On the slope behind the back gate of Xunyang County People's Hospital, there was a basketball court. When school was locked up during holidays, I often went there to play. Back then, I was nobody's Kevin Durant—my shooting was zero for everything. Of course, it was 2005, and Durant was still in high school; hardly anyone knew who he was either.

I have many memories of that court. Time has passed, and many things have grown hazy in recollection. If I were to write them down now, I honestly couldn't be sure I wasn't making them up.

But the story I'm telling today—this one I'm absolutely certain about.

It was definitely autumn. I was at home watching My Own Swordsman while eating. My mom said, "What's so good about this?" "You don't know—it's really good," I told her.

Then I went to the court. First I shamelessly squeezed into the game and started chucking up shots (not a single one went in). Then everyone noticed there were exactly six of us, and someone suggested we split into teams for a pickup game. A short kid, half a head shorter than me, pointed at two other short guys and said: "We three are a team. You two tall guys take the best-looking one and play us!"

The two tall guys (half a head taller than me)—one was fat as Shaq, the other thin as a beanpole. The fat one looked me over for several seconds, then glanced at the beanpole, sighed, and said: "Fine." And we started playing.

The kid who'd organized the teams was wearing a LeBron jersey. He did a palms-up gesture, cocked his head, said "Go! Go! Go!", charged to the top of the arc to inbound the ball, and started directing his teammates—one in a Kobe jersey and one in an Iverson jersey—on where to cut and receive passes.

The first possession, everyone was lazy about it. Iverson got the ball, dribbled twice, and passed it back to LeBron. LeBron saw that the person guarding him was me—possessing nothing but good looks (especially useless on a pickup court)—and his confidence soared. He dribbled with his right hand while waving his left arm around directing Iverson and Kobe, though what exactly he was directing I truly could not figure out—but that's not the point. LeBron looked at me, hit me with two crossovers (dribbling back and forth), then bent low and burst forward. Before I could even protect my handsome face, I was knocked flat on my back, limbs sprawled in all directions, utterly humiliated. LeBron, thrown off balance by the collision too, staggered and stumbled out of bounds.

I lay on the ground moaning for quite a while before I finally got up. Fortunately, nothing seemed broken. LeBron came over and patted my shoulder: "You alright, bro?" "I'm fine." Fine my ass—you try getting bulldozed like that, I thought. "Charge that motherfucker with an offensive foul," LeBron said to Kobe and Iverson. Kobe and Iverson looked utterly baffled. "Let's try one, let's try one—here, you guys take the ball!" LeBron magnanimously tossed me the ball.

I passed to the beanpole, who was wide open under the basket. Bank shot—swish.

Second possession, the beanpole was under the basket again. This time LeBron rushed over to defend, but the beanpole still caught the ball over his head and leisurely banked it in.

Third possession, the beanpole ran out to the three-point line to catch a pass. Thunk—he launched a three that clanged off the backboard with a thunderous boom. Missed, obviously. But Shaq grabbed the rebound, stuck out his enormous rear end, spun around, and sent Kobe and LeBron flying. He missed the first putback, grabbed his own rebound, and put it in on the second try.

These three possessions set the tone for the next hour of pickup ball. Xunyang LeBron had explosive drives (he'd knocked me flat on my back), Xunyang Kobe drove to the basket every time for a layup with a finger roll (a miniature finger roll), and Xunyang Iverson was nothing like Iverson at all—he just passed whenever he got the ball. But his shooting was decent, and after he hit a few, I started guarding him tight, and then he stopped shooting. "Yo, let's play to ten!" said LeBron, who'd been getting crushed in silence, bouncing the ball rhythmically.

LeBron passed to Iverson. I chased after the ball and crashed into Kobe, who was setting a screen. Iverson's shot went in. (I was flat on my back again.)

LeBron inbounded again. They ran the same play. This time Iverson missed. Shaq snatched the rebound, passed to the beanpole, who passed to me—wide open under the basket since all three of them had gone to cover Shaq and the beanpole. Layup—good.

And so it went until the score was 9–9. How do I remember it was 9–9? Because what happened next was truly unforgettable.

With Shaq and the beanpole locked down, I had no choice but to dribble and drive. Under the basket, I leaned into Iverson and tossed the ball up—it didn't even graze the rim—and my momentum carried me past the baseline. "Hey bro, mind if I get in for a run?" I felt someone pat my shoulder.

I turned around. It was a donkey. A donkey-headed, donkey-faced, one hundred percent donkey. Brother Donkey's front hoof was still resting on my shoulder. "What do you say?" Brother Donkey said to me, blasting my face with hot breath.

I stood there dumbstruck, unable to speak. I nodded.

Brother Donkey bounded onto the court. He extended a front hoof to direct the defense, putting Shaq on Kobe, the beanpole on Iverson, and taking LeBron himself. "Final showdown!" He turned his head back toward me. I had no idea what kind of final showdown this was.

LeBron inbounded from the top of the arc. Brother Donkey stood up on his hind legs, his front legs dangling like a koala's, and squared up to guard LeBron. LeBron passed to Iverson, who touched it and flipped it right back to LeBron. "Bro, take it at that dumbass donkey!" Iverson drifted toward the baseline, spacing the floor for LeBron to go at the donkey.

LeBron lazily hit a few between-the-legs dribbles (such poise!), then once again extended his left arm to gesture and direct. I noticed Kobe start to move and then stop—still no clue what he was directing. So annoying—my head was full of question marks.

LeBron lowered his center of gravity, threw two big crossovers, and charged straight ahead again. I could see Brother Donkey's tail go stiff with tension. But before the donkey could react, LeBron had already slammed face-first into his belly—his face sank in and bounced back out—and he crashed to the ground, legs in the air. The donkey took a hard hit too, stumbling backward in little steps, but then he lost his balance (being a donkey, after all), extended his front legs and toppled forward. Though Brother Donkey valiantly did the splits with his front legs trying to break his fall, one hoof still landed right on LeBron's fingertips. Oh God, that must have hurt. LeBron howled in agony. "That's gotta be a flagrant foul!" LeBron fumed at the donkey. Brother Donkey drooped his ears and said sorry, sorry.

LeBron took a moment to recover and went to inbound again. This time Kobe got the ball and drove in hollering: "Watch me put this game away~~~"

He hit a crossover to blow past Shaq and went up for the layup. LeBron shouted nervously: "Don't do the finger roll this time, please, no no no."

Kobe went up for the layup. LeBron ran to the other side for the rebound. The donkey followed. I thought the ball was going in, but up in the air a hoof swatted it away—BANG—a tremendous noise. The patients inside People's Hospital looked at each other in bewilderment: "What was that? Do you know, Second Brother?" "No idea." "Me neither."

The donkey planted his front legs, kicked off with his hind legs, and standing on his head, blocked the shot out. "Damn, that was hard," Kobe said, patting the donkey's rump.

Anyway, the last basket went like this: the beanpole launched a three from beyond the arc—clang—it bounced off the backboard and flew into the air. At that moment, Brother Donkey steadied all four legs. He cocked his head to track the ball's trajectory, then suddenly leapt, soaring into the green, mint-scented sky of 2005, extending his front hooves to slam the ball through the hoop. Then he crashed magnificently to the ground. He didn't even get up—just lay there on his side, kicking all four hooves in wild celebration. Shaq, the beanpole, and I rushed over to high-five him (since he was lying on his side, we had to squat down to do it).

LeBron knelt on the ground, pounding the floor (that crumbling cement floor), crying and wailing.

Kobe, to his credit, showed great sportsmanship, coming over to pat the donkey's rump: "You're a beast, bro! Tough!"

Iverson grabbed the ball and went home.

The rest of us—and the donkey—sat scattered across the basketball court for a long time. Even now, the memory carries a sense of eternity. The first golden ray of twilight spilled down. That was my 2005. "Don't go thinking I'm going to take off this outfit like some mask and out comes Guo Donglin. This is the only face I've got." Brother Donkey said this while puffing on the Jiaozi cigarette I'd given him.

Darkness poured down from the sky. I went home. "Been playing basketball?" my mom asked. "Yep." My Own Swordsman had a rerun that evening, and I got back just in time for the second episode of the day. My mom and I chatted idly about the donkey while watching Guo Furong, Lü Xiucai, and Li Dazui on the TV screen, laughing our heads off.