The Golden Age of Basketball-Chapter 144 - 43: Grand Opening

On the morning of November 4th, beneath the patter of persistent rain, stood the Great Western Forum arena in the Inglewood District of Los Angeles.

Magic Johnson, wrapped in a luxurious fur coat, made his appearance in the arena’s parking lot, seated in his blue Mercedes.

Last night was another carefree escapade for him; no matter if there was a game the next day, he couldn’t resist the beautiful girls who offered themselves to him.

Since arriving from rural Michigan to Los Angeles in 1979, he quickly plunged into a life of worldly pleasures. Surprisingly, his basketball career didn’t suffer for it.

It was rumored that he once spent the night with six girls at once. His physical and energetic capabilities were clearly extraordinary, even outmatching his athletic peers.

However, one thing was clear: he never let women stay overnight, nor did he stay at their places. He valued his privacy a great deal. To this day, many of his friends don’t know he has a three-year-old child, let alone his intimate relationships with countless women.

His management of time and women was as impressive and dazzling as his control over the game on the court.

Magic treated basketball with a 120 percent serious attitude, his desire to win exceeding most people’s imagination.

In the 1984 finals, the Lakers’ last game was lost to the Celtics, with Magic making a critical error that handed the championship to Bird and the Celtics.

Lacking a flight back that same night, they had no choice but to stay in a Boston hotel and witness their arch-rivals’ citywide revelry—an experience that gifted Johnson with an unforgettable pain, leading him to spend three days and nights awake, reflecting on his own mistakes.

This year, Riley dragged the Lakers to Palm Springs for a hellish training session.

The atmosphere of each training practice was filled with fire and intensity, reaching the level of the finals.

Riley aimed to torment his players with harsh, vigorous training, pushing them towards transcendence.

Perhaps because offseason training was so intense, the Lakers’ start to the new season was less than stellar. With two wins and three losses in the first five games, they lost to the Mavericks, the Spurs, and the Supersonics.

They lost by two points to the Spurs and by one point to the Supersonics. They desperately needed a victory to adjust their status and silence the noisy media.

Back in Los Angeles, they were set to play three consecutive home games. After taking down the Spurs in the first one, the second game was against the recently unstoppable and undefeated Portland Trail Blazers.

Johnson made his way to the locker room in practiced routine, changed into his training gear, picked up a basketball, and prepared to warm up with some shooting on the court.

When playing at home, he liked to warm up in the Great Western Forum arena in the morning, then have lunch at the Forum Club at noon, and practice with the team in the afternoon before playing in the evening match.

After the game, it was time for more pleasure and fun; sometimes he would party until three in the morning, then get up normally for training, eating, and playing in the games.

At home games, he would arrange for girls he met at the sidelines to fly to the city where he was playing, providing them with tickets and room expenses for a night’s company.

Johnson’s boundless energy was astounding; no wonder many of his friends never realized how much he played around—where would a normal person find the time and energy?

"Hey Magic, you’re only the second one here today," called out an older security gentleman at the arena as Johnson made his way to the court.

Johnson was surprised; someone arrived earlier than him? Was it Jabbar? Or Cooper? Or Worthy?

Approaching the court, Johnson didn’t hear the sound of bouncing basketballs, nor did he see anyone practicing. Where was this person?

"Good morning, Magic!" The voice came suddenly from the seemingly empty arena, giving Johnson quite a start.

The voice originated from the stands, and looking up, Johnson saw someone running in the aisles of the seats.

It was Gan Guoyang, dressed in a gray T-shirt and dark shorts, sweating profusely as he ran through the narrow passageways.

"Gan! How did you get in here?" Johnson called out loudly.

"Through my face!" Guoyang responded as he ran.

Magic thought to himself, mentioning "face" in my presence—was there a more influential face in Los Angeles sports?

"Why are you running here?"

"It’s raining, and there’s a game tonight. I wanted to warm up a bit, imagining the crowd cheering for me," Guoyang retorted.

"Fuck you, Gan, we’re going to thrash you tonight!"

The two had met during a game between the Olympic Team and the All-Star Team, and Johnson quite admired Guoyang.

In Guoyang, Magic saw a reflection of himself—the same unflinching confidence and courage.

Yet he could sense the scent of "green blood" from him, a perfect mix of arrogance and serenity.

Guoyang gave no response; his expression was blank, thoroughly absorbed in his running.

This morning at around four o’clock, he woke up and couldn’t fall back asleep, the excitement of playing against the Lakers on the court overwhelming him.

Wanting to go for a run but deterred by the rain outside, he made his way to the Great Western Forum arena and exchanged a signature for a pass from the staff to run laps in the stands.

Guoyang couldn’t recall how many laps he’d run in the stands, looking over the Forum’s floor below. It reminded him of the CIF finals in 1981, where he earned his first major basketball accolade.

From that moment, he felt a strong connection to this arena. He would claim victory here.