The Phoenix Suns visited Boston's home court.
Garnett had ulterior motives.
Because Charles Barkley, nicknamed " Charles Barkley," was someone he had secretly admired since childhood.
That short and chubby guy, who could charge through a bunch of taller guys, grab all the rebounds, and even turn around and yell at his opponents until they broke Charles Barkley, was the idol of countless streetball players.
Garnett is one of them.
He imitated Barkley's turnaround, Barkley's rebounding positioning, and even Barkley's never-forgiving mouth.
So tonight, facing his idol, Garnett was both excited and burning with a desire to prove himself in front of his idol.
During warm-up, he deliberately strolled over to Barkley, grinning, and said, " Charles! Let me tell you, I grew up watching you play..."
Barkley didn't even turn his head, just snorted a single word through his nose.
"Oh."
That one word completely shut down the whole string of words that followed Garnett.
Garnett awkwardly touched his nose. He had no idea what Barkley was thinking behind that "oh."
But as soon as the game started, Barkley told him the Answer in the most unreasonable way.
Barkley was a full five inches shorter Garnett.
That is, 13 centimeters.
At 2.11 meters tall, Garnett should have had a significant height advantage over Barkley, who was 1.98 meters tall. Garnett initially thought so too. He was even a little relaxed... "Rebounding? I'm so much taller than you, how could you possibly gain an advantage?"
The first rebound opportunity.
With his height and jumping ability, Garnett easily secured his position, determined to win.
But just as the ball bounced up, a short and stocky figure, like a cannonball, crashed into the room.
Barkley didn't even try to outjump Garnett in terms of jumping ability or height. He used his ridiculously broad frame and rear to forcefully push aside Garnett's seemingly solid position from below. Then, right under Garnett's arm, he forcefully stole the rebound that should have been Garnett's.
Garnett was stunned.
That was his backboard. In his defensive zone, above his head. But that fat guy, a head shorter than him, just swaggered over and snatched the ball from his hands.
The next possession was the same. Barkley didn't care about Garnett's height at all. Every time, he used that cannonball-like, reckless positioning and rebounding to steal the rebounds one by one from Garnett's paint.
They snatched three in a row.
Garnett's inherent wolfishness was completely unleashed.
He refused to accept it. He went berserk, ramming his chest into Barkley's back like a machine gun that had jammed but was forced to fire, rattling and muttering incessantly in Barkley's ear.
"Come on, you fatso! Try charging at me again! You're not leaving here easily tonight! I'll haunt you like a shadow! Even if you crawl into a coffin, I'll dig you out and keep defending you!"
Barkley, being relentlessly harassed by this kid and listening to his endless, increasingly bizarre trash talk, finally looked at him properly.
Then, this league's most scathing critic revealed a sneer that Garnett knew all too well, yet was encountering for the first time in real life.
In the next possession, the Suns missed a three-pointer.
The moment the ball bounced up, Barkley once again shoved his broad backside into Garnett's arms, and with a sudden burst of strength, he knocked Garnett off balance and stumbled.
Garnett gritted his teeth, still trying to block with his long arms, but this time, Barkley showed no sign of holding back. The renowned " Charles Barkley " slammed his arm down, sticking out his buttocks, and his two thick iron elbows, accompanied by a piercing whistling sound, wrapped around Garnett's neck and swept across without any restraint!
That wasn't about the ball. That was the most primitive and unreasonable survival rule among centers in the 1990s.
Garnett could even smell the strong odor of sweat emanating from those two elbows. He instinctively shrank his neck, forcefully pulling his center of gravity back to prevent the iron elbow from shattering his nose.
Garnett lost his footing and fell to the ground.
Barkley grabbed the backboard with one hand, not even glancing at the shaken high school student. He simply turned his head slightly and, in a condescending tone, even with a hint of cold laughter, uttered a low utterance to Garnett.
"Protect your face, kid. Protect your fucking face."
Barkley's message was roughly. "Your baby face is too close to my elbow; you've crossed the line in my territory. I won't hold back in my next move. If you don't pull your face back and learn to protect your head with your arms, my elbow will smash your jaw—and that's your own fault."
Garnett stood there, his chest heaving.
"You think you're so great just because you're tall?" Barkley trash-talked as he used his lower body to hold his ground. "Kid, I've seen plenty of 2.11-meter trash in this league. Height is what you're born with, but toughness isn't. What good is being tall! You're as soft as a lump of dough!"
Garnett felt a tightness in his chest, but his reckless spirit also kicked in. He gritted his teeth and pushed forward with all his might, while waving his long arms wildly over Barkley's head, muttering, "Being tall means I can grab things! Next up, my board!"
"Your backboard?" Barkley chuckled again. "Kid, your name isn't on the backboard. It doesn't belong to tall guys... it only belongs to the guy who wants it most!"
He shoved Garnett aside again and grabbed the fourth rebound, pulling it into his arms.
"This isn't an opera house," Barkley grinned, uttering a phrase Garnett would remember for years, "It's a dog-eat-dog world, a slaughterhouse. You stand there and wait for the ball to fall by itself... then it'll always be mine."
What angered and bewildered Garnett the most was Barkley's "seriousness."
He didn't let Garnett off the hook just because he was a rookie.
On the contrary, this long-established MVP, this veteran who could have easily dealt with a high school student, played with Garnett fiercely in every possession, as if he were fighting another All-Star.
He was in the low post, completely ignoring Garnett's defense, just using his big butt to push against Garnett, step by step, sitting down under the basket, and then easily scoring; every rebound he grabbed was like it was the last shot of the NBA Finals; he guarded Garnett so tightly that he didn't give the rookie even the slightest chance to score easily.
That night, Garnett was utterly crushed by Barkley.
At the end of the game, Garnett's scoreboard showed only... a pitiful number...
4 points.
Barkley, with 18 points and 11 rebounds, easily racked up a double-double, dominating Garnett at will.
The Boston Celtics lost. The final stop of their tour ended in another crushing defeat.
In the locker room, Garnett sat silently, rubbing his chest, which felt stuffy from being pressed against by Barkley's big butt.
Four points. This is one of his worst stats of the entire season. He was dominated by his idol all night long on the boards, his specialty.
Logically, he should hate Barkley.
Strangely, the feeling in his heart wasn't hatred.
Sam Cassell walked over. "What's wrong? Got beaten up by your idol? Are you mentally broken?"
"No." Garnett shook his head, still rubbing his chest and gritting his teeth. " Sam, that old bastard, he's a monster. He didn't care how high I stretched my arms out; he just used that big ass to push against me, step by step, and sat down inside..."
Garnett paused, and then, slowly, his eyes, which had been pounded all night, began to light up.
"He wasn't stealing the ball," Garnett whispered. "He was stealing my life."
"But aren't you angry with him?" Sam Cassell raised an eyebrow.
"Of course I'm angry," Garnett grinned. "But think about it, Sam. He's Charles Barkley. MVP. My idol since I was a kid. He could easily, casually, deal with a rookie like me, he'd be guaranteed to win anyway."
"But he didn't." Garnett looked up. "He guarded me, grabbed my rebounds, sat on me... He treated me, a rookie, with the same intensity he would an All-Star."
"He's," Garnett savored the strange yet burning emotion, "Taking me seriously."
Sam Cassell paused for a moment, then smiled.
This kid's got it.
In the jungle of the NBA, the greatest humiliation is never getting beaten up. It's being ignored, being completely uninterested in you, and being deemed unworthy.
And Barkley... the man Garnett idolized since childhood... gave this rookie the highest level of recognition with a relentless and brutal domination throughout the night.
You're not someone to be trifled with. You deserve it, I'll deal with you with all my might.
The players' tunnel after the game.
Once again, Garnett mustered his courage and called out to the short, stocky figure.
" Charles..." Garnett said, "Thanks."
Barkley stopped, turned around, and glanced at him sideways, as if he didn't understand why this rookie he had beaten up all night was thanking him.
"Thanks for not treating me like a rookie." Garnett scratched his head, and unusually, uttered an awkward but sincere remark, "Thanks for playing seriously with me."
Barkley stared at him for two seconds.
Then he walked back, and his thick finger pressed firmly against Garnett's thin chest.
"Don't idolize me, kid," Barkley said, his tone devoid of the ferocity he displayed on the court, but carrying a cruel pride unique to old-school thugs. "I'm not anyone's role model. Just because I can play basketball doesn't mean I have to guide your life."
After saying that, his short, stocky figure swaggered away and disappeared at the end of the passage.
Garnett stood there, stunned.
"Don't idolize me, I'm not anyone's role model"... He had heard Barkley say this countless times in that famous TV commercial.
But at this moment, when his idol said it to him face to face, Garnett felt as if the blood in his body was on fire.
damn it.
That's so cool.
He looked down at his hands, which Barkley had crushed all night, and suddenly, speaking through gritted teeth to the empty passageway, he uttered a sentence, as if to Barkley, or perhaps to himself, as if making a vow.
"I see."
"From this day forward, every time I step onto that floor..."
"I didn't come here to play ball."
"I'm here to fight."
"I'm ready to die up there."
Barkley... his childhood idol... taught him something more important than any skill through a night of relentless domination and that phrase "dog-eat-dog slaughterhouse."
Rebounds, status, and victory in this league are never automatically attributed to those who are "tall" or "talented."
It belongs only to that madman who wants it most, who's most reckless, and who treats every game like a war.
To be treated seriously by a top-tier opponent, with all their might and without mercy... that's not a humiliation.
That was a kind of acknowledgment.