Chapter Twenty: The Maniac on the Court

As the saying goes, victory and defeat are common fare for those who wage war. The court is full of talented players; who knows what will happen next? After a humiliating defeat, the legendary Super Trio vanished from the basketball scene. In that arena of experts, they left no mark, and the court that once belonged to them became a mere legend, nothing more than a story whispered among those who remembered.

Lin Fei seemed a little depressed, brooding over his nickname, Hong Seven—how dashing it once sounded. The Super Trio had basked in glory, their court a stage for brilliance. Yet some things in this world allow only for success, forbidding failure. Their rise began as a joke, grew into triumph, and left no path for retreat. With no step down, they could only choose extinction.

Lin Fei was unwilling to accept it; that stubborn refusal was simply part of his nature.

Suddenly, he found himself frequenting the library—a place he had rarely visited before. His gait became leisurely, no longer light and graceful. He started to notice the beautiful girls passing by, as if he had utterly changed. Sometimes, he would sit atop the tallest building, gazing quietly at the hill behind the school for hours on end. Had he been truly crushed by a single game? Surely, one match could not have caused such a transformation. It seemed he yearned to leave behind the noisy court and seek solace in solitude.

At times, he felt lonely; at others, he enjoyed the feeling of being alone.

Breaking up with basketball, his beloved girlfriend, was actually not so bad. Their affair had been passionate, but the end brought a sense of relief. Was this truly the end? Even romances have their highs and lows, their separations and reunions. There are moments of solitude, times when a single player’s mood and state sink into a valley.

There’s a story: A professor once asked a talented student who had never achieved much, “What do you do for ten hours every day?” The student replied, “I read and conduct experiments all day.” The professor, puzzled, asked, “Every day?” The student affirmed, “Yes.” Expecting praise for his diligence, he was surprised when the professor sighed in disappointment, “Then when do you find time to think?”

Basketball is no different. Lin Fei was thinking, pondering the lessons of the court. Basketball is not merely a physical endeavor, nor is it conquered by hard work and talent alone. The crucial element lies in the ability to think.

A week later, Lin Fei stepped onto the court once more. The Super Trio was gone, but the name Hong Seven lingered.

He looked at the hoop and smiled—his smile as calm as ever, yet with a trace of sharpness. “Let’s begin again,” he thought. It was morning.

Lin Fei took a ball to the track, dribbling as he ran. What was he doing—practicing long-distance running with a ball? Everyone on the field cast strange looks at this odd boy. The ball echoed loudly, marking him as an anomaly.

He used his right hand in games, but while running, he mostly dribbled with his left.

During the first week, Lin Fei dribbled three laps around the track daily—1200 meters, nearly all with his left hand—then headed to the court to practice shooting. No longer content with stationary shots, he would start at mid-court, dash to the basket, and go up for a layup, switching hands behind his back mid-dribble. He repeated this move tirelessly. For most basketball players, these were basic skills, nothing extraordinary.

From the very first day, Lin Fei earned a new nickname: the “Court Madman.” This moniker belonged to his mornings; Hong Seven was reserved for games.

In the second week, he embarked on another wild practice: running the track while dribbling behind his back. Though common in street basketball, this move was rarely practiced since flashy tricks seldom prove useful in real games. He also began attempting three-pointers while on the move. His accuracy was uncanny, even while running, though his speed had its limits.

Next, he practiced running backward while dribbling—an outrageous training routine. Was it useful? On the court, his shooting practice grew even more intense—how many shots? Two hundred? Yes, two hundred made shots.

How much time did this take each morning?

He devoted himself entirely to practice. He wasn’t a sports major; he was simply obsessed.

Then Lin Fei began working on dribbling acceleration and sudden stops, practicing on the hundred-meter track. He measured his dribbling speed over a hundred meters—sixteen seconds. He kept training, making it a daily ritual: accelerate, stop, accelerate, stop, repeating the simplest moves. Sometimes, the simplest actions are the most effective for scoring—the direct approach is often the best offense. Lin Fei never wasted motion on the court.

He practiced one-handed shots from every position, even trying long-range shots from the backcourt. The difficulty in strength was apparent, but for basketball, half-court was usually enough. Few teams extend their defense beyond mid-court, even with full-court press; there’s always plenty of space. That space is like a stage, ample for displaying one’s skills. True masters can perform the most graceful dance even on a balance beam; half a court is more than enough.

Lin Fei then began an even more incredible regimen: dribbling by feel with his eyes closed on the track, relying solely on sensation to perceive the ball and judge the situation. On the court, he attempted shooting with his eyes closed, for often, feeling is everything. As Tracy McGrady once said, “The hoop feels as big as the ocean.” That’s a feeling—a conviction that the shot will go in. At such moments, feeling trumps technique and experience. And like Agent Zero, Gilbert Arenas, who would start celebrating a game-winning shot the instant it left his hand—before the ball even reached the basket—that, too, is a feeling. Every superstar, indeed every player, ought to possess it.

Then came dunks—a test of strength and control, for dunking is the best way to practice hang time in the air. The longer you linger aloft, the more you can accomplish, the more surely you can score.

Lin Fei became famous—not for his skills, but for being the oddball on the track and the court. He now preferred shooting alone, and whenever there was time for basketball, Lin Fei was there—morning, evening, hot or cold, always present.

Had he gone mad?

It didn’t seem so. His smile still carried a hint of charm; off the court, he remained sunny and bright.

He never felt weary of basketball, though he had practiced for ages, like a madman.

He wasn’t crazy—only misunderstood. You couldn’t grasp the heart of a man devoted to basketball, nor understand what moved him.

Lin Fei gazed at the gym, remembering the Super Trio. Could they begin again?

But fate is unpredictable.