Chapter Thirteen: Report Card in Times of Fatigue

"Coach Frank, do you mean I'll play in the next game?" Vogt had just given a reminder, and Wu Rui, who was in the midst of shooting practice, suddenly froze mid-motion. His eyes lit up like a starving wolf spotting prey, and with a swift stride, he bounded over to Vogt. "Really? Will I really get to play?"

"When did I ever say you'd be on the court?" Vogt was startled by Wu Rui's sudden move, took a moment to compose himself, and retorted.

"You just said I'd start in the next game..."

"I'll let you come off the bench for a few minutes!" Vogt interrupted Wu Rui before he could finish. But as soon as he spoke, Vogt sensed something was off. He caught sight of Wu Rui's signature sly grin.

This kid was baiting him!

As Wu Rui grinned mischievously, Vogt was about to lose his temper, but Wu Rui nimbly hopped back to the sideline and resumed his shooting drills in silence.

"Michael, you really are a piece of work!" Vogt watched Wu Rui practicing obediently and decided not to get angry after all. As he turned to leave, his lips couldn't help but curl into a slight smile.

Time passed quickly. As Wu Rui neared the end of his shooting session, more players began to appear in the Magic's training facility—the team's regular practice was scheduled for today.

"Hey, Michael, didn't expect you to be here so early again." Bismack Biyombo arrived neither early nor late, with enough time to chat.

"You’re not late yourself," Wu Rui replied, shooting as he joked, "Coach Frank said I'll play more minutes than you in tomorrow's game."

"Oh, my friend, do all Chinese people love to joke so much?" Wu Rui's words amused Biyombo, the big man from Congo, who chuckled and patted Wu Rui on the shoulder. "When you can snag a rebound over my head, then we'll talk about getting playing time."

He pointed at Wu Rui's gradually dropping right hand, pursed his lips, shook his head, and strode onto the court without looking back.

"Coach!" Wu Rui suddenly called out to Vogt, who was gathering stats nearby. "I want to challenge Bismack for rebounds!"

"Come off it, Michael, stop kidding around and focus on your practice," Vogt replied, dismissing Wu Rui's request with a laugh.

Biyombo didn’t take Wu Rui seriously either, brushing off the challenge with a smile.

Biyombo’s words reminded Wu Rui of the shooting sets he had left unfinished—he couldn’t let such a good rhythm go to waste. But he wasn’t joking; he genuinely wanted to battle Biyombo under the basket.

Ever since his last vertical jump test, Wu Rui hadn’t unleashed the power in his legs. For some reason, the urge was itching at him.

"Michael, were you serious just now?" At that moment, Frank Vogt approached Wu Rui with a stack of stat sheets.

While compiling data, Vogt had heard Wu Rui’s request and felt inclined to agree. The memory of Wu Rui’s aggressive offensive rebounding in his season debut was still vivid; Vogt wanted to see how Wu Rui’s rebounding ability truly measured up.

"Of course, Coach Frank, I can’t wait to jump up and grab a rebound!" Wu Rui declared, leaping in place and waving his hands in the air. "Even if the rebound is Bismack's, I won't lose to him!"

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely!"

"Good. Then come with me." Vogt, seeing Wu Rui’s lively spirit, decisively signaled him to pause his shooting drills and follow him onto the court, stopping beneath a basket and pointing at the backboard. "Jump."

"Huh?" Wu Rui was momentarily confused, looking up at the lofty rim, unsure what to do.

"You said you wanted to jump. Now I’m giving you permission. See the square above the rim?"

"I don’t think you can reach it."

"Coach, I haven’t even jumped yet—you can’t judge so soon." Vogt’s goading worked; Wu Rui stretched, eyed the square above the rim, and said, "Watch closely to see how high I can reach!"

With that, he took a deep breath, bent his knees, and a surge of unfamiliar yet familiar explosive power shot through his body. He launched himself like an arrow, soaring upward.

Thud!

As he rose, Wu Rui’s right hand smacked the backboard with force, producing a dull sound. He landed back on the floor.

Phew—

As soon as he touched down, Wu Rui exhaled, instinctively glanced at his legs, his heart pounding wildly.

Had he not jumped very high just now?

Were his legs acting up again?

"Michael, go rest on the sideline for a bit," Vogt said quietly, standing beside him. "You're close to cramping."

"What?" Cramping?

Vogt’s words startled Wu Rui. Suddenly, he felt a chill down his back, and a wave of soreness swept over his right leg, as if threatening to engulf him.

"Coach, thank you!" Now aware of his fatigue, Wu Rui understood why jumping had felt so odd—it was because he was exhausted!

He didn’t hesitate any longer; his health was his most valuable asset. Thanking Vogt again, Wu Rui sat down right where he was, resting while kneading his gradually numbing legs.

He had finally regained his legs—it would be foolish to squander them now.

On the other side, Vogt watched Wu Rui resting, nodded, and his gaze lingered on the spot Wu Rui had slapped on the backboard. There, just a few centimeters above the top line of the square, a faint handprint could be seen.

"This, and he was fatigued," Vogt muttered under his breath so quietly no one else could hear. He opened his stat sheet, scribbled a note in a blank space, closed it, and shouted a few instructions to the players in training.

Though the team had just broken a losing streak, their performance against Joel Embiid—a dominant center—in the last game had been far from satisfactory. Vogt knew he had to make changes, as the next game would present similar, if not greater, challenges.

On November 3rd, American time, at Orlando's Amway Center, the attendance was not particularly high. Many fans wearing the visiting team’s jerseys sat near the court, frequently chanting the name of their team’s star center.

"DeMarcus! DeMarcus! DeMarcus!"