NBA: Basketball Legend.

Chapter 23: Chapter 23: Stadium Conflict!

Chapter 23: Stadium Conflict!

After the timeout, Georgetown went all in on double-teaming Chen Yan.

As the commentator had just said—this dude’s scoring ability was damn terrifying. Georgetown had no plans of getting embarrassed like Kansas last round, where Chen Yan dropped 62 on their heads. They weren’t tryna be the next joke of March Madness.

But Chen Yan didn’t bite. He didn’t force anything.

Durant was right there, and DJ Augustin had some offense in him too. No need to take bad shots or turn the ball over for no reason.

Georgetown’s goal was obvious: force Chen Yan into rushed decisions or ugly looks at the rim.

But Chen Yan wasn’t having it.

Man was calm under pressure—his passing game? Way above average. And most of the time, he read the double-team before it even hit.

Right out the gate, he made a surgical bounce pass through the trap, threading it to Damian James who finished it clean off the glass. Easy two.

Next play, Chen set a screen for Augustin, then slipped into the lane. After the dish back, Chen took a strong hop into the paint, pulled both defenders, then whipped a no-look pass over his head to Durant trailing behind.

Durant took flight—left foot up, right arm hammering down the dunk! Two clean plays, two cold assists from Chen Yan.

But it wasn’t just about the flashy dimes.

More often than not, Chen made those indirect plays—pulling defenders with him, opening the floor for teammates. The casual fans might miss it, but scouts? They were locked in.

Every NBA scout in the building was jotting down every move, every read, every defensive rotation Chen Yan made. Tonight was his show, and most of the scouts came just to see him in action.

At the 7:37 mark of the first half, Chen Yan already had 14 points, 4 assists, 3 steals, and 2 blocks.

And those numbers didn’t even tell the full story.

With Chen on the floor, the whole squad played freer—especially Durant. No more traps, no more two-man presses. Sometimes he even got wide-open looks.

That kind of spacing? That kind of impact?

A few months ago, nobody would’ve believed it.

Scoreboard showed 36–26. The Longhorns were now up 10.

After the next dead ball, Coach Rick Barnes made the call—subbing Chen Yan out.

Chen had said it more than once: ”Coach, my stamina’s elite. I can play the whole game.”

But Rick Barnes wasn’t buying that.

To him, players weren’t throwaway tools. As a head coach, he had to think long-term. He protected his players like family.

Rick Barnes was one of the realest in college basketball. Always calm, always looking out for his guys. The only knock against him? His playbook was a little basic.

But let’s be real—when you’ve got Chen Yan and Kevin Durant on the same squad, who needs complicated tactics?

Just give ’em the ball and get the hell out the way!

Chen walked back to the bench to a standing ovation from the Texas fans. His teammates were already there with a towel and a water bottle.

He felt the change. Just a few games ago, he was still ”the new guy.” Now? He was that guy.

But the moment he sat, Durant knew something was off.

Damn... that pressure came back fast.

Van Gundy chimed in from the booth. ”You can see the drop-off. Without Chen, Texas’s offense and defense both took a hit. Less rhythm, less fluidity.”

Mike Breen nodded. ”KD can still get buckets, but it’s way harder. Every possession is a grind now. He’s working double.”

With 2:46 left in the half, Georgetown had closed the gap to just five points.

This wasn’t some bum squad. Georgetown’s coaching staff was sharp, and their players were experienced—mostly sophomores and juniors. They knew how to expose weaknesses.

Another dead ball.

Coach Barnes called Chen Yan back in.

Durant tapped him on the chest as they crossed paths. ”All yours, bro.”

Chen gave a nod and stepped onto the court. Georgetown fans went quiet for a beat—they knew what time it was.

To them, Chen Yan’s offense felt even scarier than Durant’s.

Even Coach John Thompson III looked tense.

”Trap him on every half-court set! No fast breaks! And if you can’t stop him—foul him! You hear me?” he barked from the sidelines.

His adjustments were spot-on. But executing? That’s a whole different game.

First play back, Georgetown’s Jeff Green got stonewalled on a drive. Threw up his arms, trying to argue a no-call.

Too late.

Damian James had already snatched the rebound and launched it forward to Chen Yan.

And that’s when the crowd held their breath.

Chen caught it near midcourt. One dribble. Two.

Then—zoom.

Fifth gear. Acceleration like a damn Bugatti.

Not just speed—control. Chen threw in two wicked crossovers at full sprint. Didn’t lose momentum, didn’t lose the rock.

Even Allen Iverson stood up in the stands.

”Yo... he changed direction like that and didn’t slow down? That’s death for a defender,” Iverson muttered.

Chen left everyone in the dust and launched himself at the rim—BOOM! A violent one-hand tomahawk that rattled the backboard!

When he landed, he turned and glanced behind him.

The defender on the ground?

It was Ewing.

Coach had just subbed him in, and now he was poster material.

Chen Yan smirked, shook his head.

”You better foul next time. That’s the only way you’re stopping me.”

Then he jogged back on D.

He didn’t talk trash first. But if someone came at him? He’d bury them.

Georgetown’s next offensive set, Jeff Green went iso again.

But this time, he was gassed—he hadn’t sat once all half.

Tried a drive, didn’t get space, kicked it out.

”Snap!”

Chen Yan read it perfectly. He exploded forward and—stole it.

That steal was too easy for Chen Yan—dude didn’t even need to activate any skills, saving energy like a pro.

As soon as he snatched the ball, he popped, breezing into the frontcourt like a storm. Eyes locked on the rim. No hesitation.

Georgetown’s defense was still scrambling—formation all jacked up. Chen Yan saw the gap and hit the gas. Fast break mode.

The only one back?

Little Ewing.

Gotta respect the hustle though, Ewing was grinding to stop him. Chen Yan gave him props mentally... before breaking his ankles.

With a smooth backhand, Chen activated Phantom Step—fake left, cut right—slipped past Little Ewing like he was standing still. Then came the one-handed slam.

”Boom!”

Basketball thundered through the net—and caught Little Ewing square on the head on the way down.

Double kill.

The crowd went insane.

”Damn! Elegant footwork, then a violent dunk?! Is there anyone more entertaining than this dude right now?”

”Ewing’s lost out there! They ain’t even in the same tier!”

”Bro, only part of Ewing that can keep up with Chen is his eyeballs!”

”Might as well put a damn chair out there—it’d give more resistance!”

”At least a chair’s an obstacle. Ewing? VIP spectator status!”

On the sideline, Georgetown’s head coach John Thompson III was losing it.

He’d screamed it into his guys before Chen even stepped on the floor—don’t let him get fast breaks!

And what happened?

Another Georgetown possession.

Ewing stepped out high to set a screen for his guard.

Jonathan Wallace passed the ball to him down low.

Now, Ewing wasn’t trying to get clowned again. He hit a pump fake, hoping to bait Chen into jumping.

Didn’t work.

Chen stayed grounded and bodied up. Space under the rim? Gone. Ewing got suffocated. Tried to pivot out and dish it—bad move.

Weak-ass fundamentals.

Travel.

”F**k!? Ewing, what the hell was that?! If you don’t wanna hoop, just say it!”

Coach Thompson’s voice echoed across the arena.

Crowd was brutal. Coach was fuming. Chen’s trash talk? Still flowing.

Ewing’s head? Spinning.

Didn’t even have the courage to glance up at the stands where his father sat, watching.

Texas got the ball.

This time, Georgetown brought the double-team early.

But Chen Yan didn’t force it. Cool as ice, he dished it to backup guard Justin Mason—wide open on the perimeter.

Mason? Cold hands. Froze.

Hesitated.

Defender recovered.

”Oof! Huge chance wasted. Mason didn’t pull the trigger and tossed it back to Chen.”

”That just shows how much Texas leans on Chen Yan. They trust him to bail ’em out.”

Commentators weren’t wrong.

Chen got the rock again. And right when Wallace lunged to double-team—boom, Chen slammed the brakes.

Crossover between the legs.

Bang!

Huge collision.

Ewing didn’t get bulldozed this time—but he was too focused on Chen’s footwork and didn’t notice his own teammate sliding over.

Ewing stepped sideways—and knocked his teammate flat.

It was comedy.

”Haha! Ewing just helped Chen break the double! That’s a teammate screen if I’ve ever seen one!”

Crowd was loving it. TV audiences were howling.

Chen didn’t waste it—slashed into the paint and sucked the defense in.

Jump-pass in midair—perfect dime to Damian James.

Easy bucket.

Damian slapped hands with Chen, grinning wide.

”I owe you dinner, bro! You feeding me out here!”

Meanwhile, Little Ewing?

Looked like he wanted to cry.

And Chen wasn’t done.

He walked over, gave Ewing that look, and dropped some more venom:

”Bro, your defense? Worse than the pig’s trotters my grandma stews!”

”If your last name wasn’t Ewing, you wouldn’t even be on this floor.”

That one hit hard.

Everyone knew what Ewing hated most—being called a nepotism player.

His mental fortitude? Shattered.

Then—

Bam!

”Hold up! We got a situation!” Van Gundy shouted from commentary.

”Little Ewing just charged at Chen!”

”Chen ain’t backing down!”

”Shoving! Are we about to see punches?!”

Both benches leapt up. Coaches and refs rushed in.

Luckily, cooler heads (barely) prevailed.

No haymakers. Just pushing.

Refs hit both of them with techs.

But Ewing? Dude lost it. Fully.

Even after teammates dragged him back, he was heated. Grabbed the ball and booted it like a soccer keeper into the upper stands.

”Yo! Ewing’s wildin’!”

”With that kick, maybe he’s in the wrong sport!”

”Hahaha! Can’t win on the court, so he takes it out on the ball!”

”Should’ve shown that fight during the game, not after it!”

Broadcast caught all of it.

Fans roasted him all over the internet.

Refs weren’t having it.

Triple whistle.

Ewing—ejected.

Coach Thompson had been reaching for a sub when it happened—but the kid already cooked his own goose.

Georgetown fans?

Honestly... relieved.

Ewing’s stat line:

0 points. 0 rebounds. 0 assists. 4 turnovers.

Bruh.

He walked to the tunnel, face dark and blank. Dead silence.

Camera panned to the crowd.

His dad—Patrick Ewing, a Georgetown legend—sat with his hand on his chin, eyes narrowed.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

His son had just suffered the most embarrassing night of his career—with the whole country watching.

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