Gan Guoyang could no longer remember how many times he had seen Portland fans at the airport, lining the plaza and roads to welcome him.
Over the past sixteen years, every time they came back from an away game in the Finals, the passionate fans would always gather near the airport to greet them.
Especially on those nights when they brought the championship home from the road, the area around the airport would be a sea of people, bright as day, with the city partying till dawn for victory, for the title.
In those first two championships in 1986 and 1987, Gan Guoyang would rip off his shirt and charge into the crowd, celebrating the trophy and the win together with the crazed fans.
Back then, Gan Guoyang was still very young, only in his twenties, handsome and dashing, with boundless energy. All the women in Portland loved him, including many married women; they all wanted to have an affair with Ah Gan.
When he stripped and rushed into the fans, no one knew how many young girls and young wives considered it an honor just to fight their way close enough to touch him. Some girls fainted on the spot the moment they laid a hand on Gan Guoyang, were lifted above the crowd and carried out, then taken to the hospital.
More than ten years passed; those young girls became young wives, the young wives became old ladies. They had children, and their children also had children.
Their feelings for Ah Gan were no longer that crazed; that age was long gone. But that didn't mean they had forgotten—no one would ever forget.
The bus was moving very slowly. Gan Guoyang stepped up to the windshield and waved at the fans in the rain. He felt he ought to get off, but his bodyguard reminded him it was too dangerous—rain, darkness, a huge crowd, and if a stampede broke out it would be trouble.
Gan Guoyang knew Quentin was right. He decided instead to say something to everyone. There was a loudspeaker system on the bus; the driver switched it on and handed him the microphone.
Gan Guoyang gripped the mic, but stayed silent for a long time. He didn't know what to say.
Ever since he retired for the second time in 2000, Gan Guoyang had left Portland—playing in the Olympics, then heading to Las Vegas to build a new business, then applying for an expansion franchise, and finally announcing his comeback to join the new team.
More than a year had passed, and in that entire year and more Gan Guoyang had never returned to Portland. He told himself it was because he was too busy, and he really was, so busy he was run off his feet, not a single day free.
But deep down Gan Guoyang knew he was afraid—afraid of coming back here, afraid of facing Portland's fans again.
As an opponent.
When Gan Guoyang decided on his second comeback, he began to hear certain voices—from Portland, from Oregon.
Some people felt Ah Gan had broken his promise. After the local fans had given him such a grand, heartfelt farewell ceremony, he actually came back again, and this time he wouldn't be playing for the Trail Blazers.
No one called him a traitor, no one burned his jersey—that would have been going too far.
But the dissatisfaction was real; Gan Guoyang could feel it. When his son called home, he would occasionally let slip bits and pieces of that sentiment.
Gan Guoyang cared, but he didn't want to ask too much. He was afraid he would be disappointed.
As people get older, their emotions become more fragile instead.
When Gan Guoyang had first arrived in Portland, he'd clashed badly with the Trail Blazers and the Portland fans over an issue with the team doctor.
Back then, Gan Guoyang couldn't care less—if this place won't have me, some other place will. If I walk, the loss is yours, Portland fans.
Time proved he'd been right: letting go of Gan Guoyang would have become an eternal, eternal pain in the hearts of Portland fans.
Now it was the other way around: Gan Guoyang was the one who had let go of Portland's fans, and he felt awful about it.
"Good morning, my dear friends in Portland." After hesitating for a long time, Gan Guoyang finally spoke.
The rain was easing, and his voice spread across the plaza. People began to cheer, just for that simple "good morning."
Even though it was nowhere near morning—it was the middle of the night.
He paused for quite a while before saying, "I love you. Your Sun has come home."
The cheers grew louder. Reporters and live broadcast vans on site captured his words.
Just before leaving the airport, the bus came to a stop. Gan Guoyang still opened the door and got off, meeting the fans briefly.
The scene instantly devolved into chaos. People pushed frantically toward the bus, hoping for one more close encounter with their Sun King.
And then, miraculously, when Gan Guoyang stepped off the bus, the rain actually stopped. Ten minutes earlier it had been lightning and pouring, but now the storm cleared, the clouds broke apart, and the bright stars came out in the sky.
This, too, was recorded by the live broadcast vans on site, and later became one of the key "pieces of evidence" for the Gump God Sect's worship of Gan Guoyang.
Gan Guoyang didn't stay long. The fans were too frenzied; under the protection of bodyguards and police, he got back on the bus. The vehicle started up again and left the airport for the hotel.
This moving, borderline-crazy airport welcome marked the opening curtain of Gan Guoyang's return to Portland to play.
There was no doubt that in Oregon the attention on this game had reached an unprecedented height.
For the first time, Gan Guoyang would put on a road jersey and walk into the Rose Garden Arena as the Trail Blazers' opponent.
The Sun King who had once brought this city countless honors and victories—ten championships—had finally become the enemy.
Your Majesty, how could you defect on us?
Even so, the Portland people still showed Gan Guoyang their loyalty.
The entire city was once again covered with posters and flags related to Gan Guoyang. Outside the Rose Garden Arena hung an enormous portrait of him, his eyes looking out over the Willamette River, over the entire city.