If an old-school basketball coach had walked onto the backyard court at that moment, they would have called it outright madness: a 2.12-meter big man standing entirely outside the arc, setting his feet, and launching three-pointers.
In 2011, the traditional big man still ruled the paint.
Dwight Howard was in his absolute prime leading the Orlando Magic, and the league’s interior meta was defined by low-post grinding, rim protection, and physical rebounding.
A center stepping out beyond 23 feet was considered a wasted possession.
Wang Zhelin took a deep breath, fixed his eyes on the rim, and rose into a fluid jump shot.
CLANG!
The ball bounced sharply off the back iron.
He didn’t look flustered.
Inheriting a 58 Three-Point attribute from Marreese Speights didn’t instantly grant him decades of muscle memory; his nervous system still needed reps to translate the stat bump into actual mechanical consistency.
He retrieved the ball and trotted back to the top of the key.
Clack!
Clack!
Clack!
For the next four hours, the steady rhythm of leather hitting asphalt—and occasionally snapping through the net—echoed across the yard.
He rotated between perimeter standstill jumpers, mid-range bank shots, and aggressive drives to the rim.
By 12:30 PM, covered in sweat, he headed inside, boiled a simple bowl of noodles, and rested.
At 7:30 PM, his parents returned home from work, bringing the mouth-watering aroma of home-cooked food with them.
“Zhelin, come eat!
I made your favorite stir-fried tenderloin,” his mother, Lin Emily, called out, placing the final dish onto the dining table and immediately spooning a generous portion into his bowl.
“Mom, your cooking is unmatched.
I don’t even need to taste it—the smell alone is enough,” Wang Zhelin laughed, tossing a piece into his mouth.
The beef was incredibly tender, perfectly seasoned, and hit his starving system like pure fuel.
“Eat up then!” His mother smiled warmly.
His father, Wang Changhai—a former professional CBA player himself—sat across the table, watching his son closely.
He narrowed his eyes, comparing Wang Zhelin’s shoulders against the doorframe behind him.
“Huiqing,” Wang Changhai said thoughtfully, “doesn’t Zhelin look noticeably taller than he did a couple of months ago?” His mother paused, adjusting her glasses.
“Now that you mention it…
he really does look a bit taller.” “I measured myself this afternoon barefoot,” Wang Zhelin chimed in between bites.
“I’m right at 2.11 meters barefoot now (~6’11”), which puts me around 2.14 meters (~7’0.25″) in basketball shoes.” “2.11 meters?” His mother looked slightly worried.
“Pharaoh, isn’t that higher than what the bone age scan predicted when he was younger?” “Bone age assessments at twelve or thirteen always carry a small margin of error,” Wang Changhai explained calmly, reassuring his wife.
“A late growth spurt is completely normal for athletic teenagers.
Topping out around 2.14 or 2.15 meters in shoes is ideal for a modern center—it won’t drag down his mobility.” “As long as he’s healthy, that’s what matters,” she breathed a sigh of relief.
After clearing the dinner dishes, the family gathered in the living room.
Wang Zhelin sat straight on the sofa, his hands resting on his knees, an unusually firm expression on his face.
“What’s on your mind, son?” Wang Changhai asked directly.
“You’ve been quiet since dinner.” Wang Zhelin met his father’s eyes.
“Dad, Mom…
I want to leave the youth team early and enter the CBA main roster this upcoming season.” Lin Emily gasped softly.
“The main CBA league?
But Zhelin, you’re only seventeen!” “Yao Ming made his Shanghai Sharks debut at seventeen,” Wang Zhelin replied without hesitation.
“Yi Jianlian played his first official game for Guangdong Hongyuan at sixteen.
The youth league competition isn’t pushing me anymore.
If I want to reach my full potential and eventually make it to the NBA, I need to test myself against grown men.” The room fell quiet.
Wang Changhai looked at his son, taking in the steady, unwavering focus in his eyes.
He realized in that moment that the quiet boy who used to blindly follow training schedules was gone—in his place stood a young man who had clearly mapped out his own path.
“If this is the path you’ve truly chosen,” Wang Changhai said slowly, his voice heavy with pride, “then go for it.” “Pharaoh!” Lin Emily turned to her husband in surprise.
“Thank you, Dad,” Wang Zhelin said, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
“Listen to me, Zhelin,” Wang Changhai added, his expression stern.
“Being a professional athlete means taking full accountability for every decision you make.
Once you step onto that court, no one cares how old you are.
Work hard, stay focused, and don’t ever look back with regret.” “I won’t.” Late that night, long after Wang Zhelin had gone to bed, a faint light still glowed under the master bedroom door.
“Pharaoh, why did you agree so quickly?” Lin Emily asked, tossing under the covers.
“He’s still so young.” Wang Changhai took a slow sip of water from his nightstand, looking out the window at the quiet street below.
“He isn’t a child anymore, Emily,” Wang Changhai smiled softly, putting an arm around her shoulder.
“He has fire in his chest and a goal in his sights.
When a young man is ready to set sail, a father’s job isn’t to hold the ship at the dock—it’s to help launch it.”