Chapter 640 - 566: This Father is Hard to Deal With

Chapter 640: Chapter 566: This Father is Hard to Deal With

Kemba Walker was incredibly fast and exceptionally flexible.

He also had an uncanny feel for the ball; when he dribbled, it was like it was glued to his palm.

His handles were tight, and he had a decent shot.

He had many strengths. At only fourteen, his skills alone were on par with many professional players.

But he wasn’t tall enough.

He was only 5-foot-7!

Basketball is the kind of sport that can make you despair. Ten years of hard work can’t compete with someone else being seven-foot-six.

And that wasn’t even considering Durant’s own improvements. After nearly two months of intense training, his ability to handle contact and his shooting stability under pressure had improved significantly.

His technique had become purer, simplified and efficient like a pro’s.

No flashy dribbles. Just a jab step, then a pull-up shot.

Dribble into contact, then a quick stop-and-pop.

A single explosive step, pushing past Walker for a floater that dropped in.

It was a complete, one-sided beatdown.

"Fuck!"

As Durant calmly sank a shot off a turnaround jumper, Walker cursed in anger.

Playing against a guy a foot taller than you was just dream-crushing.

Durant glanced at Walker.

’This guy had been chosen and invited by the show for a reason; he was definitely not your average player.’

This kid, Walker, was extremely fast.

He could use a series of crossovers to slip right past Durant.

Durant had guard-like speed, but that was all relative. Against a shorter guard who was a true speed specialist, Durant was still a step slow.

But after playing a full regular season on the show against other prodigies his age—and more importantly, with NBA-level coaches and trainers guiding him—Durant’s basketball IQ and experience had taken a massive leap forward.

For instance, against a quick opponent like Walker, he knew to give him a step. Let him drive, then chase him down for the block.

With Durant’s height and wingspan, blocking Walker was a simple enough task.

"You’re really good," Durant said, offering a compliment instead of a taunt.

Walker’s only problem was his height.

If he were just four inches taller, Durant felt it wouldn’t have been such an easy win.

Durant’s compliment seemed to soothe Walker’s frustration. "You’re not bad yourself," he said. "No wonder they made you a captain."

’That tall and a mid-range jumper that steady... unreal.’

"By the way, picking Beasley was a terrible choice," Walker added with a sneer.

Durant’s expression instantly soured.

’This is going to follow me for the rest of my life, isn’t it?’

Sure enough, half an hour later, sitting in a fancy restaurant, Owen asked the same question.

Except his take was different from Walker’s, different from any normal person’s. He actually thought Durant had made the right choice.

"He’s your boy, of course you had to pick him. And I think him turning down the show was pretty cool," Owen said, digging into his steak.

His father worked as a bond broker in Manhattan, so his family was well-off, but even he didn’t get to eat a two-hundred-dollar steak very often.

Durant, who was also devouring his food, stopped and gave Owen a strange look.

’This guy really is strange.’

’Any normal person would have thought Beasley was rude and arrogant, not cool.’

But considering Owen’s life goal was to beat his own dad, it was obvious how rebellious he was.

’Kids in their rebellious phase will think all sorts of things.’

Durant didn’t respond to that. Instead, he asked why Owen’s dream was to defeat his father.

"Because I can’t beat him," Owen said, taking a vicious bite of steak.

Owen didn’t continue, chewing on his steak as he turned his head and stared blankly out the window.

Outside, the bustling streets of New York were filled with colorfully dressed pedestrians hurrying by.

Owen looked away from the window, annoyed. "Why all the questions? Just help me beat my old man, that’s all that matters."

Durant nodded. He wasn’t particularly interested in the strange workings of Owen’s mind.

Durant was actually curious just how good Old Owen was. He’d seen Owen play one-on-one against Walker, and Owen’s skills were clearly decent.

He had a great feel for the ball, tight handles, and solid technique.

If he couldn’t beat his dad, it could only mean his dad was no slouch.

But he swallowed the words before they came out.

’Shouldn’t be a problem,’ Durant thought. ’After two months on the show, I’m practically a semi-pro myself.’

’There’s no way I can’t beat a bond broker who’s pushing forty.’

In the afternoon, with time to kill, Owen tagged along behind Durant as they wandered through the bustling parts of New York.

They checked out the latest electronics and drooled over their dream Air Jordans.

"How come you’re just looking and not buying anything?" Owen finally asked.

After Durant had treated him to that fancy restaurant, he’d assumed Durant was loaded.

Durant didn’t speak.

’Even with a fortune in hand, he couldn’t shake his broke mindset. He’d been poor for so long that he was scared of it, and he’d never really spent money so freely.’

’That lunch he’d bought for Owen... if he hadn’t wanted a steak himself, he definitely would have just grabbed a couple of hot dogs from a street vendor and called it a day.’

Even so, spending several hundred US dollars still stung.

’That ten thousand US dollars was supposed to be my dream fund, my activity budget. Whatever I can save, I can keep.’

’Why waste it, especially on a little brat like Owen?’

’If it was for the sake of completing his dream, that was one thing. But for anything else, I don’t want to spend a single penny.’

"Let’s go. To your place."

’The more I look, the worse I feel. Better to just not look at all.’

They took the production crew’s car to Owen’s house.

It was a very ordinary neighborhood.

A simple basketball hoop stood at the end of a narrow driveway in front of the house.

Judging by its worn look, it saw a lot of use.

"Is your mom home?" Durant asked as he pushed the door open.

"Don’t talk about my mom!"

Owen stopped dead in his tracks, his expression hardening into a stern warning.

He must have realized how harsh that sounded, because he added in a nonchalant tone, "She’s dead. Died when I was four."

Durant murmured an "Oh," and quickly apologized.

"It’s fine. I can’t even remember what she looked like anyway," Owen said with a wave of his hand. He found a Coke, tossed it to Durant, and led him to his room.

The room was messy, the walls covered in posters.

Durant scanned the room but couldn’t find a single place to sit.

He picked up a baseball glove. "You like baseball, too?"

He also spotted a skateboard and a football.

’This kid’s got a lot of hobbies.’

Owen flopped onto his back on the bed and stared blankly at the ceiling. "Doesn’t matter. All I can do now is play basketball," he said.

Durant detected a hint of resentment in his voice and wisely decided not to press the issue.

’Anyway, I’m just here to complete the mission. I don’t even know Owen that well.’

He waited patiently until almost six o’clock, when Old Owen finally came home.

The production crew must have briefed him beforehand, because he wasn’t surprised to see Durant. Instead, his gaze fell on Owen, and his expression grew complicated.

He looked like he wanted to fly into a rage but was barely holding it in.

’Putting myself in his shoes,’ Durant thought, ’I’d be furious too.’

’Your own son’s only dream is to beat you. How tragic is that?’

Owen didn’t dare to look his father straight in the eye.

"Welcome, Kevin."

Old Owen came forward to shake Durant’s hand. He complimented Durant on his height, then asked when he wanted to get started. He offered to play after they ate—he’d bought Mexican food.

Durant, of course, wanted to get it over with as soon as possible.

Old Owen nodded, told Owen to put the food in the fridge, and then led Durant out into the yard.

There on the narrow driveway, he changed into his basketball gear and began a methodical, focused warm-up.

He was so focused that Owen, watching from the side, seemed a bit dazed.

He’d never seen his father so serious. It was like watching the Old Owen from twenty years ago, heading to his tryout with the Celtics.

’It’s just a TV show, just a stupid joke of mine. Does he have to be this serious?’

’Or is it because he’s going to be on TV, so he wants to look good?’

Owen’s brow furrowed, a wave of irritation rising within him.

Durant was also warming up.

’Despise your enemy strategically, but respect them tactically.’ Old Owen might be older, but he was a former pro, after all.

Even if he never made it to the NBA, just getting scouted by an NBA team and earning a tryout meant he was better than ninety percent of all players.

It took them nearly twenty full minutes to finish warming up.

Partway through, Owen’s sister, Aisha, came home. Once she found out what was going on, she punched Owen twice on the arm before standing quietly to the side to cheer for their dad.

"Kevin."

Old Owen, standing at 6-foot-4, held the basketball in front of Durant. He then asked if Durant knew who he was.

When Durant shook his head, Old Owen spoke with considerable pride. "In my prime, I was the leading scorer for Boston University, the second-highest scorer in the school’s history. In the NBL, playing for the Blin Kangaroo Team, I had a season where I averaged 32.4 points per game!"

Durant was slightly taken aback.

He knew about the Boston University scoring title; the director who followed him for the show had mentioned it.

But he had no idea about averaging over 32 points in the NBL.

Australia’s professional league was no NBA, but averaging over 30 points a game still meant something.

"Kevin, I’ve seen you on TV. You’re an excellent, talented player. But I want you to know, I’m not as washed-up as you might think, even at thirty-eight."

"So beating me isn’t going to be so easy!"

He threw the ball to Durant.

He threw it with some force, too.

Besides, Durant had already noticed that even after years as a bond broker, Old Owen had maintained an excellent physique. His muscles were still well-defined.

During the warm-up, he’d been able to pull off plenty of difficult stretches and drills.

But there was no backing down now. Durant nodded slightly and made the first move.

He started his dribble, but the moment they made contact, Durant knew he was in for a fight.

The strength coming off the other man’s body was considerable.

And Old Owen’s defensive experience was obvious. He used his arms to obstruct, his feet were always moving, and he consistently managed to cut off Durant’s driving lanes.

He was always perfectly on time with his physical contact.

Durant’s guard went up instantly.

’This old man isn’t going to be as easy to deal with as I thought!’