Side Story | Xiao Shou’s Beginning

The first time someone said Zero had small hands was in third grade.

It was gym class. A basketball rolled to his feet. He bent down to pick it up, but his fingers couldn’t wrap fully around the ball. The teacher, standing nearby, casually said:

“Your hands… a bit small, huh.”

No malice.

Not even really a judgment.

But Zero remembered it.

Later, the words became an invisible thread, repeatedly tugged at by others. Elementary school, middle school, the first tryouts for the school team—whenever he held the ball, someone would always laugh and add:

“Small hands.”

Zero never argued.

Not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t know how to argue. The fact was plain: his hands were small. He couldn’t grip the ball fully, single-handed dribbling was a struggle, passing required extra motions.

He had no choice but to use both hands.

And to use them faster than anyone else.

The elementary school court was rough—hoops crooked, the floor scattered with gravel. Zero was always the last to leave, practicing the basics over and over.

Chest passes with both hands.

Repeatedly.

Again and again.

He practiced until his wrists ached, his fingertips tingled. Even the sound of the ball hitting the floor and bouncing back became hollow.

Once, a ball bounced too high and struck his face.

Blood ran from his nose. He crouched on the ground and wiped it with his sleeve.

No one saw.

That night, he went home and placed the ball by his bed.

He stared at his hands for a long time.

Small.

But nimble.

He began doing something others didn’t—
Practicing anticipation.

Not waiting for the defender to come, but moving the ball before the defense even arrived.

He put all his focus into judgment.

Watching positioning.

Watching footwork.

Watching eyes.

His hands were too small to hold the ball.

So he didn’t hold it.

In middle school, during a game, the opposing coach shouted from the sideline: “Don’t be afraid of him—his hands are small!”

Zero heard it.

He didn’t look up.

That game, he led all players in assists.

Without a single turnover.

Afterwards, the opposing point guard looked at him and said:

“How do you pass so early?”

Zero didn’t answer.

He already knew.

He couldn’t wait.

Over time, “small hands” became a half-joke nickname.

Sometimes said with condescension, sometimes with teasing.

Zero accepted it all.

Because only he knew—
Those hands had forced him down a different path.

Not to drive aggressively.

Not to show off.

But to put the ball exactly where it needed to be.

Now, under the bright lights of the league,

He still had those same hands.

They hadn’t grown.

But they were more than enough.