It was a surprisingly beautiful Saturday morning in San Antonio. The sun had finally broken through the thin fog that had lingered for days, bathing the entire city in light.
As usual, Li Wei woke up with his internal clock. After washing up, he headed to the dining hall.
The breakfast selection was rather bland: whole-wheat bread, boiled chicken breast, eggs, bananas, coffee, and so on.
Although the dining hall offered bacon and waffles, very few players chose them.
The ga was less than five hours away, and no one wanted to choke when it mattered most.
Li Wei, on the other hand, ate whatever he wanted, much to the envy of the running backs watching nearby.
He even asked the kitchen if they could make him so carbs, like ran or fried rice.
After his last bite, Li Wei wiped his mouth and glanced at the ti.
At 8:30 AM, the Eastern Conference All-Stars’ final pre-ga eting was held on the second floor of the hotel.
Douglas wasn’t there. In his place were the coaches for the Eastern Conference All-Stars.
But with the ga just hours away, the coaches didn’t give any fiery speeches. They had said more than enough over the past few days; they were saving the tough talk for the locker room at the stadium. Everyone knew the plays on the whiteboard by heart. Today’s eting was more of a final check-in: confirming the starting lineup, special teams signals, and making sure everyone had their protective gear.
"Just like we’ve been saying," the coach said, closing his playbook and fixing his gaze on Li Wei, "go bring that damn trophy ho."
At 9:00 AM sharp, the entire team assembled at the hotel entrance.
As Li Wei stepped out of the revolving doors with his gear bag on his back, a wave of sound hit him in the chest like a physical blow.
The street outside the hotel had been completely blocked off. Police cars with flashing red and blue lights cleared a path ahead, while behind the barricades, a massive crowd of fans held up signs and all sorts of jerseys.
"LI! LI!"
"Over here, Li Wei!"
"King!"
Screams erupted from all sides as Li Wei followed the team onto the bus, which was emblazoned with a giant All-Star Bowl logo.
As the bus slowly pulled away, heading for the Alamo Do Stadium, Li Wei gazed out the window through the tinted glass.
The streets along the route were lined with crowds of people heading toward the stadium. Many were waving red flags, the color of the Eastern Conference team. A few die-hard fans were even running shirtless alongside the bus, their chests spray-painted with Li Wei’s face.
’They’re here for .’
At that thought, even Li Wei’s heart rate quickened slightly, rising from just over thirty beats per minute to forty.
He rather enjoyed the faint feeling of exhilaration.
"Hey, man." Li Wei turned to the defensive end sitting next to him—a massive Black guy from Georgia who was even bigger than Manu.
The guy was usually loud and boisterous, but now he was unusually quiet.
Li Wei followed his gaze and saw that the 300-pound behemoth had his hands on his knees, and they were trembling as if he had Parkinson’s disease.
He was clutching a brown paper bag so tightly it was completely crumpled.
"You okay?" Li Wei asked.
"I... I don’t know," the big man’s voice trembled, his lips pale. "I feel like I’m going to puke. I’ve played in big gas before, but never in front of this many people. I heard over three million people are watching the livestream... What if I ss up? What if I slip?"
"Deep breaths. Double exhale," Li Wei said. "Force an activation of your parasympathetic nervous system... like this."
He demonstrated for the big man a few tis.
"Listen, you’re a five-star defensive end," he said. "You bench 405 pounds. It’s a lot less than , sure, but your success rate on run-stopping is 92 percent. You hit that number in scrimmages. The stats don’t lie, and they don’t change just because more people are watching."
Surrounded by the throng of people, the bus slowly drove into the underground tunnel of the Alamo Do Stadium. The light vanished for a mont, replaced by the bright fluorescent glow of the locker room.
The air was thick with the sll of muscle relaxant cream and athletic tape.
The Eastern Conference All-Stars’ equipnt staff were quickly distributing helts and shoulder pads. In a sport this established and comrcialized, the entire process of managing equipnt—sorting, maintenance, polishing, applying decals, replacing parts, and general handling—was a mature industry in itself.
Li Wei sat in front of his locker and thodically began to tape his ankles.
After they had suited up and done so light warm-ups, a staff mber pushed open the locker room doors.
"Five minutes!" he shouted. "We take the field in five!"
...
Inside the NBC broadcast booth, two comntators sat at the desk. Behind them, the stands of the Alamo Do Stadium were electric.
"Good morning, Arica! And a good morning to all our viewers across the nation! Welco to the High School All-Arican Bowl!" veteran comntator Mike Tirico said to the cara with a professional smile. "I’m Mike, and here with is my old partner, forr NFL legend Kurt Warner."
"Good morning, Mike," Kurt Warner said, adjusting his headset. "San Antonio is absolutely wild today."
"It is. We’ve never seen this kind of frenzy at past All-Star Bowls," Mike said, glancing at the data sheet in his hand, his tone full of exaggeration. "Our director just told that the live viewership has already surpassed 3.2 million. That’s higher than so of last year’s NCAA bowl gas. And I think we all know there’s only one reason for that."
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