Chapter 188 186: Feature Reporter
Brian Westbrook slowly pulled the car over. As he turned off the engine and removed the key, he looked out the window, sizing up the neighborhood.
San Francisco is a city built on hills. Its unique, undulating topography creates a distinctive cityscape. The continuously rising and falling curves of the streets produce one-of-a-kind visual spectacles. Standing at the top of a hill versus at the bottom, one could capture entirely different facets of life.
Right now, Brian was on one such slope. The leafy green trees lining both sides of the street climbed steadily from north to south. Houses with red walls and white roofs were interspersed among the vast stretches of green, like Jack's beanstalk from the fairy tale. It was as if a seed had been planted and grown into a colossal tree, spiraling ever upward until it reached the end of his line of sight, where one could touch the pale blue firmament, lose oneself among the lazy, drifting clouds, and peek into the mysteries of another world.
Colorful bluestone pavers, peculiar oak treehouses, worn-out canvas-covered wagons, haphazardly parked bicycles, hippie symbols made of bottles and cans, vibrant linen scarves... The fragmented blocks of color on both sides of the street outlined a strange scene of cultural fusion—yet this was San Francisco's most unique image.
This was the neighborhood where Lu Ke had grown up and lived. It was unexpected, yet it also made perfect sense.
In his experience, Asian immigrants tended to cluster together: the Japanese in Little Tokyo, the Koreans in Korea Town, the Chinese in Chinatown. Even smaller immigrant groups from Southeast Asia and the Middle East did the same. Each area overflowed with its own culture and customs, as if they had carved out a piece of their homeland in a foreign country.
Lu Ke's parents choosing to settle here was indeed a small surprise.
But not all Asian immigrants lived in their corresponding ethnic enclaves. After all, San Francisco was the most culturally diverse and harmonious city in all of North America—not even New York could compare. If they were going to choose a different area, the Haight-Ashbury District was certainly a reasonable choice.
From just this visit to the neighborhood, Brian began to sketch a picture of Lu Ke in his mind.
Not the number fourteen quarterback on the field—that young man, dressed in a jersey and helmet, his face and eyes hidden, seemed to be just a symbol on the team. "Number fourteen," "quarterback," "undrafted rookie"—these labels were the whole story. No, this was Lu Ke, the person.
'What kind of person is he, really? What are his parents like? What kind of environment did he grow up in? What's his personality? How does he carry himself? What are the differences and connections between his style of play and his private persona? What are his hobbies outside of football? What type of player is he?'
Countless thoughts and questions swirled in Brian's mind.
It was, admittedly, a bit absurd. In competitive sports, people were only curious about the off-field lives and images of true top superstars, like Tom Brady and his supermodel wife, Gisele Bundchen, or, say, Ben Roethlisberger's sexual assault scandals.
As for rookies, their primary task was to prove themselves on the field, not to be subjects of off-field gossip or to cultivate a personal image. No one cared if a rookie was a "good guy or a bad guy"; everyone cared if the rookie "could play well."
The same was true for Lu Ke.
No one cared what the young man under the "number fourteen" jersey and helmet looked like or who he was off the field. Instead of caring about such pointless hype, it was better to discuss whether to start Alex Smith for the third week's game or stick with this undrafted rookie quarterback.
But Brian found himself intensely curious.
It wasn't just because Lu Ke's rise was so miraculous, but also because his on-field performance was so stunning—not the numbers, like his quarterback rating, but the heart of a warrior he showed in crucial moments. In that instant, Brian had truly forgotten Lu Ke's "Chinese descent" identity; he was, more than anything, the hero who had turned the tide and secured the victory.
While scanning the street, trying to find his destination, Brian inadvertently caught sight of a young man pushing open a front door. Carrying two bags of trash, he walked out with a brisk, light-footed pace.
A simple white T-shirt paired with light blue jeans, a pair of plain white canvas shoes, and a dark blue baseball jacket thrown on casually. His short black hair was slightly tousled by the San Francisco wind, vaguely outlining youthful, energetic features and the lingering air of a boy who hadn't quite shed his adolescence.
The young man before him was, unmistakably, Lu Ke.
He lacked the dominance he showed while conquering the field, the commanding presence he had while leading the team to a last-ditch comeback, and the sharp wit he displayed when facing the media. He just looked like an ordinary young man, obediently helping with chores at home, muttering complaints under his breath but still diligently doing what needed to be done.
'Bambi.' That was the first impression that flashed through Brian's mind.
In the eyes of Westerners, Asian faces always looked exceptionally young—or more accurately, it was impossible to discern any signs of age. What's more, Lu Ke wasn't even twenty-two yet, having just graduated from college. To Brian, who had knocked around in the real world for years, he was just a greenhorn.
Now, that impression was even stronger. If someone told Brian that Lu Ke was a high school student, he would have believed it.
But for football, that wasn't a good thing. The unfamiliarity and skepticism surrounding his Asian face already made people doubtful, and his youth and inexperience as a rookie certainly didn't help. One could imagine that on the road to winning over the fans, Lu Ke still had many, many challenges to overcome.
Opening his car door, Brian didn't chase after him. Instead, he stood on the opposite side of the street, watching as Lu Ke jogged to the corner at the end of the block and threw away the trash. Then he watched as Lu Ke jogged back.
"Good morning, Lu Ke," Brian called out. "Today isn't trash day?"
In a neighborhood like this, there were two ways to handle trash.
One was on the designated trash days, usually four times a week at a fixed time. Every household would bag their trash and leave it by the front door for the garbage truck to collect. But if you missed the pickup time, you had to resort to the other method, or it would be considered illegal dumping.
The other was to personally take your trash to a large dumpster in a nearby block. These dumpsters were often several blocks away, a long walk. That's why in the United States, people often joked about driving to throw out the trash. It wasn't a joke; it was something that really happened.
"Tomorrow is," Lu Ke said, stopping and smiling. "We have a guest today, so my mother is cleaning." His thoughts shifted slightly, and he chuckled. "You look unfamiliar; I've never seen you around here before. I'm guessing you must be today's guest, right?"
"Brian Westbrook, *San Francisco Chronicle*," Brian said, walking up quickly with a broad smile. "Sorry, I hope my arrival hasn't disrupted your daily routine."
Brian offered a polite pleasantry, but then he heard Lu Ke say, "It's no disruption at all. Although, my parents did take the day off work, cleaned the house in advance, and prepared lunch. And, just between us, my mother even put on makeup. Oh, and my father dug out a respectable yet not overly formal outfit. Other than that, no disruption at all."
Brian's expression froze, his face twitching slightly. 'Is... is he joking?'
But Lu Ke didn't seem to be joking in the slightest. With a perfectly straight face, he led Brian into the house. "Dad, Mom, the reporter's here."
Brian's heart was suddenly pounding, and he felt a wave of anxiety, unsure of how to react.
Interviewing athletes? He'd done it more times than he could count. But visiting the home of an Asian immigrant family? This was an absolute first. Brian felt a pang of regret. 'I should have Googled it last night. Are there any customs I should know about when visiting a Chinese family? Should I have brought a gift?' He looked down at his empty hands, uncertain if he was being incredibly rude.
As his mind raced, a middle-aged man appeared in his line of sight. As if on cue, Brian subconsciously began to size up his attire: a light gray, vertically striped shirt paired with navy blue dress pants. It didn't reveal much, but it was certainly polite and proper.
"Welcome, welcome," Lu Zhengze said with a smile as he came forward to greet him naturally. "How was parking? This spot is right on an incline, so parking can be a challenge for first-timers. There's a fender bender almost every week."
Relaxed and natural, he didn't seem nervous at all. And the simple, casual topic was an easy way to break the ice. But Brian couldn't be sure. 'Was that opening line prepared in advance, too?'
Immediately after, Brian saw Jiang Youning, wearing an apron, poke her head out from the kitchen. She came forward with a smile. "I'm Annie. You must be Brian, right? I'm so sorry, I haven't finished cleaning up yet. It's a bit rude of me to appear like this. Please give me a moment, I'll be right with you. Can I get you something to drink?"
Brian found himself staring at Jiang Youning, but he immediately heard Lu Ke's soft chuckle beside him. Realizing his rudeness, he quickly averted his gaze. "Water, water is fine. Or juice or soda, if you have it, would be even better."
Sensing Brian's nervousness and panic, Lu Ke could no longer hold it in and started chuckling. "It's okay. I was just playing a little joke on Brian earlier. I think he took it seriously."
Brian's head shot up. He saw looks of sudden understanding on the faces of Lu Zhengze and Jiang Youning. Shaking her head with a helpless little laugh, Jiang Youning said to Brian, "He's always joking around. You don't have to take him seriously."
Brian looked at Lu Ke, completely bewildered. 'So, everything he just said... was all a joke?'