Volume One: I Came, I Saw, I Conquered!

Volume One: I Came, I Saw, I Conquered! Chapter Eleven: I Want to Be the Owner! "That's right. Chris Cohan bought the Warriors eleven years ago, and he's been the team's owner ever since," Stevens replied. "Coach, ha... good morning." Julian Becko let out a huge yawn and spoke in a listless voice. Zhang Yu was sleepy too, and Julian's yawn was contagious; he couldn't help yawning just as widely. For anyone else, suddenly announcing that he wanted to own an NBA team would have sounded like madness. But Zhang Yu did have a chance. Zhang Yu let out a long breath, looked toward the distant horizon, and murmured to himself: Without a doubt, Zhang Yu had the greatest information advantage in the world. The idea of making money from the 2008 subprime mortgage crisis seemed like a beautiful but illusory dream. "Thanks, Stephen. I've got it!" "You've got it, or you just thought of it..." "Coach? What's wrong?" Julian Becko looked at Zhang Yu in confusion. Zhang Yu raised an eyebrow, tore a piece of meat from the chicken leg in his hand, and chewed several mouthfuls with force. A fierce glint flashed in his eyes. "Brad, the sunset's beautiful today." Zhang Yu and Stevens parted ways on the road, and he went to the cafeteria to eat. After sending Julian Becko away, Zhang Yu slowly left the locker room. His spirits, which had finally settled, surged again, and he began thinking about how to raise a million dollars to use as betting capital. He entered the locker room and put his things down. Julian Becko and Mike Green were changing into their jerseys. Zhang Yu went to the sideline and watched the players begin practice, feeling troubled. Was there really no way after all? Stevens glanced at him and asked curiously: Julian Becko had turned his stake into ten times as much just by betting that Team USA and Italy would draw 1–1. What if he bet on Zidane getting sent off in the final? "Where am I supposed to get twenty million dollars in capital?!" "A hundred dollars?" If someone gave him fifty million—no, twenty million dollars in capital, he was confident he could turn the 2008 subprime mortgage crisis to his advantage and rake in hundreds of millions, even over a billion dollars! Back in college and graduate school, the 2008 subprime mortgage crisis had been one of his advisor's main research topics. He had studied it over and over more times than he could count. "It's already June. I have to get my capital into the market quickly, or..." "Coach, you watched the World Cup yesterday too, right? Team USA drew 1–1 with Italy. Thanks to Zaccardo, his own goal earned me a hundred dollars!" "It's nothing. I just thought of something worth pondering." But his original self had been devoted to basketball and didn't know any wealthy people. Who could he ask for a loan? Julian Becko had turned his stake into ten times as much just by betting that Team USA and Italy would draw 1–1. What if he bet on Zidane getting sent off in the final? "Ronan, you've been acting strange ever since you became head coach. Could that accident have caused some kind of hidden structural damage to your brain? I suggest you get checked out at a hospital..." Zhang Yu arrived at the gym at 8:55. Practice for the Bulldogs started at nine, and the players and coaching staff were already there. And the thirty thousand dollars in his head coach contract was pre-tax, paid in installments over the course of a year. Even if he got all of it right now, it wouldn't be enough to even qualify him to take part in the subprime crisis. Back in college and graduate school, the 2008 subprime mortgage crisis had been one of his advisor's main research topics. He had studied it over and over more times than he could count. "Coach, take a look at Julian. I bet Stevens is going to chew him out in a minute." Mike Green shot him a scornful glance. His phone chimed. Zhang Yu took it out; it was a text from Curry: There had once been a high-frequency trading firm in the United States that spent three hundred million dollars boring through the Appalachian Mountains to lay a dedicated trading cable. Its goal was to cut the information lag between Chicago and New York by one millisecond, letting it trade on price differences between the two cities before anyone else and earn several million dollars more than its competitors every day. Stevens glanced at him and asked curiously: In his previous life, he'd known plenty of wealthy people in finance. If he'd swallowed his pride and pooled money from everyone he knew, he might have been able to borrow a million dollars. Amid Stevens's endless chatter, the two left Hinkle Fieldhouse. "Where am I supposed to get twenty million dollars in capital?!" "Thanks, Stephen. I've got it!" "Looks like a financial crisis is my best opportunity." After thinking it through carefully, Zhang Yu reached his conclusion. "Thanks, Stephen. I've got it!" He'd tossed and turned all night, racking his brains, but hadn't come up with a way to raise capital. In the end, he'd stayed up until two in the morning before finally drifting off. "Coach, take a look at Julian. I bet Stevens is going to chew him out in a minute." Mike Green shot him a scornful glance. Zhang Yu and Stevens parted ways on the road, and he went to the cafeteria to eat. Back in college and graduate school, the 2008 subprime mortgage crisis had been one of his advisor's main research topics. He had studied it over and over more times than he could count. Zhang Yu arrived at the gym at 8:55. Practice for the Bulldogs started at nine, and the players and coaching staff were already there. Stevens glanced at him and asked curiously: "It's nothing. I just thought of something worth pondering." Zhang Yu looked at the screen of his candy-bar Nokia. The corners of his mouth slowly curled into a smile, and he murmured to himself: Zhang Yu raised an eyebrow, tore a piece of meat from the chicken leg in his hand, and chewed several mouthfuls with force. A fierce glint flashed in his eyes. Zhang Yu went to the sideline and watched the players begin practice, feeling troubled. Was there really no way after all? After sending Julian Becko away, Zhang Yu slowly left the locker room. His spirits, which had finally settled, surged again, and he began thinking about how to raise a million dollars to use as betting capital. He picked out a few hamburgers and pieces of fried chicken at random, found an empty seat, and sat down. He chewed mechanically, Stevens's words echoing in his mind: "Unless the Warriors' owner has lost his mind, he'd never hire someone in his twenties to coach the team." Zhang Yu let out a long sigh, lay flat on the sofa, and stared lifelessly at the ceiling. He didn't feel like moving at all. If he could become an owner, how far off could head coach be? He'd thought of a very important question. "Why are you suddenly so poetic?" Everyone knew that information was everything in the financial markets. "Ronan, you've been acting strange ever since you became head coach. Could that accident have caused some kind of hidden structural damage to your brain? I suggest you get checked out at a hospital..." Chris Cohan definitely wouldn't choose him to coach the Warriors. Joe Lacob, who later bought the Warriors, didn't hesitate to spend money, but he didn't seem like the kind of owner who would dare to break with convention, either. Zhang Yu's hopes of quickly becoming the Warriors' head coach seemed to have died. He would have to wait another ten or twenty years before he had a chance to enter the NBA. The coach had frozen when he mentioned the World Cup, and a strange, indescribable smile had appeared on his face. It looked downright bizarre, like a man who'd been celibate for ages spotting the latest issue of Playboy. "Why are you suddenly so poetic?" "Coach, you watched the World Cup yesterday too, right? Team USA drew 1–1 with Italy. Thanks to Zaccardo, his own goal earned me a hundred dollars!" Julian Becko spoke excitedly, but Zhang Yu's attention was no longer on him at all. His mind was full of the words, "I bet ten dollars on a 1–1 draw and won a hundred." He'd tossed and turned all night, racking his brains, but hadn't come up with a way to raise capital. In the end, he'd stayed up until two in the morning before finally drifting off. If he could become an owner, how far off could head coach be? Zhang Yu's hopes of quickly becoming the Warriors' head coach seemed to have died. He would have to wait another ten or twenty years before he had a chance to enter the NBA. Zhang Yu's hopes of quickly becoming the Warriors' head coach seemed to have died. He would have to wait another ten or twenty years before he had a chance to enter the NBA. And the thirty thousand dollars in his head coach contract was pre-tax, paid in installments over the course of a year. Even if he got all of it right now, it wouldn't be enough to even qualify him to take part in the subprime crisis. "It's already June. I have to get my capital into the market quickly, or..." This seemingly absurd idea took root in Zhang Yu's mind and kept growing. The more he thought about it, the more excited he became, and he kept considering whether it might actually be possible. Julian Becko smiled and said: Could time travelers really get special perks? But even though he didn't watch soccer anymore, he still remembered the 2006 World Cup final clearly: Italy beat France in a penalty shootout, and Zidane delivered that shocking headbutt to Materazzi. "You don't want to be a starter anymore?" His phone chimed. Zhang Yu took it out; it was a text from Curry: "That's right. Chris Cohan bought the Warriors eleven years ago, and he's been the team's owner ever since." Stevens replied. What if... he just bought the Warriors himself and became the owner? "It's nothing. I just thought of something worth pondering." Zhang Yu's hopes of quickly becoming the Warriors' head coach seemed to have died. He would have to wait another ten or twenty years before he had a chance to enter the NBA. If he could become an owner, how far off could head coach be? The idea was legendary even in World Cup history. He'd seen it on Soccer World. "Julian, you're doing great. I'll have Brad increase your training load!" Zhang Yu didn't watch soccer, and the United States was a soccer desert to begin with. He'd spent the past couple of weeks busy with the Bulldogs and had even forgotten that the World Cup was being held in Germany that year. "So what about Mike? He's annoying, sure, but it doesn't feel right to just take his spot, does it?" Zhang Yu was sleepy too, and Julian's yawn was contagious; he couldn't help yawning just as widely. Stevens's eyes widened in surprise: "A hundred dollars?" "Thanks, Stephen. I've got it!" Julian Becko smiled and said: Zhang Yu raised an eyebrow, tore a piece of meat from the chicken leg in his hand, and chewed several mouthfuls with force. A fierce glint flashed in his eyes. "It's nothing. I just thought of something worth pondering." Zhang Yu's hopes of quickly becoming the Warriors' head coach seemed to have died. He would have to wait another ten or twenty years before he had a chance to enter the NBA. If he could become an owner, how far off could head coach be? Zhang Yu let out a long sigh, lay flat on the sofa, and stared lifelessly at the ceiling. He didn't feel like moving at all. "Now is the time to be practical..." This seemingly absurd idea took root in Zhang Yu's mind and kept growing. The more he thought about it, the more excited he became, and he kept considering whether it might actually be possible. Julian Becko had only bet that Team USA and Italy would draw 1–1, and his stake had multiplied tenfold. What if he bet on Zidane getting sent off in the final? "You don't want to be a starter anymore?" His phone chimed. Zhang Yu took it out; it was a text from Curry: "Ding..." Zhang Yu came back to himself and gave Julian Becko a heavy slap on the shoulder: Other people might have been crazy to suddenly declare that they wanted to own an NBA team. But Zhang Yu did have a chance. Without a doubt, Zhang Yu had the greatest information advantage in the world. Zhang Yu didn't watch soccer, and the United States was a soccer desert to begin with. He'd spent the past couple of weeks busy with the Bulldogs and had even forgotten that the World Cup was being held in Germany that year. "So what about Mike? He's annoying, sure, but it doesn't feel right to just take his spot, does it?" Zhang Yu was sleepy too, and Julian's yawn was contagious; he couldn't help yawning just as widely. Stevens's eyes widened in surprise: "A hundred dollars?" "Thanks, Stephen. I've got it!" Julian Becko smiled and said: "That's right. Chris Cohan bought the Warriors eleven years ago, and he's been the team's owner ever since." Stevens replied. If he'd been in his previous life, he'd have known plenty of wealthy people in finance. If he'd swallowed his pride and pooled money from everyone he knew, he might have been able to borrow a million dollars. This seemingly absurd idea took root in Zhang Yu's mind and kept growing. The more he thought about it, the more excited he became, and he kept considering whether it might actually be possible. Zhang Yu's hopes of quickly becoming the Warriors' head coach seemed to have died. He would have to wait another ten or twenty years before he had a chance to enter the NBA. And the thirty thousand dollars in his head coach contract was pre-tax, paid in installments over the course of a year. Even if he got all of it right now, it wouldn't be enough to even qualify him to take part in the subprime crisis. "It's already June. I have to get my capital into the market quickly, or..." Julian Becko grinned. Could time travelers really get special perks? But even though he didn't watch soccer anymore, he still remembered the 2006 World Cup final clearly: Italy beat France in a penalty shootout, and Zidane delivered that shocking headbutt to Materazzi. "This is legendary even in World Cup history. I saw it on Soccer World." "That's right. Chris Cohan bought the Warriors eleven years ago, and he's been the team's owner ever since." Stevens replied. Zhang Yu looked at the screen of his candy-bar Nokia. The corners of his mouth slowly curled into a smile, and he murmured to himself: Zhang Yu raised an eyebrow, tore a piece of meat from the chicken leg in his hand, and chewed several mouthfuls with force. A fierce glint flashed in his eyes. Zhang Yu went to the sideline and watched the players begin practice, feeling troubled. Was there really no way after all? After sending Julian Becko away, Zhang Yu slowly left the locker room. His spirits, which had finally settled, surged again, and he began thinking about how to raise a million dollars to use as betting capital. He picked out a few hamburgers and pieces of fried chicken at random, found an empty seat, and sat down. He chewed mechanically, Stevens's words echoing in his mind: "Unless the Warriors' owner has lost his mind, he'd never hire someone in his twenties to coach the team." Zhang Yu let out a long sigh, lay flat on the sofa, and stared lifelessly at the ceiling. He didn't feel like moving at all. If he could become an owner, how far off could head coach be? "Why are you suddenly so poetic?" Everyone knew that information was everything in the financial markets. "Ronan, you've been acting strange ever since you became head coach. Could that accident have caused some kind of hidden structural damage to your brain? I suggest you get checked out at a hospital..." Chris Cohan definitely wouldn't choose him to coach the Warriors. Joe Lacob, who later bought the Warriors, didn't hesitate to spend money, but he didn't seem like the kind of owner who would dare to break with convention, either. Zhang Yu's hopes of quickly becoming the Warriors' head coach seemed to have died. He would have to wait another ten or twenty years before he had a chance to enter the NBA. The coach had frozen when he mentioned the World Cup, and a strange, indescribable smile had appeared on his face. It looked downright bizarre, like a man who'd been celibate for ages spotting the latest issue of Playboy. "Why are you suddenly so poetic?" "Coach, you watched the World Cup yesterday too, right? Team USA drew 1–1 with Italy. Thanks to Zaccardo, his own goal earned me a hundred dollars!" Julian Becko spoke excitedly, but Zhang Yu's attention was no longer on him at all. His mind was full of the words, "I bet ten dollars on a 1–1 draw and won a hundred." He'd tossed and turned all night, racking his brains, but hadn't come up with a way to raise capital. In the end, he'd stayed up until two in the morning before finally drifting off. If he could become an owner, how far off could head coach be? Zhang Yu's hopes of quickly becoming the Warriors' head coach seemed to have died. He would have to wait another ten or twenty years before he had a chance to enter the NBA. Zhang Yu's hopes of quickly becoming the Warriors' head coach seemed to have died. He would have to wait another ten or twenty years before he had a chance to enter the NBA. And the thirty thousand dollars in his head coach contract was pre-tax, paid in installments over the course of a year. Even if he got all of it right now, it wouldn't be enough to even qualify him to take part in the subprime crisis. "It's already June. I have to get my capital into the market quickly, or..." This seemingly absurd idea took root in Zhang Yu's mind and kept growing. The more he thought about it, the more excited he became, and he kept considering whether it might actually be possible. Julian Becko smiled and said: "You don't want to be a starter anymore?" His phone chimed. Zhang Yu took it out; it was a text from Curry: "That's right. Chris Cohan bought the Warriors eleven years ago, and he's been the team's owner ever since." Stevens replied. If someone gave him fifty million—no, twenty million dollars in capital, he was confident he could turn the 2008 subprime mortgage crisis to his advantage and rake in hundreds of millions, even over a billion dollars! Zhang Yu raised an eyebrow, tore a piece of meat from the chicken leg in his hand, and chewed several mouthfuls with force. A fierce glint flashed in his eyes. Zhang Yu let out a long sigh, lay flat on the sofa, and stared lifelessly at the ceiling. He didn't feel like moving at all. If someone gave him fifty million—no, twenty million dollars in capital, he was confident he could turn the 2008 subprime mortgage crisis to his advantage and rake in hundreds of millions, even over a billion dollars! Zhang Yu arrived at the gym at 8:55. Practice for the Bulldogs started at nine, and the players and coaching staff were already there. If he could become an owner, how far off could head coach be? His mind raced as he searched for a solution. Staying up all night had left him with a headache, but he was caught in a strange state of euphoria and couldn't feel tired at all. All he could think about was how to get a million dollars. "A hundred dollars?" Zhang Yu kept thinking, then suddenly froze. The half-eaten chicken leg slipped from his hand and landed on the table with a soft thud. After sending Julian Becko away, Zhang Yu slowly left the locker room. His spirits, which had finally settled, surged again, and he began thinking about how to raise a million dollars to use as betting capital. Zhang Yu raised an eyebrow, tore a piece of meat from the chicken leg in his hand, and chewed several mouthfuls with force. A fierce glint flashed in his eyes. Julian Becko had only bet that Team USA and Italy would draw 1–1, and his stake had multiplied tenfold. What if he bet on Zidane getting sent off in the final? Julian Becko spoke excitedly, but Zhang Yu's attention was no longer on him at all. His mind was full of the words, "I bet ten dollars on a 1–1 draw and won a hundred." Betting on games was the best way to build up his capital! Stevens glanced at him and asked curiously: For anyone else, suddenly announcing that he wanted to own an NBA team would have sounded like madness. But Zhang Yu did have a chance. Julian Becko grinned. But Zhang Yu was a time traveler. He'd once been an investment analyst, a financial professional who worked with securities every day and knew the financial markets inside and out. "It's nothing. I just thought of something worth pondering." Stevens glanced at him and asked curiously: For anyone else, suddenly announcing that he wanted to own an NBA team would have sounded like madness. But Zhang Yu did have a chance. Even though he wasn't a rich second-generation heir, much less a self-made millionaire, the most he'd ever had was less than two thousand dollars. He'd signed a head coach contract worth three hundred thousand dollars, but hadn't received his first paycheck yet. Zhang Yu looked at the screen of his candy-bar Nokia. The corners of his mouth slowly curled into a smile, and he murmured to himself: Zhang Yu was quick to shed his identity as a basketball coach and think like an investment analyst. How could he make enough money in the shortest possible time to buy the Warriors and fund the team's operations? Zhang Yu hurriedly finished his meal and went back to his apartment. He kept thinking about where he could get the capital, but came up empty. His connections made it impossible for him to raise tens of millions of dollars in such a short time. Even though he wasn't a rich second-generation heir, much less a self-made millionaire, the most he'd ever had was less than two thousand dollars. He'd signed a head coach contract worth three hundred thousand dollars, but hadn't received his first paycheck yet. Betting on games was the best way to build up his capital! "Thanks, Stephen. I've got it!" Chris Cohan definitely wouldn't choose him to coach the Warriors. Joe Lacob, who later bought the Warriors, didn't hesitate to spend money, but he didn't seem like the kind of owner who would dare to break with convention, either. But Zhang Yu was a time traveler. He'd once been an investment analyst, a financial professional who worked with securities every day and knew the financial markets inside and out. He passed by Zhang Yu and murmured in his ear: He'd tossed and turned all night, racking his brains, but hadn't come up with a way to raise capital. In the end, he'd stayed up until two in the morning before finally drifting off. Zhang Yu hurriedly finished his meal and went back to his apartment. He kept thinking about where he could get the capital, but came up empty. His connections made it impossible for him to raise tens of millions of dollars in such a short time. Everyone knew that information was everything in the financial markets. If... he just bought the Warriors himself and became the owner? He passed by Zhang Yu and murmured in his ear: Could time travelers really get special perks? Zhang Yu didn't watch soccer, and the United States was a soccer desert to begin with. He'd spent the past couple of weeks busy with the Bulldogs and had even forgotten that the World Cup was being held in Germany that year. Julian Becko smiled and said: The idea of making money from the 2008 subprime mortgage crisis seemed like a beautiful but illusory dream. "Brad, the sunset's beautiful today." "You're right, Julian. But I don't need practice—and neither do you?" Zhang Yu said. If he could become an owner, how far off could head coach be? Zhang Yu let out a long sigh, lay flat on the sofa, and stared lifelessly at the ceiling. He didn't feel like moving at all. "You've got it, or you just thought of it..." Zhang Yu raised an eyebrow, tore a piece of meat from the chicken leg in his hand, and chewed several mouthfuls with force. A fierce glint flashed in his eyes. "This is legendary even in World Cup history. I saw it on Soccer World." "It's nothing. I just thought of something worth pondering." The next morning, at 8:30, Zhang Yu got up with dark circles under his eyes, ate a little bread and bacon, and headed to Hinkle Fieldhouse. "You've got it, or you just thought of it..." He'd tossed and turned all night, racking his brains, but hadn't come up with a way to raise capital. In the end, he'd stayed up until two in the morning before finally drifting off. Was some supreme deity watching over him, giving him a pillow whenever he felt sleepy? "You've got it, or you just thought of it..." But an idea, a very bold one, rose irresistibly in his mind. He passed by Zhang Yu and murmured in his ear: Zhang Yu had arrived at the key problem: he had no money! From now until 2021, he knew almost every major event in the financial markets. The coach had frozen when he mentioned the World Cup, and a strange, indescribable smile had appeared on his face. It looked downright bizarre, like a man who'd been celibate for ages spotting the latest issue of Playboy. "You've got it, or you just thought of it..." But an idea, a very bold one, rose irresistibly in his mind. His mind raced as he searched for a solution. Staying up all night had left him with a headache, but he was caught in a strange state of euphoria and couldn't feel tired at all. All he could think about was how to get a million dollars. Zhang Yu kept thinking, then suddenly froze. The half-eaten chicken leg slipped from his hand and landed on the table with a soft thud. "A hundred dollars?" "Betting on games was the best way to build up his capital!" "What if... he just bought the Warriors himself and became the owner?" But even though he didn't watch soccer anymore, he still remembered the 2006 World Cup final clearly: Italy beat France in a penalty shootout, and Zidane delivered that shocking headbutt to Materazzi. Was some supreme deity watching over him, giving him a pillow whenever he felt sleepy? "It's nothing. I just thought of something worth pondering." There had once been a high-frequency trading firm in the United States that spent three hundred million dollars boring through the Appalachian Mountains to lay a dedicated trading cable. Its goal was to cut the information lag between Chicago and New York by one millisecond, letting it trade on price differences between the two cities before anyone else and earn several million dollars more than its competitors every day. "Then train hard. If you impress me, you'll be a starter next season." If he'd been in his previous life, he'd have known plenty of wealthy people in finance. If he'd swallowed his pride and pooled money from everyone he knew, he might have been able to borrow a million dollars. Betting on games was the best way to build up his capital! Julian Becko had only bet that Team USA and Italy would draw 1–1, and his stake had multiplied tenfold. What if he bet on Zidane getting sent off in the final? Betting on games was the best way to build up his capital! Zhang Yu didn't watch soccer, and the United States was a soccer desert to begin with. He'd spent the past couple of weeks busy with the Bulldogs and had even forgotten that the World Cup was being held in Germany that year. "Coach, yesterday's sunset was beautiful." Everyone knew that information was everything in the financial markets. Zhang Yu had arrived at the key problem: he had no money! There had once been a high-frequency trading firm in the United States that spent three hundred million dollars boring through the Appalachian Mountains to lay a dedicated trading cable. Its goal was to cut the information lag between Chicago and New York by one millisecond, letting it trade on price differences between the two cities before anyone else and earn several million dollars more than its competitors every day. Was some supreme deity watching over him, giving him a pillow whenever he felt sleepy? Zhang Yu was sleepy too, and Julian's yawn was contagious; he couldn't help yawning just as widely. Even if he used his advanced information to make short-term trades, by 2010 he could at most turn it into a few million or perhaps ten million dollars. The return would be astounding, but it wouldn't even cover a fraction of the cost of buying the Warriors. But even though he didn't watch soccer anymore, he still remembered the 2006 World Cup final clearly: Italy beat France in a penalty shootout, and Zidane delivered that shocking headbutt to Materazzi. Without a doubt, Zhang Yu had the greatest information advantage in the world. "Where am I supposed to get twenty million dollars in capital?!" If he could become an owner, how far off could head coach be? But Zhang Yu was a time traveler. He'd once been an investment analyst, a financial professional who worked with securities every day and knew the financial markets inside and out. The moment he heard the World Cup mentioned, the coach had frozen, and a strange, indescribable smile had appeared on his face. It looked downright bizarre, like a man who'd been celibate for ages spotting the latest issue of Playboy. The moment he heard the World Cup mentioned, the coach had frozen, and a strange, indescribable smile had appeared on his face. It looked downright bizarre, like a man who'd been celibate for ages spotting the latest issue of Playboy. "It's nothing. I just thought of something worth pondering." Zhang Yu came back to himself and gave Julian Becko a heavy slap on the shoulder: His phone chimed. Zhang Yu took it out; it was a text from Curry: Even if he used his advanced information to make short-term trades, by 2010 he could at most turn it into a few million or perhaps ten million dollars. The return would be astounding, but it wouldn't even cover a fraction of the cost of buying the Warriors. The moment he heard the World Cup mentioned, the coach had frozen, and a strange, indescribable smile had appeared on his face. It looked downright bizarre, like a man who'd been celibate for ages spotting the latest issue of Playboy. Amid Stevens's endless chatter, the two left Hinkle Fieldhouse. Zhang Yu came back to himself and gave Julian Becko a heavy slap on the shoulder: If someone gave him fifty million—no, twenty million dollars in capital, he was confident he could turn the 2008 subprime mortgage crisis to his advantage and rake in hundreds of millions, even over a billion dollars! His phone chimed. Zhang Yu took it out; it was a text from Curry: Zhang Yu was quick to shed his identity as a basketball coach and think like an investment analyst. How could he make enough money in the shortest possible time to buy the Warriors and fund the team's operations? After thinking for a long time, he still had no answer. Tens of millions of dollars was a huge sum, but so was a million! There had once been a high-frequency trading firm in the United States that spent three hundred million dollars boring through the Appalachian Mountains to lay a dedicated trading cable. Its goal was to cut the information lag between Chicago and New York by one millisecond, letting it trade on price differences between the two cities before anyone else and earn several million dollars more than its competitors every day. "A hundred dollars?" The next morning, at 8:30, Zhang Yu got up with dark circles under his eyes, ate a little bread and bacon, and headed to Hinkle Fieldhouse. "All right, Coach!" "Julian, you're doing great. I'll have Brad increase your training load!" But his original self had been devoted to basketball and didn't know any wealthy people. Who could he ask for a loan? As he passed Zhang Yu, he murmured in his ear: Zhang Yu arrived at the gym at 8:55. Practice for the Bulldogs started at nine, and the players and coaching staff were already there. Zhang Yu didn't watch soccer, and the United States was a soccer desert to begin with. He'd spent the past couple of weeks busy with the Bulldogs and had even forgotten that the World Cup was being held in Germany that year. "Coach, yesterday's sunset was beautiful." Zhang Yu let out a long breath, looked toward the distant horizon, and murmured to himself: "This is legendary even in World Cup history. I saw it on Soccer World." "A hundred dollars?" Betting on games was the best way to build up his capital! "You don't want to be a starter anymore?" His phone chimed. Zhang Yu took it out; it was a text from Curry: If... he just bought the Warriors himself and became the owner? "Looks like a financial crisis is my best opportunity." After thinking it through carefully, Zhang Yu reached his conclusion. Zhang Yu had arrived at the key problem: he had no money! "Brad, the sunset's beautiful today." If he'd been in his previous life, he'd have known plenty of wealthy people in finance. If he'd swallowed his pride and pooled money from everyone he knew, he might have been able to borrow a million dollars. The idea of making money from the 2008 subprime mortgage crisis seemed like a beautiful but illusory dream. He entered the locker room and put his things down. Julian Becko and Mike Green were changing into their jerseys. But Zhang Yu was a time traveler. He'd once been an investment analyst, a financial professional who worked with securities every day and knew the financial markets inside and out. As he passed Zhang Yu, he murmured in his ear: "Then train hard. If you impress me, you'll be a starter next season." "Where am I supposed to get twenty million dollars in capital?!" "Coach, you watched the World Cup yesterday too, right? Team USA drew 1–1 with Italy. Thanks to Zaccardo, his own goal earned me a hundred dollars!" This seemingly absurd idea took root in Zhang Yu's mind and kept growing. The more he thought about it, the more excited he became, and he kept considering whether it might actually be possible. There had once been a high-frequency trading firm in the United States that spent three hundred million dollars boring through the Appalachian Mountains to lay a dedicated trading cable. Its goal was to cut the information lag between Chicago and New York by one millisecond, letting it trade on price differences between the two cities before anyone else and earn several million dollars more than its competitors every day. But an idea, a very bold one, rose irresistibly in his mind. "Brad, the sunset's beautiful today." "So what about Mike? He's annoying, sure, but it doesn't feel right to just take his spot, does it?" "You've got it, or you just thought of it..." Was some supreme deity watching over him, giving him a pillow whenever he felt sleepy? "A hundred dollars?" He picked out a few hamburgers and pieces of fried chicken at random, found an empty seat, and sat down. He chewed mechanically, Stevens's words echoing in his mind: "Unless the Warriors' owner has lost his mind, he'd never hire someone in his twenties to coach the team." "Coach, changing my shooting form was painful. I'd been bricking shots for the past two weeks, and at one point I wanted to give up. But I stuck with it. The one-motion shot is amazing. I never thought I'd be able to release the ball so quickly! Thanks for the suggestion. I'll keep working hard." "So what about Mike? He's annoying, sure, but it doesn't feel right to just take his spot, does it?" "You talk too much. He's still a starter. I have other plans for you, so get to practice!" If... he just bought the Warriors himself and became the owner? Zhang Yu's hopes of quickly becoming the Warriors' head coach seemed to have died. He would have to wait another ten or twenty years before he had a chance to enter the NBA. "All right, Coach!" "You don't want to be a starter anymore?" But an idea, a very bold one, rose irresistibly in his mind. But Zhang Yu was a time traveler. He'd once been an investment analyst, a financial professional who worked with securities every day and knew the financial markets inside and out. His mind raced as he searched for a solution. Staying up all night had left him with a headache, but he was caught in a strange state of euphoria and couldn't feel tired at all. All he could think about was how to get a million dollars. He entered the locker room and put his things down. Julian Becko and Mike Green were changing into their jerseys. Julian Becko's face fell. He got to his feet unsteadily, straightened his jersey, and headed out of the locker room. The next morning, at 8:30, Zhang Yu got up with dark circles under his eyes, ate a little bread and bacon, and headed to Hinkle Fieldhouse. After sending Julian Becko away, Zhang Yu slowly left the locker room. His spirits, which had finally settled, surged again, and he began thinking about how to raise a million dollars to use as betting capital. Zhang Yu didn't watch soccer, and the United States was a soccer desert to begin with. He'd spent the past couple of weeks busy with the Bulldogs and had even forgotten that the World Cup was being held in Germany that year. "Please, Coach! I'll never stay up late again. I'll get plenty of rest and come to practice in the best possible shape!" Julian Becko groaned and hurriedly begged for mercy. "This is legendary even in World Cup history. I saw it on Soccer World." Zhang Yu was sleepy too, and Julian's yawn was contagious; he couldn't help yawning just as widely. "Heh... Ding..." "Julian, you're doing great. I'll have Brad increase your training load!" Zhang Yu didn't watch soccer, and the United States was a soccer desert to begin with. He'd spent the past couple of weeks busy with the Bulldogs and had even forgotten that the World Cup was being held in Germany that year. "You're right, Julian. But I don't need practice—and neither do you?" Zhang Yu said. Stevens glanced at him and asked curiously: "You talk too much. He's still a starter. I have other plans for you, so get to practice!" Julian Becko smiled and said: Zhang Yu didn't watch soccer, and the United States was a soccer desert to begin with. He'd spent the past couple of weeks busy with the Bulldogs and had even forgotten that the World Cup was being held in Germany that year. "Coach, take a look at Julian. I bet Stevens is going to chew him out in a minute." Mike Green shot him a scornful glance. "Ding..." "He looks just like you, Coach. He didn't sleep well last night either." "Julian, you're doing great. I'll have Brad increase your training load!" Zhang Yu didn't watch soccer, and the United States was a soccer desert to begin with. He'd spent the past couple of weeks busy with the Bulldogs and had even forgotten that the World Cup was being held in Germany that year. "You're right, Julian. But I don't need practice—and neither do you?" Zhang Yu said. Stevens glanced at him and asked curiously: "You talk too much. He's still a starter. I have other plans for you, so get to practice!" "All right, Coach!" "Julian, you're doing great. I'll have Brad increase your training load!" But his original self had been devoted to basketball and didn't know any wealthy people. Who could he ask for a loan? "A hundred dollars?" "Coach? What's wrong?" Julian Becko looked at Zhang Yu in confusion. Everyone knew that information was everything in the financial markets. His phone chimed. Zhang Yu took it out; it was a text from Curry: "Ding..." Could time travelers really get special perks? But even though he didn't watch soccer anymore, he still remembered the 2006 World Cup final clearly: Italy beat France in a penalty shootout, and Zidane delivered that shocking headbutt to Materazzi. Betting on games was the best way to build up his capital! What if... he just bought the Warriors himself and became the owner? But even though he didn't watch soccer anymore, he still remembered the 2006 World Cup final clearly: Italy beat France in a penalty shootout, and Zidane delivered that shocking headbutt to Materazzi. Was some supreme deity watching over him, giving him a pillow whenever he felt sleepy? "It's nothing. I just thought of something worth pondering." There had once been a high-frequency trading firm in the United States that spent three hundred million dollars boring through the Appalachian Mountains to lay a dedicated trading cable. Its goal was to cut the information lag between Chicago and New York by one millisecond, letting it trade on price differences between the two cities before anyone else and earn several million dollars more than its competitors every day. "Then train hard. If you impress me, you'll be a starter next season." If he'd been in his previous life, he'd have known plenty of wealthy people in finance. If he'd swallowed his pride and pooled money from everyone he knew, he might have been able to borrow a million dollars. Betting on games was the best way to build up his capital! Julian Becko had only bet that Team USA and Italy would draw 1–1, and his stake had multiplied tenfold. What if he bet on Zidane getting sent off in the final? Betting on games was the best way to build up his capital! "Looks like a financial crisis is my best opportunity." After thinking it through carefully, Zhang Yu reached his conclusion. Zhang Yu didn't watch soccer, and the United States was a soccer desert to begin with. He'd spent the past couple of weeks busy with the Bulldogs and had even forgotten that the World Cup was being held in Germany that year. "He looks just like you, Coach. He didn't sleep well last night either." Everyone knew that information was everything in the financial markets. Zhang Yu had arrived at the key problem: he had no money! There had once been a high-frequency trading firm in the United States that spent three hundred million dollars boring through the Appalachian Mountains to lay a dedicated trading cable. Its goal was to cut the information lag between Chicago and New York by one millisecond, letting it trade on price differences between the two cities before anyone else and earn several million dollars more than its competitors every day. Was some supreme deity watching over him, giving him a pillow whenever he felt sleepy? Zhang Yu was sleepy too, and Julian's yawn was contagious; he couldn't help yawning just as widely. Even if he used his advanced information to make short-term trades, by 2010 he could at most turn it into a few million or perhaps ten million dollars. The return would be astounding, but it wouldn't even cover a fraction of the cost of buying the Warriors. But even though he didn't watch soccer anymore, he still remembered the 2006 World Cup final clearly: Italy beat France in a penalty shootout, and Zidane delivered that shocking headbutt to Materazzi. Without a doubt, Zhang Yu had the greatest information advantage in the world. "Where am I supposed to get twenty million dollars in capital?!" If he could become an owner, how far off could head coach be? But Zhang Yu was a time traveler. He'd once been an investment analyst, a financial professional who worked with securities every day and knew the financial markets inside and out. "This is legendary even in World Cup history. I saw it on Soccer World." But an idea, a very bold one, rose irresistibly in his mind. Even if he used his advanced information to make short-term trades, by 2010 he could at most turn it into a few million or perhaps ten million dollars. The return would be astounding, but it wouldn't even cover a fraction of the cost of buying the Warriors. "Julian, you're doing great. I'll have Brad increase your training load!" What if... he just bought the Warriors himself and became the owner? Was some supreme deity watching over him, giving him a pillow whenever he felt sleepy? But even though he didn't watch soccer anymore, he still remembered the 2006 World Cup final clearly: Italy beat France in a penalty shootout, and Zidane delivered that shocking headbutt to Materazzi. His mind raced as he searched for a solution. Staying up all night had left him with a headache, but he was caught in a strange state of euphoria and couldn't feel tired at all. All he could think about was how to get a million dollars. Julian Becko had only bet that Team USA and Italy would draw 1–1, and his stake had multiplied tenfold. What if he bet on Zidane getting sent off in the final? This seemingly absurd idea took root in Zhang Yu's mind and kept growing. The more he thought about it, the more excited he became, and he kept considering whether it might actually be possible. "You're right, Julian. But I don't need practice—and neither do you?" Zhang Yu said. "He looks just like you, Coach. He didn't sleep well last night either." "The next time you talk, I'll make you a starter? He's still a starter; I have other plans for you. Hurry up and practice!" "All right, Coach!" "Julian, you're doing great. I'll have Brad increase your training load!" The moment he heard the World Cup mentioned, the coach had frozen, and a strange, indescribable smile had appeared on his face. It looked downright bizarre, like a man who'd been celibate for ages spotting the latest issue of Playboy. If he'd been in his previous life, he'd have known plenty of wealthy people in finance. If he'd swallowed his pride and pooled money from everyone he knew, he might have been able to borrow a million dollars. Everyone knew that information was everything in the financial markets. "Coach? What's wrong?" Julian Becko looked at Zhang Yu in confusion. But an idea, a very bold one, rose irresistibly in his mind. The idea of making money from the 2008 subprime mortgage crisis seemed like a beautiful but illusory dream. "A hundred dollars?" Julian Becko's face fell. He got to his feet unsteadily, straightened his jersey, and headed out of the locker room. "That's right. I bet ten dollars on a 1–1 draw. I never thought it would actually end that way. The ref must've been up to something. Beasley scored in the second half, but the goal was ruled out. Still, I like this kind of ref..." "Thanks, Stephen. I've got it!" But his original self had been devoted to basketball and didn't know any wealthy people. Who could he ask for a loan? Everyone knew that information was everything in the financial markets. Julian Becko had only bet that Team USA and Italy would draw 1–1, and his stake had multiplied tenfold. What if he bet on Zidane getting sent off in the final? Julian Becko spoke excitedly, but Zhang Yu's attention was no longer on him at all. His mind was full of the words, "I bet ten dollars on a 1–1 draw and won a hundred." Zhang Yu said, "Then train hard. If you impress me, you'll be a starter next season." Zhang Yu had arrived at the key problem: he had no money! Was some supreme deity watching over him, giving him a pillow whenever he felt sleepy? His mind raced as he searched for a solution. Staying up all night had left him with a headache, but he was caught in a strange state of euphoria and couldn't feel tired at all. All he could think about was how to get a million dollars.