When Da Fang and her husband flew to Beijing to watch the draft with their son, the family seemed remarkably subdued. "They had felt tortured by this whole process," said one friend, "so they didn't have much emotion left." After NBA commissioner David Stern announced Yao's name as the top pick, Da Fang clapped lightly and gave only the faintest of smiles. NBA personnel had to prompt the family to show some excitement for the cameras, and the trio proceeded to make one of the most ungainly group high fives in TV history.

Mothers occupy a special niche in the macho world of the NBA. Even the most tattoo-laden, testosterone-driven ballers find no shame in heaping praise on their mothers, often strong single women who struggled to raise their families in the inner city. But until Yao arrived in the NBA, few, if any, players actually lived with their mothers—and seemed to obey their every command. After Yao was drafted, Fang Fengdi decided to accompany her son to America. The Chinese officials who granted her a leave of absence (and, eventually, early retirement) from her work unit seemed relieved to know that a strict disciplinarian and loyal Communist Party member would be watching over their national treasure. (Yao's father, still employed at the Shanghai port, would be allowed to join the family for part of the season and then retire.) The arrangement would strike many Chinese and Chinese-Americans as an endearing affirmation of Asian values. But to many U.S. sports fans it would seem more confusing than Confucian: how could they begin to understand a 2.26-m, 134-kg mama's boy?

The arrangement was also unusual for Yao. He had not lived with his parents in more than eight years, ever since he left home to begin training full time. "It was like, 'The mountain is high and the emperor is far away,'" Yao recalled, quoting a famous Chinese proverb. "My parents had no control over me. I got used to it." Now, at 22, he was living with his parents again, and the reunion would create new challenges for all of them.

If Yao had traveled a long distance to play in the NBA, it couldn't compare to the staggering journey his 52-year-old mother had made—from Team Mao to Team Yao. The former Red Guard was now, in effect, the ceo of a capitalist enterprise, guiding her son's multimillion-dollar career. Da Fang didn't pretend to understand the minutiae of endorsement contracts, the NBA's collective-bargaining agreement or the Houston property market. But she was practical, and the experience of being misled and manipulated back in China had only deepened her desire to protect her son.

Da Fang landed in Houston more than a week before her son to clear the way for his arrival. On this, her first trip to America, she searched for a new family home. The real estate agent eventually led her to Windsor Park Lakes, a gated community carved out of old cattle pastures some 20 miles west of Houston. Inside the front gate, past the uniformed guards with their uniform smiles, the pristine neighborhood of faux-Mediterranean mansions exudes a sense of theme-park perfection that could have been lifted from The Truman Show. Da Fang settled on a $500,000, four-bedroom house that seemed perfect for a family of giants—and then spent half the night before Yao's arrival frantically cleaning it.

Worrying about her son was Da Fang's full-time job now. She tidied his room, did his laundry, gave him pep talks and offered basketball advice. When Yao returned to the house late from road trips—often arriving at 2 a.m. or 3 a.m.—Da Fang would wait up with a pot of his favorite chicken soup or a wok full of stir-fried vegetables. "My son plays so hard," she said. "If he doesn't eat well, how could he have enough energy?" The most coveted feature of Yao's new home was its vast open-design kitchen. Da Fang had no use for it. To cook her Shanghainese specialties, she converted the small laundry room on the side of the house into an enclosed Chinese-style kitchen—the better to keep in the billowing smoke created by furious stir-frying.

Adjusting to life in the U.S. would be far more difficult for Da Fang and Da Yao than for Yao Ming. Neither parent spoke English. In Shanghai, they lived in the pulsating heart of the city, never more than a short bicycle ride from their favorite markets, shops and friends. In Texas they were stuck in an isolated community far outside the Houston city limits—with no means of escape.

Though Yao's house boasted an enormous garage, the family of three didn't have a driver's license among them. Colin Pine, the obliging translator they invited to live in the guest room across the hall from Yao, ferried the family around in his rental car. But when Pine and Yao headed off to practice or on road trips, the parents were stranded in their perfectly manicured American island. Many months later all three family members would learn how to drive, and Yao would buy two luxury cars. His parents would never feel completely comfortable behind the wheel—Da Yao would get a ticket for driving too slowly on the highway—but at least they would have more freedom than in those early days in Houston.

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