NBA: Basketball Legend.

Chapter 40: Chapter 40: Chen Yan Doesn’t Let Grudges Go—He Breaks Wrists for Payback

Chapter 40: Chen Yan Doesn’t Let Grudges Go—He Breaks Wrists for Payback

As soon as Chen Yan’s shot clanged off the rim, the [Hot Start] buff on him faded.

In previous games, this skill had helped him rack up points early. But tonight, it seemed to disappear a bit too soon.

Still, it wasn’t a big deal. Sure, [Hot Start] boosted his shooting rhythm early in games, but Chen Yan wasn’t the kind of player who relied on just one skill. He could still cook defenders in other ways.

One minute later, the score was tied at 15. The game entered a TV timeout.

”Nice job! Keep that energy up!” Coach Rick Barnes clapped his hands, rallying the Longhorns in the huddle. ”Keep moving, keep fighting, and make sure every possession counts!”

The camera panned to the Texas bench. Like clockwork, the backups jumped into action. One tossed Chen Yan a towel. Another handed him a water bottle. Someone else rubbed down his shoulders.

That shot didn’t take long to go viral. On Chinese basketball forums, a GIF of the scene popped up instantly.

”Chen Yan doesn’t look like a basketball player—he looks like a boxer getting corner-coached between rounds!”

”This kind of treatment... yeah, he’s the team’s alpha for real.”

”Confirmed: this guy runs the locker room!”

”Wait, who’s that skinny dude standing next to Chen like an intern?”

”That’s Durant. You know, the top freshman this year.”

Most Chinese fans didn’t know much about the NCAA. Names like Greg Oden or Kevin Durant didn’t mean much to them. For them, this game was about one guy—Chen Yan.

After the timeout, play resumed.

Chen Yan immediately noticed something had changed.

Ohio State had switched up their defense. Their small forward, Ron Lewis, was now glued to him—like duct tape that wouldn’t peel off.

”Man,” Chen muttered under his breath. ”Even my ex wasn’t this clingy.”

Offensively, Lewis didn’t even bother contributing anymore. His whole job was simple: shut down Chen Yan at all costs.

It was a sacrifice—the kind of role that doesn’t show up in the box score—but Lewis was playing to win.

And for a few possessions, it worked. Lewis’s intense on-ball pressure made it tougher for Chen to get open and initiate offense.

But Chen Yan wasn’t a stranger to this type of coverage. He’d seen all kinds of defensive schemes during March Madness. Adjusting was second nature by now.

Still, Ron Lewis wasn’t just applying tight defense—he went full mad-dog mode.

After testing the refs for a few minutes, he figured out they were letting physical play slide tonight. That gave him the green light.

Shoving. Holding. Cheap shots when the refs weren’t looking.

Chen Yan didn’t whine or complain. That wasn’t his style.

He just responded the Kobe way—with elbows.

Subtle, sharp, and precise.

After absorbing a few cheap fouls, he caught Lewis slipping on a screen and let an elbow ride up—just enough to send a message.

Then he kept playing. Calmly. Smoothly.

Despite the harassment, Chen kept scoring. Step-backs. Mid-range fades. Floaters in traffic.

By the 12-minute mark, Chen Yan had already dropped 14.

That only made Ron Lewis more desperate. He upped the pressure, but it didn’t matter.

There are some gaps that effort alone can’t close.

Lewis’s defense could disrupt Chen once or twice. But that was it. Most of the time, it was just background noise.

And honestly, if the referees weren’t letting them play so loose tonight, Lewis probably would’ve been ejected already for his excessive contact.

Then came the next play.

Bang!

Ohio State ran a clean set. Their power forward Harris pulled up for a mid-range jumper—but bricked it.

DJ Augustin grabbed the rebound and sprinted into the frontcourt.

At the right wing, Chen Yan fought off Ron Lewis, got separation at the three-point line, and called for the rock.

DJ delivered.

Chen caught it clean and palmed it with one hand, casually swinging it behind his back. No need for a triple-threat stance—he was the threat.

Then he waved his teammates off.

Clear out. I got this.

Ron Lewis danced in front of him, arms wide, eyes locked in.

Then—snap!

Lewis’s finger caught Chen in the face on an overzealous contest.

No whistle.

Boos rained down from the Texas crowd.

But Chen Yan didn’t flinch.

No barking at the ref. No flopping.

He just reset. Recalibrated.

Careful fans started to notice—Chen Yan’s eyes had changed. That calm, focused intensity was back.

He was locked in.

Ron Lewis went full mad dog again, pressing up on Chen with suffocating defense.

But this time, Chen Yan didn’t push forward like before. Instead, he retreated tactically, slowly dribbling toward the center circle.

To Lewis, it looked like his pressure was working.

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

Suddenly, Chen Yan kicked it up a gear—his dribble speed skyrocketed, shifting Ron Lewis’s balance left and right like a puppet on strings.

Then it happened.

He hit a hard stop, pulled the ball back behind the back, then went into a lightning-quick between-the-legs gather.

Chen Yan’s body was like a supercar slamming on the brakes. Ron Lewis? He looked like a runaway garbage truck with no brakes.

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps... BOOM.

Ron Lewis stumbled back three full steps—completely out of control—before finally crashing to the hardwood!

The man who was pressing so hard seconds ago now looked like he slipped on a banana peel.

Without hesitation, Chen Yan rose up from mid-range—high release, clean form.

Ohio State scrambled to contest, but they were a second too slow.

Swish!

The ball kissed the inside rim and dropped in clean.

”Wooooo! Oh my God!! Chen just sent Ron Lewis flying into another galaxy!” Barkley shouted, his hands on his head, eyes wide.

The big man had no filter, and no shame about being dramatic on national television.

”Lewis came out pressing like a maniac,” Kenny Smith added, ”but really, Chen Yan had him on a string the entire time.”

”The tighter you crowd him,” Reggie Miller chimed in, ”the faster you fall right into his rhythm.”

Chen Yan glanced at Ron Lewis lying on the floor. It wasn’t a taunt—it was a statement.

He didn’t forget.

He doesn’t let things slide.

But he wasn’t done yet.

On the next possession, Texas played tough defense and disrupted an Ohio State backdoor cut. Chen Yan grabbed the rebound and instantly pushed the pace in transition.

Lewis chased hard—determined not to get cooked again.

Near the free-throw line, Chen hit a smooth behind-the-back dribble, then instantly shifted direction with a nasty in-and-out crossover.

He wasn’t even trying to break ankles. He just wanted space.

But Lewis?

Down he went again.

That’s it?

You pressing that hard and that’s all it takes to fold you?

Ron Lewis tried to recover—he spun sideways and planted himself in Chen’s path.

He was all-in now. This was his last stand.

As Chen attacked the rim, Lewis slid under him—unintentionally clipping his foot.

Chen lost his balance mid-air—but adjusted in the blink of an eye.

He scooped the ball with one hand and flipped it up as he fell.

”Shua!”

”Beep!”

The ball hit nothing but net—and the whistle blew.

And-one!

Chen hit the deck, popped up, and hit Iverson’s iconic celebration—hand to his ear, daring the crowd to get louder.

They didn’t need the invite.

The entire arena exploded.

”CHEN-YAN! CHEN-YAN! CHEN-YAN!”

After getting dropped on back-to-back plays, Ron Lewis was done. But before Ohio State could even sub him out...

He clutched his wrist.

Apparently, when he fell just now, he landed awkwardly, and his wrist took the brunt of it.

Team doctors rushed out. A quick check later—they gave the signal: He’s out.

Ron Lewis limped into the tunnel, his wrist wrapped, his face twisted in pain and frustration.

Ohio State fans gave him a respectful round of applause.

But deep down, they knew—his NCAA run just ended.

”Looks like we’ve got a bit of an incident here,” commentator Yu Jiajie reported. ”Ron Lewis appears to have sprained his wrist on that last fall. He’s now headed back to the locker room with the trainer.”

His co-commentator Zhang Weiping added with a smirk, ”Yeah, looking at the replay... he threw his whole body into blocking Chen Yan’s drive, landed awkwardly, and gave up a 2+1. Plus he hurt himself. All that just to get cooked twice in a row... Was it really worth it?”

Fans watching back home lit up the forums:

”That move wasn’t human—Chen changed direction like a glitch in the Matrix.”

”Dude didn’t just get dropped—he gave Chen a 2+1 while injuring himself. Ultimate donation!”

”Is he faking the injury? Getting dropped twice in two plays is pure humiliation...”

”Most guards break ankles. Chen Yan? He breaks wrists.”

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