NBA: Basketball Legend.

Chapter 122: Chapter 122 – Heated Discussions Explode: Big Hands Are a Talent Too!

Chapter 122 – Heated Discussions Explode: Big Hands Are a Talent Too!

At the end of the first quarter, both teams were firing on all cylinders. The Phoenix Suns held a slim lead over the Houston Rockets, 29–26.

Chen Yan played nearly the entire quarter, putting on an efficient performance: 4-of-6 from the field, including 2-of-2 from deep, and 3-of-5 from the free throw line. He tallied 13 points, 2 rebounds, 2 assists, and 1 steal.

Against a defensively-oriented team like the Rockets—not the paper-thin Knicks—this stat line was nothing short of impressive.

Yao Ming, on the other hand, finished the quarter with a modest 4 points and 3 rebounds. He took just two shots—both mid-range jumpers from the high post.

It wasn’t that Yao lacked offensive desire—it’s that, under Rick Adelman’s Princeton offense, he simply wasn’t the focal point. In this system, Yao’s role leaned more toward being a support big rather than the main scoring option.

Sitting on the bench, Yao Ming didn’t look too thrilled. This wasn’t the style he enjoyed playing. This wasn’t how a franchise cornerstone should be used.

The second quarter opened up with the Suns trotting out Hill, Barnes, Azubuike, and Barea.

Meanwhile, the Rockets handed the offensive reins to McGrady’s backup, Luther Head.

Here’s the thing: the Rockets’ biggest issue during the Yao–McGrady era wasn’t the star duo—it was their bench. Year after year, the second unit dragged them down. They could get by in the regular season, but come playoff time? Total collapse.

Honestly, Luther Head wouldn’t even get water-boy minutes on the Suns, yet Rockets management treated him like a vital piece—first guard off the bench.

And that’s classic Rockets ownership for you. Alexander wanted results but wasn’t willing to spend. You can’t expect a horse to win races if you won’t even feed it hay.

Sure, the Suns had their own minimum-salary guys like Barea and Azubuike—but they were hand-picked by Chen Yan himself, using the insight of someone with knowledge from the future. These weren’t just role players—they were undervalued gems.

And then there’s Grant Hill—once an heir to Jordan’s throne. Even at 50% of his prime, Hill could still torch a weak second unit. Matt Barnes? A rugged vet with playoff experience and no fear.

In just four and a half minutes, the Rockets’ second unit was outscored by 7 points—and frankly, it would’ve been worse if not for their rookie, Luis Scola.

The Argentine forward was a lone bright spot. His half-court footwork and clever finishes around the rim kept the team from totally bleeding out. Without him, that second unit would’ve gotten blown off the floor.

Once both teams brought back their starters, the score began to level off.

At halftime, the Suns had extended their lead to 53–44, up by 9.

Yao Ming’s stat line at the half: 9 points, 5 rebounds, and 2 blocks. Not terrible, but definitely underwhelming by his standards. He still looked like he was trying to find his rhythm in Adelman’s new system.

Chen Yan? He was on fire—dropping a game-high 22 points in the first half. Rockets wing Shane Battier tried everything to slow him down, but nothing really worked. Apart from drawing one offensive foul, Battier had minimal impact on defense.

Most of the time, Chen Yan just bullied him—running him ragged in the Suns’ up-tempo offense. Battier simply didn’t have the foot speed to keep up with a guard like Chen Yan.

Still, Chen respected Battier. He was a clean, smart defender—no dirty tricks, no sneaky grabs or elbows. Chen appreciated that. On fast breaks, he didn’t have to worry about getting clipped from behind or sent flying mid-air.

In the halftime studio, Coach Zhang was practically giddy.

”Battier can’t stop Chen Yan,” he laughed. ”If the Rockets don’t start throwing double-teams in the second half, Chen’s probably dropping 40 again tonight.”

Su Qun nodded. ”Battier had a few good contests—he even got a hand in Chen Yan’s face a couple of times—but it didn’t matter.”

Coach Xu chimed in, ”That’s the thing with elite scorers. You can’t stop them, you can only try to make their shots tougher. Even Kobe didn’t care—he’d just shoot over the defense anyway. Hell, remember Jordan vs. the Bad Boy Pistons? They threw everything at him, and he still got his numbers.”

It was supposed to be analysis, but in reality, they were straight-up gassing Chen Yan.

Back in the Suns locker room, head coach Mike D’Antoni didn’t overthink things.

”Same game plan, fellas. Keep pushing, keep running. They’re gonna gas out in the second half—we’ll break ’em open with pace.”

He wasn’t wrong. The Rockets’ starters would be worn down by the end of the third, and that’s when Phoenix’s whirlwind offense could break the game wide open.

The third quarter tipped off with both squads rolling out their starting fives again—time to see if Houston had any answers left.

As soon as he crossed half court, McGrady pulled up for one of his signature shots—clean, fluid, automatic.

”Swish!”

The ball crashed through the net like a cannonball, smooth and violent at the same time. The crowd roared.

T-Mac’s shooting form had always been unique—low arc, almost like a line drive. His chronic back issues had robbed him of the explosive lift he had during his Orlando days, which was a big reason his shooting percentages had dipped. Still, the rhythm, the release—it was all vintage McGrady.

On the other end, Chen Yan sliced through the defense with a slick Euro step before kicking it out to Nash, who was wide open on the wing. The old maestro didn’t hesitate.

Splash!

Three points. Right back at T-Mac.

McGrady shook his head with a smirk, jogged back, and answered with another pull-up triple of his own. This time, though, the shot came off even flatter than before, kissing the front iron and bouncing out.

The Suns wasted no time flipping the switch on offense. Outside the arc, Nash and Raja Bell tried to run a two-man action, but their timing was off. Alston read it like a book and pounced, picking off the pass with ease.

Chen Yan instinctively took a step forward, baiting the counter-steal, but Alston kept his composure, pulled the ball back in, and leapt for a quick outlet to Yao at center court.

Just as Yao caught the ball, Boris Diaw charged at him from the side, trying to force a turnover. Chaos broke out.

Everyone in the arena expected Yao to fumble under pressure—but instead, the 7’6” giant made a slick behind-the-back dribble, completely dusting Diaw in the process. The Rockets’ bench stood up in disbelief.

Open court in front of him, Yao took two long strides and hammered home a powerful one-handed dunk.

BOOM!

Even the opposing fans couldn’t help but applaud. That kind of move? From a guy Yao’s size? Unreal.

”What a move!”

”That’s a guard’s play!”

”Yao just scored like a 6’3” point guard!”

The studio commentators couldn’t contain their excitement. A near-230cm center putting the ball on the floor and going coast-to-coast? Yeah, that was rare air.

For the next few minutes, the score stayed tight, with both teams trading buckets and the margin floating between 8 and 10 points.

Then came the 6:46 mark of the third quarter. The Rockets had a messy possession inside.

McGrady missed a tough layup. Yao Ming tried to follow it up but missed the tip-in. The loose ball was poked by Stoudemire and rolled out beyond the arc.

Chen Yan pounced. He bent low, scooped the ball up with one hand mid-stride, and without missing a beat, sprinted up the court.

”Yo! Was that a suction cup or a hand?!”

”Dude grabbed the ball like it was a Nerf toy!”

”That’s Spider-Man level grip right there!”

The commentators were loving it. Chen Yan’s massive mitts were on full display.

McGrady, trailing the play, had a flash of realization. He’d always prided himself on his one-hand ball control—but that was usually done standing still. Chen Yan just did it in full motion.

Big hands weren’t just a flex—they were a damn weapon.

Jordan’s mid-range game? Deadly partly because of those hands. They helped with control, fakes, palming, passing—everything. With big hands, a ball fake becomes a magician’s sleight of hand. You think he’s about to shoot? Nope, it’s a drive. You think he’s driving? Joke’s on you, it’s a pull-up. Think he’s passing? He’ll snatch it back last second.

That kind of deception? That’s what Kobe never quite mastered—because he didn’t have Jordan’s hands.

Even Phil Jackson, the Zen Master himself, once said: ”The size of their hands—that was one of the key differences between MJ and Kobe.”

Back to the game.

Chen Yan was cooking. Outside the arc, he gave Alston an in-out dribble that left him sliding. Then, with a quick behind-the-back move, he shed Battier.

Battier tried to recover—his instincts were sharp, always in the right position—but this wasn’t just about IQ. This was athleticism. Raw, electric, unstoppable.

Chen Yan exploded into the paint. Chuck Hayes stepped up.

Wrong place, wrong time.

BOOM!!!

Posterized.

The Suns’ bench lost it. Players were up, towels flying, the crowd sounding like a damn earthquake hit the arena.

It wasn’t just the dunk. It was the whole sequence. Smooth, deadly, like he was playing NBA Street with cheat codes on.

Hayes, an undersized big at 6’6”, just shook his head. Dude worked his ass off every game—but this? This was a different level.

Hard work matters, sure. But this is the NBA. Everyone works hard. What separates the elite? Talent.

And Chen Yan had that in spades.

After landing, Chen Yan turned to the nearest courtside camera and flexed his hands, shaking them like weapons. His adrenaline was through the roof.

On the Rockets bench, Mutombo watched from the sidelines, nursing an injury. He chuckled, stunned.

”I wag one finger for a block... this kid shook ten for a dunk?”

The Suns were back on defense.

Chen Yan, still hyped, overcommitted on a double-team against Yao, swinging wildly at the ball—and accidentally smacked Yao in the face with his palm.

Whistle. Foul.

But the image? Oh, that was gold.

Chen Yan’s hand basically covered Yao’s entire face. The freeze frame hit social media like wildfire.

”Bro turned Yao into a Funko Pop!”

”Chen Yan’s hand just redefined ’small face’—and on Yao of all people!”

Forums lit up. Photos of Chen Yan’s hands popped up everywhere—during training with his palm wrapped around Stoudemire’s waist, drinking water like it was a test tube, palming the ball like it was a softball.

Netizens went wild:

”Those hands are Jordan-tier.”

”Yao’s face became snack size!”

”Stoudemire turned into an A4 sheet in his grip!”

”That water bottle didn’t stand a chance.”

”This ain’t just talent. This is evolutionary basketball engineering.”

”His hands are bigger than my dreams!”

”I’m a G-cup. Pretty sure I was made to be his girlfriend!”

In the league of giants, sometimes it’s not the height or the hops that catch your eye.

Sometimes, it’s the grip.

Want to know what happens next? You don’t have to wait....Chapters ahead are already live on Patreon 👉 [email protected]/FanficLord03

And don’t forget: every +500 power stones = 4 bonus Chapters for everyone!

https://discord