jump."

Arthur stood under the basket, on tiptoe, his right arm outstretched. His fingertips lightly touched a spot on the backboard.

The coach squinted and looked. "Three hundred and ten centimeters. Standing reach: three hundred and ten centimeters."

What does this number mean? It means that Arthur, standing on tiptoe, can jump higher than most players.

"Measure the maximum vertical reach."

Arthur slightly bent his knees and then jumped. His body was like a rocket being launched, his 230-centimeter frame fully extended in the air—his head almost touching the top edge of the backboard.

The coach stared at the spot where he landed and remained silent for three seconds.

"Four hundred and thirty-five centimeters." His voice trembled slightly. "Your maximum reach is four hundred and thirty-five centimeters."

The entire training hall fell silent again. The basketball hoop was 305 centimeters high. Arthur's maximum reach was 130 centimeters higher than the hoop, meaning his entire forearm could extend above it.

Coach Fitch made no comment, only writing down a few numbers in his notebook.

"Next project. Full sprint."

Arthur stood at the baseline, ready to start. The instant the whistle blew, his body shot out like a bullet, covering a distance of forty yards in less than four seconds.

The coach glanced at the stopwatch, then at Arthur, and then turned to look at Fitch.

"Coach, his sprint speed... is faster than all the guards on our team."

Fitch's pen paused on the notebook.

"Keep testing," he said.

Over the next two hours, Arthur completed all the physical tests. His data in every category—strength, jumping, agility, lateral movement, and cardiovascular endurance—far exceeded the Clippers' all-time records, and even surpassed the records of any active player in the NBA's official database.

When the last test was over, Fitch called Arthur aside.

"Your physical test stats are amazing," Fitch said. "But basketball isn't a physical test. Can you even shoot?"

Arthur didn't say anything, but walked to the basket, picked up a ball, dribbled to the three-point line, turned and shot. The ball arced perfectly through the net.

He picked up another ball, dribbled once, and shot from two steps beyond the three-point line. Swish.

The third ball, at the midfield logo position. The shot. The ball made a crisp sound as it pierced the net, like someone tearing a piece of silk.

Arthur made twenty consecutive three-pointers. Ten of them came from beyond the NBA three-point line, and five came from near midcourt.

Fitch didn't speak. He just looked at Arthur, his eyes shifting from suspicion to an emotion he hadn't felt in a long time.

It was something akin to awe.

In the afternoon, the team held its first five-on-five scrimmage.

Fitch assigned Arthur to the White Team, placing him at center. The opposing Black Team's center was Lorenzen Wright, the seventh overall pick in the 1996 draft, standing at 211 centimeters tall and weighing 110 kilograms, considered one of the most talented players in that class after Allen Iverson.

Wright called for the ball in the low post and backed down Arthur. He pushed Arthur hard, but Arthur didn't budge. He pushed Arthur again, but Arthur still didn't budge.

Wright turned his head and saw Arthur looking down at him. There was no provocation or mockery in those eyes, just a calm gaze, as if waiting for him to finish his action.

Wright barely managed to turn and shoot, and as soon as the ball left his hand, a huge hand appeared in his field of vision—not from the side, but from the front, from above, pressing down like a wall.

The ball was swatted directly into the third row of the stands.

The entire room fell silent once again.

It was the White Team's turn to attack. Arthur called for the ball in the low post, with Wright guarding from behind. After receiving the ball, Arthur merely leaned against Wright, who stumbled back two steps as if he'd been hit by a truck.

Arthur turned to face the empty basket and dunked the ball with one hand. He didn't use any force, he didn't even jump, he just stood on his tiptoes and put the ball in.

Arthur played for twenty minutes in the entire practice game. His stats were: 23 points, 15 rebounds, 7 blocks, and 6 assists. He didn't miss a single shot, including three three-pointers, two mid-range jumpers, and six dunks.

After practice, Lorenzen Wright sat in the locker room, staring at his shoes for a long time.

"That's not human at all," he whispered to Walter Williams beside him.

Williams didn't speak, he just nodded.

That evening, Coach Fitch sat in his office, repeatedly watching the video of Arthur's practice match. His assistant coach, Kim Hughes, sat beside him, holding a data report.

"Bill, do you know what's the scariest thing?" Hughes said.

"What?"

"He only used about 60% of his strength in training," Hughes pointed to the screen. "Look at his jump height, it's far from his maximum jump during the physical test. His sprint speed is also clearly being held back. He's basically just strolling around in training."

Fitch remained silent for a long time.

"Jin," he finally spoke, "who do you think he resembles?"

Hughes thought for a moment. "Unlike anyone else. Chamberlain was shorter than him, O'Neal was slower, and Kareem wasn't as strong. He... he's unlike anyone else. He's a completely new species."

Fitch turned off the recording and leaned back in his chair.

"A completely new species," he repeated.

Then he picked up the phone and dialed the team manager's number.

"Elkin," Fitch said, "I don't care what you're doing, but listen to this kid we picked 32nd, he might be the best player in this draft class. No, not maybe. He is."

Elgin Baylor was silent for a few seconds on the other end of the phone.

“I know,” Baylor said. “Jerry West told me on draft night.”

"Then why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"Because I thought he was joking."

Fitch took a deep breath.

“He wasn’t joking,” Fitch said. “Neither were we. This kid… he’ll change everything.”

At the same time, Arthur remained alone in the training hall.

The lights were off, with only the emergency lights emitting a faint green glow. But he didn't need light; his body was his best guide.

He dribbled, shot, and dunked in the darkness. The sound of the ball hitting the floor echoed in the empty arena, like some kind of ancient drumbeat.

After he made the final shot, he stood still and looked up at the stadium dome.

Hanging there are not championship banners, but rather a blank history of the Clippers for decades. No NBA championship, no conference championship, and not even a few decent playoff memories.

Arthur stared at the blank space, his lips twitching slightly—not a smile, but a kind of confirmation.

"It will happen," he said softly.

Then he picked up the ball, went into the locker room, and disappeared into the darkness at the end of the corridor.