Outside the imposing Wukesong Stadium, Finger paused to take in the sea of humanity flowing toward the entrances, his eyes wide with genuine amazement.
"Basketball seems incredibly popular in China," he observed, watching families, groups of friends, and excited fans streaming past them in waves. "I've never seen crowds like this for a sporting event—it's like the entire city turned out tonight."
"Ever since Yao Ming entered the NBA, basketball fever has completely consumed the country," Chu Zihang explained, his own excitement building despite his usual reserved demeanor. "When the Rockets play the Lakers, it doesn't matter what time of day it is—students will skip classes, workers will abandon their desks, just to watch the game. Yao transformed basketball from a niche sport into a national obsession."
As someone who'd played on Shilan Middle School's basketball team, Chu Zihang understood that passion intimately. The sport had been his refuge during difficult times, a way to channel frustration and find temporary peace through physical exertion.
They joined the queue of ticket-holders, the excitement palpable as conversations in dozens of languages mixed with the constant rustle of Olympic merchandise and camera clicks. Su Xiaoyan chatted animatedly with her friends about their premium seats, clearly delighted to be part of such a significant sporting moment.
The seats Su Xiaoyan had secured through her connections were genuinely impressive—front row of the lower bowl, offering an unobstructed view of the court without needing the courtside intimacy that NBA games provided. From here, they could see every expression, every bead of sweat, every strategic gesture from the coaches.
"Son, look! There's Dayao!" Su Xiaoyan practically bounced in her seat as the Chinese national team emerged for warm-ups, pointing at the towering figure who dominated the court even among professional athletes.
Su Xiaoyan wasn't particularly knowledgeable about basketball, but Yao Ming transcended sports in China. His success had made him a cultural icon—everyone from elderly grandparents to kindergarten children knew about the gentle giant who'd conquered America's most prestigious basketball league. In terms of pure celebrity, no one in Chinese sports could match his influence.
"Yes, Mom, I see him," Chu Zihang replied patiently, gently guiding his enthusiastic mother back to her seat before she attracted too much attention from nearby spectators.
"Oh, who's number 11? He's quite handsome!" Su Xiaoyan had spotted Yi Jianlian, the young forward wearing China's jersey as he practiced his shooting routine beside Yao Ming.
"That's Yi Jianlian. The Milwaukee Bucks drafted him last year—he's being groomed as the next pillar of Chinese basketball," Chu Zihang explained, falling into the comfortable role of basketball educator. "And that's Wang Zhizhi over there, our veteran power forward. Liu Wei at point guard, our floor general..."
He continued identifying players, sharing their NBA affiliations and career highlights with genuine enthusiasm. This Chinese national team represented the pinnacle of the country's basketball development—a perfect blend of established stars and emerging talent that seemed destined for greatness.
In his optimistic assessment, Chu Zihang believed this generation would elevate Chinese basketball to unprecedented heights. He couldn't have known this Olympic tournament would mark their peak rather than their beginning, or that future decades would bring decline rather than the sustained excellence he envisioned.
"Son, who do you think will win tonight?" Su Xiaoyan asked as both teams completed their warm-up routines, the arena's energy building toward tip-off.
"China, without question," Chu Zihang replied confidently. "Home court advantage, plus our team is in exceptional form this tournament. We've been building toward this moment for years."
"I respectfully disagree," Finger interjected from beside them, his own national pride stirring. "Germany has Dirk Nowitzki—the reigning NBA Finals MVP. One man can change everything in basketball, especially someone of his caliber."
"Home court means everything in international competition," Chu Zihang countered, his competitive instincts engaging. "And China's overall roster depth gives us a significant advantage over Germany's Nowitzki-centric approach."
"We'll see about that," Finger replied with uncharacteristic determination.
As if to punctuate his confidence, Finger suddenly cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted in fluent German toward the visiting team's side of the court: "Dirk, mach sie fertig! Du musst heute Abend unbedingt gewinnen!" (Dirk, destroy them! You absolutely must win tonight!)
The 7-foot German superstar, who'd been working on his shooting touch during warm-ups, heard the familiar language cutting through the predominantly Chinese crowd noise. He turned, spotted Finger waving enthusiastically, and broke into a surprised smile. Nowitzki raised his hand in acknowledgment, clearly touched to find a countryman supporting him in hostile territory.
"Did you see that?" Finger practically glowed with pride. "Dirk acknowledged me personally! That's a sign—Germany's winning tonight for sure!"
Despite finding Finger's newfound nationalism amusing, Chu Zihang couldn't help but smile at his companion's genuine enthusiasm. It was rare to see the usually calculating information broker display such authentic emotion.
"We'll see," Chu Zihang replied, though his determination to support China remained absolute.
The opening tip-off sent 18,000 spectators to their feet in a thunderous roar that seemed capable of lifting the stadium's roof. Every seat was filled, creating a wall of red jerseys and Chinese flags that made Wukesong Sports Center feel like the heart of the nation itself.
From the opening possession, the game lived up to its billing as a potential classic. China's height advantage, anchored by Yao Ming's presence in the paint, clashed beautifully with Germany's perimeter shooting and Nowitzki's unique ability to stretch the floor despite his size.
The lead changed hands repeatedly throughout the first three quarters, neither team able to establish definitive control. Yao dominated inside when he could get position, while Nowitzki answered with his signature one-legged fadeaway jumpers that seemed to defy physics. Yi Jianlian showed flashes of the potential that had made NBA scouts excited, while Germany's supporting cast hit crucial shots to keep pace.
Su Xiaoyan and her friends cheered every Chinese basket with infectious enthusiasm, while Finger provided increasingly animated commentary in support of Germany's every success. By the fourth quarter, both men were hoarse from shouting.
With 5 minutes and 56 seconds remaining, Nowitzki drained a contested three-pointer that sent Finger into near-delirium. The shot gave Germany a 55-54 lead—their first advantage since early in the second quarter.
"That's it! That's the dagger!" Finger screamed, his face flushed red with excitement, veins bulging in his neck as he pumped his fists. "Nowitzki is unstoppable! Germany's taking this!"
But basketball's cruel beauty lies in its momentum shifts. The score remained frozen at 55-54 for what felt like an eternity, both teams trading missed shots and defensive stops in a tense battle of nerves.
With thirty seconds remaining and China still trailing by one, the crowd's energy reached fever pitch. Every possession felt like life or death, every defensive rebound like a small miracle.
Then Yi Jianlian, the young star carrying the hopes of Chinese basketball's future, received a pass in the corner. Under tremendous pressure, with Germany's defense closing fast, he elevated for what would become the most important shot of his Olympic career.
The ball traced a perfect arc through the arena's lights before dropping cleanly through the net—a two-point dagger that sent Wukesong Sports Center into absolute pandemonium.
The eruption of noise was unlike anything Chu Zihang had ever experienced. Eighteen thousand voices raised in unison, the sound waves literally vibrating through the building's structure. Su Xiaoyan was jumping and screaming, her friends embracing strangers in celebration, while security guards struggled to prevent fans from rushing the court.
Chu Zihang found himself shouting until his throat burned, caught up in the pure joy of witnessing sporting history. Even the typically composed Yao Ming was grinning broadly as his teammates mobbed Yi Jianlian.
Beside them, Finger had buried his face in his hands, the agony of near-victory snatched away written across his entire posture.
The final buzzer confirmed China's 59-55 victory, advancing them to the Olympic quarterfinals and ensuring this night would be remembered as one of Chinese basketball's finest hours.
"No, no, no!" Finger moaned, his voice muffled by his palms. "We were so close! One shot away from beating China on their home court!"
"Hey, don't take it so hard," Chu Zihang offered, his earlier competitiveness replaced by genuine sympathy. "Germany played incredibly well. Maybe your men's national team will be even stronger in the future."
He understood Finger's pain intimately—not long ago at Cassel College, he'd watched China lose a heartbreaking game to Spain that would have been an upset for the ages. The Gasol brothers had barely escaped with a victory that could have gone either way.
"I'm not crying!" Finger protested, wiping his eyes with a napkin despite the obvious evidence. "And of course German basketball will improve! We don't need your pity predictions!"
The role reversal was almost comical—typically it was Chu Zihang who displayed proud defiance in the face of disappointment, while Finger remained cheerfully unflappable. Tonight had brought out unexpected depths in both of them.
Ironically, Finger's bitter prediction would prove remarkably accurate. German basketball would indeed flourish in the coming decades, developing players like Dennis Schröder, the Wagner brothers, and Daniel Theis who would compete successfully in the NBA. In 2023, they would defeat Serbia to claim the FIBA World Cup championship—vindication that came two decades too late for Finger's 2008 heartbreak.
Meanwhile, the Chinese team celebrating this Olympic triumph was unknowingly experiencing their competitive peak. Future years would bring gradual decline, missed tournaments, and the painful realization that this generation's success might never be replicated.
But tonight, in this moment, China's victory felt like the beginning of a golden era rather than its culmination.
As the crowd began filing out, both Chu Zihang and Finger realized they faced a more immediate crisis than international basketball rankings—they desperately needed restroom facilities after hours of nervous tension and overpriced stadium beverages.
"I'll wait out here," Chu Zihang said as they located the nearest men's room.
"Actually," Finger replied with obvious discomfort, "I might need more than just a quick stop. And I, uh, forgot to bring tissues."
"Seriously?" Chu Zihang stared at his companion in disbelief. "You're a grown man traveling internationally, and you don't carry basic supplies?"
"Just help me out here! I'll pay you back!"
Sighing with the resignation of someone constantly bailing out an irresponsible friend, Chu Zihang set off to find a stadium shop that sold tissues. Wukesong's facilities were comprehensive enough that he located packets of travel tissues within minutes, though the Olympic markup was predictably painful.
Anxious to prevent Finger from resorting to desperate measures involving his clothing, Chu Zihang jogged back toward the restrooms, weaving between groups of celebrating fans and slower-moving elderly spectators.
"Excuse me!"
The collision happened so quickly that Chu Zihang barely had time to register bumping into someone before reaching out instinctively to steady them. His hands caught the shoulders of a petite girl who'd been knocked slightly off-balance, her curious expression suggesting she'd been distracted by something rather than watching where she was going.
"I'm so sorry, I was rushing and—" Chu Zihang began, then stopped mid-sentence as he got his first clear look at her face.
Something about her features struck him as unmistakably familiar, though he couldn't immediately place where or when they might have met. She was cute in an impish way, with intelligent eyes that seemed to hold secrets and just enough mischief to make her interesting rather than merely pretty.
"Have we met before?" he asked, studying her face more carefully.
The girl's expression shifted through several emotions in rapid succession—surprise, recognition, and something that might have been calculation before settling on carefully neutral friendliness.
"You went to Shilan Middle School, didn't you?" Chu Zihang continued, the memory gradually solidifying. "I feel like I remember seeing you around campus, though I can't recall your name or which class you were in."
At the mention of their shared school, the girl's composure flickered momentarily, revealing what looked like genuine turmoil beneath her controlled exterior. When she spoke again, her smile seemed both welcoming and oddly guarded.
"Hello, senior," she said, extending her hand with practiced politeness. "My name is Xia Mi. I did attend Shilan Middle School for a while."