Wang Yi trash-talked Carl, putting psychological pressure on him.
Doug was standing across from Wang Yi, on the other side of the paint, and yelled over at him:
"Don't mess with someone else's head. If you've got what it takes, let him shoot his free throws fair and square. What kind of skill is trash-talking?"
Wang Yi curled his lip. "Ha, you've got some nerve talking about me. How many dirty plays have you pulled on the court? You think I don't know? When someone's shooting free throws, you put on the face of a perfect gentleman. If he misses the second one and you go for the rebound, I bet that poor kid will end up covered in bruises from your sneaky elbows and knees."
Listening to the two of them trade insults across the paint, Carl felt both irritated and unnerved.
Carl felt both irritated and unnerved.
Those two damn guys looked like they were trash-talking each other, and not a single word seemed to have anything to do with me. But when I thought about it, every word was about me.
That only made Carl's emotions swing more wildly.
On the sidelines, Old Master Bo was fretting helplessly. Normally, an experienced player should have been there to calm Carl down.
But there were no veteran players on the court, and with the free throws about to happen, it was too late for one of the players on the bench to go over. There was nothing the coach could do, either.
Standing on the court and listening to the two of them babble, Carl took a deep breath.
Then he began his free throws.
Maybe the little interruption earlier, combined with the two of them yammering in his ear, had thrown Carl off. He missed the shot.
Wang